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! sheis 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 witha mild and deprecating air. The slight tremor of the hands, which werecrossed over the knitting on her lap, betrayed a certain nervousness; butfor all that she had the air of managing a familiar difficulty in familiarways. 

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, andrestlessly playing with the leaves. 

'I warned you yesterday. '

'And I forgot--and was happy. Eleanor--what are we going to do with MissFoster?'

A lady, who had been sitting at some little distance, rose and cameforward. 

'Well, I should have thought the answer was simple. Here we are fifteenmiles from Rome. The trains might be better--still there are trains. MissFoster has never been to Europe before. Either Aunt Pattie's maid or minecan take her to all the proper things--or there are plenty of people inRome--the Westertons--the Borrows?--who at a word from Aunt Pattie wouldfly to look after her and take her about. I really don't see that you needbe 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. Hebegan to pace up and down the salon in a disturbance out of all proportionto its cause. And as he walked he threw out phrases of ill-humour, sothat at last Miss Manisty, driven to defend herself, put the irresistiblequestion--

'Then why--why--my dear Edward, did you make me invite her? For it wasreally his doing--wasn't it, Eleanor?'

'Yes--I am witness!'

'One of those abominable flashes of conscience that have so much toanswer for!' said Manisty, throwing up his hand in annoyance. --'If shehad come to us in Rome, one could have provided for her. But here in thissolitude--just at the most critical moment of one's work--and it's allvery well--but one can't treat a young lady, when she is actually in one'shouse, as if she were the tongs!'

He stood beside the window, with his hands on his sides, moodily lookingout. Thus strongly defined against the sunset light, he would haveimpressed himself on a stranger as a man no longer in his first youth, extraordinarily handsome so far as the head was concerned, but of asomewhat irregular and stunted figure; stunted, however, only in comparisonwith what it had to carry; for in fact he was of about middle height. Butthe head, face and shoulders were all remarkably large and powerful; thecolouring--curly black hair, grey eyes, dark complexion--singularly vivid;and the lines of the brow, the long nose, the energetic mouth, in theirmingled force and perfection, had made the stimulus of many an artistbefore now. For Edward Manisty was one of those men of note whose portraitsthe world likes to paint: and this 'Olympian head' of his was well knownin many a French and English studio, through a fine drawing of it madeby Legros when Manisty was still a youth at Oxford. 'Begun by David--andfinished by Rembrandt': so a young French painter had once described EdwardManisty. 

The final effect of this discord, however, was an effect of power--ofpersonality--of something that claimed and held attention. So at least itwas described by Manisty's friends. Manisty's enemies, of whom the worldcontained no small number, had other words for it. But women in generaltook the more complimentary view. 

The two women now in his company were clearly much affected by theforce--wilfulness--extravagance--for one might call it by any of thesenames--that breathed from the man before them. Miss Manisty, his aunt, followed his movements with her small blinking eyes, timidly uneasy, butyet visibly conscious all the time that she had done nothing that anyreasonable man could rationally complain of; while in the manner towardshim of his widowed cousin Mrs. Burgoyne, in the few words of banter orremonstrance that she threw him on the subject of his aunt's expectedvisitor, there was an indulgence, a deference even, that his irritationscarcely deserved. 

'At least, give me some account of this girl'--he said, breaking in uponhis aunt's explanations. 'I have really not given her a thought--and--goodheavens!--she will be here, you say, in half an hour. Is sheyoung--stupid--pretty? Has she any experience--any conversation?'

'I read you Adèle's letter on Monday, ' said Miss Manisty, in a tone ofpatience--'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 wasrather good-looking--but very shy, and not a bit like all the other girlsone was seeing. Her clothes were odd, and dowdy, and too old for heraltogether, --which struck me as curious, for the American girls, even thecountry ones, have such a natural turn for dressing themselves. Her Bostoncousins didn't like it, and they tried to buy her things--but she wasdifficult to manage--and they had to give it up. Still they were very fondof her, I remember. Only she didn't let them show it much. Her mannerswere much stiffer than theirs. They said she was very countrified andsimple--that she had been brought up quite alone by their old uncle, in alittle country town--and hardly ever went away from home. '

'And Edward never saw her?' inquired Mrs. Burgoyne, with a motion of thehead towards Manisty. 

'No. He was at Chicago just those days. But you never saw anything like thekindness of the cousins! Luncheons and dinners!'--Miss Manisty raised herlittle gouty hands--'my dear--when we left Boston I never wanted to eatagain. It would be simply indecent if we did nothing for this girl. Englishpeople are so ungrateful this side of the water. It makes me hot when Ithink of all they do for us. '

The small lady's blanched and wrinkled face reddened a little with a colourwhich became her. Manisty, lost in irritable reflection, apparently took nonotice. 

'But why did they send her out all alone?' said Mrs. Burgoyne. 'Couldn'tthey have found some family for her to travel with?'

'Well, it was a series of accidents. She did come over with some Bostonpeople--the Porters--we knew very well. And they hadn't been three days inLondon before one of the daughters developed meningitis, and was at thepoint of death. And of course they could go nowhere and see nothing--andpoor Lucy Foster felt herself in the way. Then she was to have joined someother people in Italy, and _they_ changed their plans. And at last I got aletter from Mrs. Porter--in despair--asking me if I knew of anyone in Romewho would take her in and chaperon her. And then--well, then you know therest. '

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 havethe girl!" he said. "She can join us at the villa. And they'll want toknow, so I'll wire. " And out he went. And then that evening I had to writeand 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 upspirit. 'I know it was with me. There had been some Americans calling onus that day--you remember--those charming Harvard people? And somehowit recalled to us both what a fuss they had made with us--and how kindeverybody 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 wascrossed by an unwilling smile--slight but agreeable. 

'It is the old story, ' he said. 'Life would be tolerable but for one'svirtues. All this time, I beg to point out, Aunt Pattie, that you havestill told us nothing about the young lady--except something about herclothes, which doesn't matter. '

Mrs. Burgoyne's amused gesture showed the woman's view of this remark. MissManisty looked puzzled. 

'Well--I don't know. Yes--I have told you a great deal. The Lewinsonsapparently thought her rather strange. Adèle said she couldn't tell what tobe at with her--you never knew what she would like or dislike. Tom Lewinsonseems to have liked her better than Adèle did. He said "there was nononsense about her--and she never kept a fellow waiting. " Adèle says sheis the oddest mixture of knowledge and ignorance. She would ask the mostabsurd elementary questions--and then one morning Tom found out that shewas quite a Latin scholar, and had read Horace and Virgil, and all therest. '

'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, ' saidManisty, stopping short. 'Eleanor, we have been like children sporting overthe abyss!'

Mrs. Burgoyne rose with a laugh--a very soft and charming laugh--by nomeans the least among the various gifts with which nature had endowed her. 

'Oh, civilisation has resources, ' she said--'Aunt Pattie and I will takecare of you. Now we have got a quarter of an hour to dress in. Onlyfirst--one must really pay one's respects to this sunset. '

And she stepped out through an open door upon a balcony beyond. Thenturning, with a face of delight, she beckoned to Manisty, who followed. 

'Every night more marvellous than the last'--she said, hanging over thebalustrade--'and one seems to be here in the high box of a theatre, withthe 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 ridgeof the Alban Hills. Below it, olive-grounds and vineyards, plough-lands andpine plantations sank, slope after slope, fold after fold, to the Campagna. And beyond the Campagna, along the whole shining line of the west, the seamet the sunset; while to the north, a dim and scattered whiteness risingfrom the plain--was Rome. 

The sunset was rushing to its height through every possible phase ofviolence and splendour. From the Mediterranean, storm-clouds were risingfast to the assault and conquest of the upper sky, which still above thehills shone blue and tranquil. But the north-west wind and the sea wereleagued against it. They sent out threatening fingers and long spinningveils of cloud across it--skirmishers that foretold the black and serriedlines, the torn and monstrous masses behind. Below these wild tempestshapes, 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 strangemassing and curving of the clouds. Between their blackness and the deeppurple of the Campagna, rose the city--pale phantom--upholding one greatdome, and one only, to the view of night and the world. Round and aboveand behind, beneath the long flat arch of the storm, glowed a furnaceof scarlet light. The buildings of the city were faint specks withinits fierce intensity, dimly visible through a sea of fire. St. Peter'salone, without visible foundation or support, had consistence, form, identity. --And between the city and the hills, waves of blue and purpleshade, forerunners of the night, stole over the Campagna towards the higherground. But the hills themselves were still shining, still clad in rose andamethyst, caught in gentler repetition from the wildness of the west. Palerose even the olive-gardens; rose the rich brown fallows, the emergingfarms; while drawn across the Campagna from north to south, as though somemighty brush had just laid it there for sheer lust of colour, sheer joy inthe 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 upwithin a week. '

'It still gives you so much pleasure?' he said, looking at her a littleaskance. 

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 alwaysfound him particularly agreeable then. We used to ride together and talktogether, --and he put me in the way of seeing a good many things. Thismorning 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 andwent 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 wouldmake 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 behaveddifferently. 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. Sopresently he looked at me and laughed--"You remind me, " he said, "of whatsomebody said of Peel--that he was bad to go up to in the stable!--But whaton 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 himI 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!" Youshould have seen the little old fellow's wizened face--and the scorn ofit! 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--asyou 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 ownway. It mayn't be yours--or anybody else's--but wait and see. " He shookhis 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 Imaintained that half the political reputations of the present day werebased on escapades. "Whom do you mean?"--he said--"Randolph Churchill?--ButRandolph's escapades were always just what the man in the streetunderstood. As for your escapade, the man in the street can't make head ortail 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 thestreet!'

'Not at Simla certainly. There you may despise him. --But the old man isright enough as to the part he plays in England. --I gathered that all myold Indian friends thought I had done for myself. There was no sympathy forme anywhere. Oh!--as to the cause I upheld--yes. But none as to the mode ofdoing it. '

'Well--there is plenty of sympathy elsewhere! What does it matter whatdried-up officials like General Fenton choose to think about it?'

'Nothing--so long as there are no doubts inside to open the gates to theGeneral 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'sletters "As to my career--I have gone from shipwreck to shipwreck. " What ifI am merely bound on the same charming voyage?'

'I accept the comparison, ' she said with vivacity. 'End as he did inre-creating a church, and regenerating a literature--and see who will countthe 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--EleanorBurgoyne was very delightful to see and hear. Manisty, one of the subtlestand most fastidious of observers, was abundantly conscious of it. Yet shewas not beautiful, except in the judgment of a few exceptional people, towhom a certain kind of grace--very rare, and very complex in origin--is ofmore importance than other things. The eyes were, indeed, beautiful; so wasthe forehead, and the hair of a soft ashy brown folded and piled round itin a most skilful simplicity. But the rest of the face was too long; andits pallor, the singularly dark circles round the eyes, the great thinnessof the temples and cheeks, together with the emaciation of the wholedelicate frame, made a rather painful impression on a stranger. It wasa face of experience, a face of grief; timid, yet with many strangecapacities and suggestions both of vehemence and pride. It could stilltremble 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 emphasisedthe loss of youth. At the same time she had still a voice, a hand, acarriage that lovelier women had often envied, discerning in them thosesubtleties of race and personality which are not to be rivalled for theasking. 

To-night she brought all her charm to bear upon her companion'sdespondency, and succeeded as she had often succeeded before. She divinedthat he needed flattery, and she gave it; that he must be supported andendorsed, and she had soon pushed General Fenton out of sight behind acloud of witness of another sort. 

Manisty's mood yielded; and in a short time he was again no less ready toadmire the sunset than she was. 

'Heavens!' she said at last, holding out her watch. --'Just look at thetime--and Miss Foster!'

Manisty struck his hand against the railing. 

'How is one to be civil about this visit! Nothing could be moreunfortunate. These last critical weeks--and each of us so dependent onthe other--Really it is the most monstrous folly on all our parts that weshould have brought this girl upon us. '

'Poor Miss Foster!' said Mrs. Burgoyne, raising her eyebrows. 'But ofcourse you won't be civil!--Aunt Pattie and I know that. When I think ofwhat I went through that first fortnight--'

'Eleanor!'

'You are the only man I ever knew that could sit silent through a wholemeal. By to-morrow Miss Foster will have added that experience to hercollection. Well--I shall be prepared with my consolations--there's thecarriage--and the bell!'

They fled indoors, escaping through the side entrances of the salon, beforethe visitor could be shown in. 

 * * * * *

'Must I change my dress?'

The voice that asked the question trembled with agitation and fatigue. Butthe girl who owned the voice stood up stiffly, looking at Miss Manisty witha 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'mafraid 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 inFlorence. But of course--I'll put on my other. --Oh! please don't send for amaid. I'd rather unpack for myself--so much rather!'

The speaker flushed crimson, as she saw Miss Manisty's maid enter theroom in answer to her mistress's ring. She stood up indeed with her handgrasping her trunk, as though defending it from an assailant. 

The maid looked at her mistress. 'Miss Foster will ring, Benson, if shewants you'--said Miss Manisty; and the black-robed elderly maid, breathingdecorous fashion and the ways of 'the best people, ' turned, gave a swiftlook at Miss Foster, and left the room. 

'Are you sure, my dear? You know she would make you tidy in no time. Shearranges 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 someof its contents. She unfolded one dress after another, --and looked at themunhappily. 

'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--itmight 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 tooas she remembered the seamstress in the small New England country town, who had helped her own hands to manufacture them. 'Well, Miss Lucy, youruncle'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 thedressmaker--the spectacled eyes dwelling proudly on the masterpiece beforethem. --

Alack! There rose up the memory of little Mrs. Lewinson at Florence--of hergently pursed lips--of the looks that were meant to be kind, and were inreality so critical. 

No matter. The choice had to be made; and she chose at last a blue andwhite check that seemed to have borne its travels better than the rest. Ithad looked so fresh and striking in the window of the shop whence she hadbought it. 'And you know, Miss Lucy, you're so tall, you can stand themchancy things'--her little friend had said to her, when _she_ had wonderedwhether the check might not be too large. 

And yet only with a passing wonder. She could not honestly say that herdress had cost her much thought then or at any other time. She had beencontent to be very simple, to admire other girls' cleverness. There hadbeen influences upon her own childhood, however, that had somehow separatedher from the girls around her, had made it difficult for her to think andplan as they did. 

She rose with the dress in her hands, and as she did so, she caught theglory of the sunset through the open window. 

She ran to look, all her senses flooded with the sudden beauty, --when sheheard a man's voice as it seemed close beside her. Looking to the left, shedistinguished a balcony, and a dark figure that had just emerged upon it. 

Mr. Manisty--no doubt! She closed her window hurriedly, and began herdressing, trying at the time to collect her thoughts on the subject ofthese people whom she had come to visit. 

Yet neither the talk of her Boston cousins, nor the gossip of the Lewinsonsat Florence had left any very clear impression. She remembered well herfirst and only sight of Miss Manisty at Boston. The little spinster, somuch a lady, so kind, cheerful and agreeable, had left a very favourableimpression in America. Mr. Manisty had left an impression too--that wascertain--for people talked of him perpetually. Not many persons, however, had liked him, it seemed. She could remember, as it were, a whole trackof resentments, hostilities, left behind. 'He cares nothing about us'--anirate Boston lady had said in her hearing--but he will exploit us! Hedespises us, --but he'll make plenty of speeches and articles out ofus--you'll see!'

As for Major Lewinson, the husband of Mr. Manisty's first cousin, --she hadbeen conscious all the time of only half believing what he said, of holdingout against it. He must be so different from Mr. Manisty--the little smart, quick-tempered soldier--with his contempt for the undisciplined civilianway of doing things. She did not mean to remember his remarks. For afterall, she had her own ideas of what Mr. Manisty would be like. She hadsecretly formed her own opinion. He had been a man of letters and atraveller before he entered politics. She remembered--nay, she would neverforget--a volume of letters from Palestine, written by him, which hadreached her through the free library of the little town near her home. She who read slowly, but, when she admired, with a silent and worshippingardour, had read this book, had hidden it under her pillow, had beenhaunted for days by its pliant sonorous sentences, by the colour, theperfume, the melancholy of pages that seemed to her dreaming youthmarvellous, inimitable. There were descriptions of a dawn at Bethlehem--anight wandering at Jerusalem--a reverie by the sea of Galilee--the verythought of which made her shiver a little, so deeply had they touched heryoung and pure imagination. 

And then--people talked so angrily of his quarrel with the Government--andhis 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 whatshe had been told as to his strange personal beauty; but these she onlyentertained shyly and in passing. She had been brought up to think littleof such matters, or rather to avoid thinking of them. 

She went through her toilette as neatly and rapidly as she could, her mindall the time so full of speculation and a deep restrained excitement thatshe ceased to trouble herself in the least about her gown, As for her hair, she arranged it almost mechanically, caring only that its black massesshould be smooth and in order. She fastened at her throat a small turquoisebrooch that had been her mother's; she clasped the two little chainbracelets that were the only ornaments of the kind she possessed, and thenwithout a single backward look towards the reflection in the glass, sheleft 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 salonwas thrown open by the Italian butler, and a very tall girl came abruptlythrough, edging to one side as though she were trying to escape theservant, and looking anxiously round the vast room. 

Manisty also turned as the door opened. Miss Manisty caught his momentaryexpression 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. --Thisis an old friend of ours--Mrs. Burgoyne--my nephew--Edward Manisty. Heknows all your Boston cousins, if not you. Edward, will you take MissFoster?--she's the stranger. '

Mrs. Burgoyne pressed the girl's hand with a friendly effusion. Beyond herwas a dark-haired man, who bowed in silence. Lucy Foster took his arm, andhe led her through a large intervening room, in which were many tables andmany books, to the dining-room. 

On the way he muttered a few embarrassed words as to the weather andthe lateness of dinner, walking meanwhile so fast that she had to hurryafter him. 'Good heavens, why she is a perfect chess-board!' he thoughtto himself, looking askance at her dress, in a sudden and passionatedislike--'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 strangeplace! The salon in her momentary glance round it had seemed to her allsplendour. She had been dimly aware of pictures, fine hangings, luxuriouscarpets. Here on the other hand all was rude and bare. The stained wallswere covered with a series of tattered daubs, that seemed to be meantfor family portraits--of the Malestrini family perhaps, to whom thevilla belonged? And between the portraits there were rough modern doorseverywhere of the commonest wood and manufacture which let in all thedraughts, and made the room not a room, but a passage. The uneven brickfloor was covered in the centre with some thin and torn matting; many ofthe chairs ranged against the wall were broken; and the old lamp that swungabove 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 itand 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 toimplore him to make some efforts. 

Manisty frowned a little, lifted his great brow and looked, not at MissFoster, but at Mrs. Burgoyne--

'The room, as it happens, gives me more pleasure than any other in thevilla. '

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 silentagain, nervously crumbling his bread with a large wasteful hand. LucyFoster stole a look at him, at the strong curls of black hair piled abovethe brow, the moody embarrassment of the eyes, the energy of the lips andchin. 

Then she turned to her companions. Suddenly the girl's clear brown skinflushed rosily, and she abruptly took her eyes from Mrs. Burgoyne. 

Miss Manisty, however--in despair of her nephew--was bent upon doing herown duty. She asked all the proper questions about the girl's journey, about the cousins at Florence, about her last letters from home. MissFoster answered quickly, a little breathlessly, as though each questionwere an ordeal that had to be got through. And once or twice, in the courseof the conversation, she looked again at Mrs. Burgoyne, more lingeringlyeach time. That lady wore a thin dress gleaming with jet. The long whitearms showed under the transparent stuff. The slender neck and delicatebosom were bare, --too bare surely, --that was the trouble. To look at herfilled the girl's shrinking Puritan sense with discomfort. But what smalland graceful hands!--and how she used them!--how she turned her neck!--howdelicious her voice was! It made the new-comer think of some sweet plashingstream in her own Vermont valleys. And then, every now and again, howsubtle and startling was the change of look!--the gaiety passing in amoment, with the drooping of eye and mouth, into something sad and harsh, like a cloud dropping round a goddess. In her elegance and self-possessionindeed, 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 MissFoster answered. She was shy, but not at all awkward or conscious. Hermanner had the essential self-possession which is the birthright of theAmerican woman. But it suggested reserve, and a curious absence of anyyoung desire to make an effect. 

As for Mrs. Burgoyne, long before dinner was over, she had divined a greatmany things about the new-comer, and amongst them the girl's disapproval ofherself. '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 thatdress!--Ill luck!--And her hair! Who on earth taught her to drag it backlike that? If one could only loosen it, how beautiful it would be! Whatis it? Is it Puritanism? Has she been brought up to go to meetings and situnder a minister? Were her forbears married in drawing-rooms and undertrees? The Fates were certainly frolicking when they brought her here! Howam I to keep Edward in order?'

And suddenly, with a little signalling of eye and brow, she too conveyed toManisty, who was looking listlessly towards her, that he was behaving asbadly as even she could have expected. He made a little face that only shesaw, but he turned to Miss Foster and began to talk, --all the time addingto the mountain of crumbs beside him, and scarcely waiting to listen to thegirl'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. 'Youshould 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 thefirst time she has ever been in Italy. '

'No matter!' he said, and in a moment his moroseness was lit up, chasedaway by the little pleasure of his own whim--'Some day Miss Foster musthear of Spello. May I not be the first person to tell her that she shouldsee Spello?'

'Really, Edward!' cried Miss Manisty, looking at him in a mildexasperation. 

'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 thatone ought to wish to see--till the destroyers of the town have been hung intheir own new Piazza!'

'Oh yes!--that is a real disfigurement!' said the girl eagerly. 'Andyet--can't one understand?--they must use their towns for themselves. Theycan't always be thinking of them as museums--as we do. '

'The argument would be good if the towns were theirs, ' he said, flashinground upon her. 'One can stand a great deal from lawful owners. '

Miss Foster looked in bewilderment at Mrs. Burgoyne. That lady laughed andbent across the table. 

'Let me warn you, Miss Foster, this gentleman here must be taken with agrain 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 thenew Italy of course that he hates--the poor King and Queen--the Governmentand the officials. '

'He wants the old times back?'--said Miss Foster, wondering--'when thepriests tyrannised over everybody? when the Italians had no country--and nounity?'

She spoke slowly, at last looking her host in the face. Her frown ofnervousness had disappeared. Manisty laughed. 

'Pio Nono pulled down nothing--not a brick--or scarcely. And it is a mostexcellent thing, Miss Foster, to be tyrannised over by priests. '

His great eyes shone--one might even say, glared upon her. His manner wasnot 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 staylong enough in the country. What people are pleased to call Papal tyrannyputs a few people in prison--and tells them what books to read. Well!--whatmatter? Who knows what books they ought to read?'

'But all their long struggle!--and their heroes! They had to makethemselves a nation--'

The words stumbled on the girl's tongue, but her effort, the hot feeling inher young face became her. --Miss Manisty thought to herself, 'Oh, we shalldress, and improve her--We shall see!'--

'One has first to settle whether it was worth while. What does a new nationmatter? Theirs, anyway, was made too quick, ' said Manisty, rising in answerto his aunt's signal. 

'But liberty matters!' said the girl. She stood an instant with her hand onthe back of her chair, unconsciously defiant. 

'Ah! Liberty!' said Manisty--'Liberty!' He lifted his shoulderscontemptuously. 

Then backing to the wall, he made room for her to pass. The girl feltalmost as though she had been struck. She moved hurriedly, appealinglytowards 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 thinkslike anybody else. '

'I read so much at Florence--and on the journey'--said Lucy, while her handtrembled in Miss Manisty's--'Mrs. Browning--Mazzini--many things. I couldnot put that time out of my head!'

CHAPTER II

On the way back to the salon the ladies passed once more through the largebook-room or library which lay between it and the dining-room. Lucy Fosterlooked round it, a little piteously, as though she were seeking forsomething to undo the impression--the disappointment--she had justreceived. 

'Oh! my dear, you never saw such a place as it was when we arrived inMarch'--said Miss Manisty. 'It was the billiard-room--a ridiculoustable--and ridiculous balls--and a tiled floor without a scrap ofcarpet--and the _cold_! In the whole apartment there were just two bedroomswith 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 wasall charming, and the climate balmy. Ah, well!--now we are really quitecomfortable--except in that odious dining-room, which Edward will have leftin its sins. '

Miss Manisty surveyed her work with a mild satisfaction. The table indeedhad been carried away. The floor was covered with soft carpets. The roughuneven walls painted everywhere with the interlaced M's of the Malestriniwere almost hidden by well-filled bookcases; and, in addition, a profusionof new books, mostly French and Italian, was heaped on all the tables. Onthe mantelpiece a large recent photograph stood propped against a marblehead. It represented a soldier in a striking dress; and Lucy stopped tolook at it. 

'One of the Swiss Guards--at the Vatican'--said Mrs. Burgoyne kindly. 'Youknow 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 aRoman noble who has come to grief. He sold this and a few bits of furniturefirst of all. Then he tried to sell his pictures. But the Government camedown upon him--you know your pictures are not your own in Italy. So thepoor 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 primitiveGreek--not a copy. Do you know'--Mrs. Burgoyne stepped back, looked firstat the bust, then at Miss Poster--'do you know you are really very likeher--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. Doyou think--would you let me?--would you forgive me?--It's just this band ofhair here, yours waves precisely in the same way. Would you really allowme--I won't make you untidy?'

And before Miss Poster could resist, Mrs. Burgoyne had put up her defthands, and in a moment, with a pull here, and the alteration of a hairpinthere, she had loosened the girl's black and silky hair, till it showed thebeautiful waves above the ear in which it did indeed resemble the marblehead 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 Iwould forgive you if I were Miss Foster. 

The girl felt herself gently turned towards the mirror that rose behind theGreek head. With pink cheeks she too looked at herself for a moment. Thenin a shyness beyond speech, she lifted her hands. 

'Must you'--said Mrs. Burgoyne appealingly. 'I know one doesn't like tobe untidy. But it isn't really the least untidy--It is onlydelightful--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 youMr. Manisty's latest purchase. '

And, slipping her arm inside Miss Foster's, Mrs. Burgoyne dexterouslyturned 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 thelitter of books. 

It represented an old old man carried in a chair on the shoulders of acrowd of attendants and guards. Soldiers in curved helmets, courtiersin short velvet cloaks and ruffs, priests in floating vestments pressedabout him--a dim vast multitude stretched into the distance. The old manwore a high cap with three lines about it; his thin and shrunken form wasenveloped in a gorgeous robe. The face, infinitely old, was concentratedin the sharply smiling eyes, the long, straight, secret mouth. His arm, supporting with difficulty the weight of the robe, was raised, --the handblessed. 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 headto foot, save for the triple cap, and the devices on his robe. But intohis emaciation, his weakness, the artist had thrown a triumph, a forcethat 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 hugespaces--arch on arch--dome on dome--of the vast church through which it wasbeing 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 artistin Rome. Isn't it wonderful too, the way in which it shows you, not thePope--but the Papacy--not the man but the Church?'

Miss Foster said nothing. Her puzzled eyes travelled from the drawing toMrs. Burgoyne's face. Then she caught sight of another photograph on thetable. 

'And that also?'--she said--For again it was the face of LeoXIII. --feminine, priestly, indomitable--that looked out upon her from amongthe books. 

'Oh, my dear, come away, ' said Miss Manisty impatiently. 'In my days theScarlet Lady _was_ the Scarlet Lady, and we didn't flirt with her as allthe world does now. Shrewd old gentleman! I should have thought one pictureof him was enough. '

 * * * * *

As they entered the old painted salon, Mrs. Burgoyne went to one of thetall windows opening to the floor and set it wide. Instantly the Campagnawas in the room--the great moonlit plain, a thousand feet below, with thesea at its further edge, and the boundless sweep of starry sky above it. From the little balcony, one might, it seemed, have walked straight intoOrion. The note of a nightingale bubbled up from the olives; and the scentof a bean-field in flower flooded the salon. 

Miss Foster sprang to her feet and followed Mrs. Burgoyne. She hung overthe balcony while her companion pointed here and there, to the line of theAppian Way, --to those faint streaks in the darkness that marked the distantcity--to the dim blue of the Etrurian mountains. --

Presently, however, she drew herself erect, and Mrs. Burgoyne fancied thatshe shivered. 

'Ah! this is a hill-air, ' she said, and she took from her arm a lightevening 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 muchfor you? Ah! you must got used to that. '

Lucy Foster drew a long breath--a breath of emotion. She was grateful forbeing 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 metwo or three books--but of course it wasn't like Boston. Ours is a littleplace. '

'And you were pleased to come?'

The girl hesitated. 

'Yes'--she said simply. 'I wanted to come. --But I didn't want to leave myuncle. 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 afterFather 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 toMiss Foster the height of courtesy. But the girl did not find it easy toanswer. 

'I have no one else--' she said at last, and then stopped abruptly. 

'She is home-sick'--said Mrs. Burgoyne inwardly--'I wonder whether theLewinsons treated her nicely at Florence?'

Indeed as Lucy Foster leant over the balcony, the olive-gardens andvineyards faded before her. She saw in their stead, the snow-covered farmsand fields of a New England valley--the elms in along village street, bare and wintry--a rambling wooden house--a glowing fire, in a simpleparlour--an old man sitting beside it. --

It _is_ chilly'--said Mrs. Burgoyne--'Let us go in. But we will keep thewindow open. Don't take that off. '

She laid a restraining hand on the girl's arm. Miss Foster sat downabsently not far from the window. The mingled lights of lamp and moon fellupon her, upon the noble rounding of the face, which was grave, a littleaustere even, but still sensitive and delicate. Her black hair, thanks toMrs. Burgoyne's devices, rippled against the brow and cheek, almost hidingthe small ear. The graceful cloak, with its touches of sable on a mainfabric of soft white, hid the ugly dress; its ample folds heightened thenatural dignity of the young form and long limbs, lent them a stately andmuse-like charm. Mrs. Burgoyne and Miss Manisty looked at each other, thenat Miss Foster. Both of them had the same curious feeling, as though a veilwere being drawn away from something they were just beginning to see. 

'You must be very tired, my dear'--said Miss Manisty at last, when sheand Mrs. Burgoyne had chatted a good deal, and the new-comer still satsilent--'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 thatphotograph in the next room--and a line of poetry. '

She spoke with the _naïveté_ of one who had not known how to avoid theconfession. 'What line?' said Mrs. Burgoyne. 

'It's Milton. I learnt it at school. You will know it, of course, ' shesaid timidly. 'It's the line about "the triple tyrant" and "the Babylonianwoe"'--

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, 'andwhether she has hurt my feelings. '--Aloud, she said--'Are you very, veryPuritan still in your part of America? Excuse me, but I am dreadfullyignorant about America. '

'We are Methodists in our little town mostly'--said Miss Foster. 'Thereis a Presbyterian church--and the best families go there. But my father'speople were always Methodists. My mother was a Universalist. '

Mrs. Burgoyne frowned with perplexity. 'I'm afraid I don't know what thatis?' she said. 

'They think everybody will be saved, ' said Miss Foster in her shy deepvoice. 'They don't despair of anybody. '

And suddenly Mrs. Burgoyne saw a very soft and tender expression passacross the girl's grave features, like the rising of an inward light. 

'A mystic--and a beauty both?' she thought to herself, a little scornfullythis time. In all her politeness to the new-comer so far, she had been likea person stealthily searching for something foreseen and desired. If shehad found it, it would have been quite easy to go on being kind to MissFoster. 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 nextSunday?'

'Four tribune tickets--we three'--Miss Manisty pointed to the other twoladies--'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 Manistya little impatiently. --'Have you explained to Miss Foster?'

'No, but I will. Miss Foster, next Sunday fortnight the Pope celebrateshis 'Capella Papale'--the eighteenth anniversary of his coronation--in St. Peter's. Rome is very full, and there will be a great demonstration--fiftythousand people or more. Would you like to come?'

Miss Foster looked up, hesitating. Manisty, who had turned to go backto his room, paused, struck by the momentary silence. He listened withcuriosity for the girl's reply. 

'One just goes to see it like a spectacle?' she said at last, slowly. 'Oneneedn't do anything oneself?'

Miss Manisty stared--and then laughed. 'Nobody will see what you do in sucha crowd--I should think, ' she said. 'But you know one can't be rude--to anold old man. If others kneel, I suppose we must kneel. Does it do anyoneharm to be blessed by an old man?'

'Oh no!--no!' cried Miss Foster, flushing deeply. Then, after a moment, sheadded 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 herhostess. 

'I am afraid--you thought I was rude just now? It's so lovely of you toplan things for me. But--I can't ever be sure whether it's right to go intoother people's churches and look at their services--like a show. I shouldjust hate it myself--and I felt it once or twice at Florence. And so--youunderstand--don't you?'--she said imploringly. 

Miss Manisty's small eyes examined her with anxiety. 'What an extraordinarygirl!' she thought. 'Is she going to be a great bore?'

At the same time the girl's look--so open, sweet and modest--disarmed andattracted 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 goingon--the children run about--the sacristans take you round. You certainlyneedn't feel it on their account. '

'But then, too, if I am not a Catholic--how far ought one to be takingpart--in--in what--'

'In what one disapproves?' said Mrs. Burgoyne, smiling. 'You would make theworld a little difficult, wouldn't you, if you were to arrange it on thatprinciple?'

She spoke in a dry, rather sharp voice, unlike that in which she hadhitherto addressed the new-comer. Lucy Foster looked at her with ashrinking perplexity. 

'It's best if we're all straightforward, isn't it?'--she said in a lowvoice, and then, drawing towards her an illustrated magazine that lay onthe table near her she hurriedly buried herself in its pages. 

 * * * * *

Silence had fallen on the three ladies. Eleanor Burgoyne sat lost inreverie, her fair head thrown back against her low chair. 

She was thinking of her conversation with Edward Manisty on thebalcony--and of his book. That book indeed had for her a deep personalsignificance. To think of it at all, was to be carried to the past, to feelfor the hundredth time the thrill of change and new birth. 

When she joined them in Rome, in mid-winter, she had found Manistystruggling with the first drafts of it, --full of yeasty ideas, full also ofdoubts, confusions and discouragements. He had not been at all glad to seehis half-forgotten cousin--quite the contrary. As she had reminded him, shehad suffered much the same things at his hands that Miss Foster was likelyto 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 thengradually, the snatches of talk--and those great black brows of his liftedin a surprise which a tardy politeness would try to mask:--and at last, the good, long, brain-filling, heart-filling talks, the break-down ofreserves--the man's whole mind, its remorses, ambitions, misgivings, pouredat her feet--ending in the growth of that sweet daily habit of commonwork--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 toconsult 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 armsof the chair, she thought of those bygone hours in which she had askedherself--'what remains?' Religious faith?--No!--Life was too horrible!Could such things have happened to her in a world ruled by a God?--that washer question, day and night for years. But books, facts, ideas--all theriddle of this various nature--_that_ one might still amuse oneself with alittle, till one's own light went out in the same darkness that had alreadyengulfed mother--husband--child. 

So that 'cleverness, ' of which father and husband had taken so littleaccount, which had been of so little profit to her so far in her coursethrough circumstance, had come to her aid. The names and lists of thebooks that had passed through her hands, during those silent years of herwidowhood, lived beside her stern old father, would astonish even Manistywere she to try and give some account of them. And first she had readmerely to fill the hours, to dull memory. But gradually there had sprung upin her that inner sweetness, that gentle restoring flame that comes fromthe life of ideas, the life of knowledge, even as a poor untrained womanmay approach it. She had shared it with no one, revealed it to no one. Hernature dreaded rebuffs; and her father had no words sharp enough for anyfeminine ambition beyond the household and the nursery. 

So she had kept it all to herself, till Miss Manisty, shocked as many otherpeople had begun to be by her fragile looks, had bearded the General, andcarried her off to Rome for the winter. And there she had been forced, asit were, into this daily contact with Edward Manisty, at what might wellturn out to be the most critical moment of his life; when he was dividedbetween fierce regrets for the immediate past, and fierce resolves torecover and assert himself in other ways; when he was taking up again hisearlier function of man of letters in order to vindicate himself as apolitician and a man of action. Strange and challenging personality!--didshe 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 allowthem to dwell upon it long. That past lay for her in a golden haze. Toexplore it too deeply, or too long, --that she shrank from. All that sheprayed was to press no questions, force no issues. But at least she hadfound in it a new reason for living; she meant to live; whereas last yearshe had wished to die, and all the world--dear, kind Aunt Pattie first andforemost--had thought her on the road for death. 

But the book?--she bent her brows over it, wrestling with various doubtsand difficulties. Though it was supposed to represent the thoughts andfancies of an Englishman wandering through modern Italy, it was reallyManisty's Apologia--Manisty's defence of certain acts which had made himfor a time the scandal and offence of the English political party to whichancestrally he belonged, in whose interests he had entered Parliament andtaken office. He had broken with his party on the ground that it had becomea party of revolution, especially in matters connected with Religion andEducation; and having come abroad to escape for a time from the personalfrictions and agitations which his conduct had brought upon him, he hadthrown himself into a passionate and most hostile study of Italy--Italy, the new country, made by revolution, fashioned, so far as laws andgovernment can do it, by the lay modern spirit--as an object-lesson toEngland and the world. The book was in reality a party pamphlet, written bya 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 wasanxiously debating with herself certain points of detail, points of form. 

These fragments of poetical prose which Manisty had interspersed amid aserious political argument--were they really an adornment of the book, ora blur upon it? He had a natural tendency towards colour and exuberancein writing; he loved to be leisurely, and a little sonorous; there wassomething old-fashioned and Byronic in his style and taste. His sentences, perhaps, were short; but his manner was not brief. The elliptical fashionof 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 welcomedthis manner of his. His earlier book (the 'Letters from Palestine'), withits warm, over-laden pages, had found many readers and much fame. 

But here--in a strenuous political study, furnished with all the factsand figures that the student and the debater require--representing, too, another side of the man, just as vigorous and as real, were theseintrusions of poetry wise or desirable? Were they in place? Was the note ofthem 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 ruinsand its legends--what golden hours had she and Manisty spent there! Ithad caught their fancy from the beginning--the site of the great temple, the wild strawberry fields, the great cliffs of Nemi and Genzano, thebright-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 tofancy--some hint for dreaming?

Yes--it had been very natural--very tempting. But!--

... So she pondered, --a number of acute, critical instincts coming intoplay. And presently her thoughts spread and became a vague reverie, covering a multitude of ideas and images that she and Manisty now hadin common. How strange that she and he should be engaged in this worktogether!--this impassioned defence of tradition, of Catholicism and thePapacy, as the imperishable, indestructible things--'chastened and notkilled--dying, and behold they live'--let the puny sons of modern Italyrage and struggle as they may. He--one of the most thorough sceptics ofhis day, as she had good reason to know--she, a woman who had at one timeceased to believe because of an intolerable anguish, and was now onlycreeping slowly back to faith, to hope, because--because--

Ah!--with a little shiver, she recalled her thought, as a falconermight his bird, before it struck. Oh! this old, old Europe, with itscomplexities, its manifold currents and impulses, every human beingan embodied contradiction--no simplicity, no wholeness anywhere--nonepossible!

She opened her eyes languidly, and they rested on Lucy Foster's head andprofile bent over her book. Mrs. Burgoyne's mind filled with a suddenamused pity for the girl's rawness and ignorance. She seemed the fittingtype of a young crude race with all its lessons to learn; that saw nothingabsurd in its Methodists and Universalists and the rest--confident, as achild is, in its cries and whims and prejudices. The American girl, freshfrom 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 imagedelighted the mind of the elder woman. She played with it, finding freshmock 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 papersin his hand, had thrown himself into a chair behind Mrs. Burgoyne. His lookwas strenuous and absorbed, his tumbling black hair had fallen forward asthough in a stress of composition; he spoke in a low, imperative voice, like one accustomed to command the time and the attention of those abouthim. 

'Read!' said Mrs. Burgoyne, turning her slender neck that she might lookat him and hear. He began to read at once in a deep, tremulous voice, andas though he were quite unconscious of any other presence in the room thanhers. Miss Foster, who was sitting at a little distance, supposed she oughtnot to listen. She was about to close her book and rise, when Miss Manistytouched her on the arm. 

'It disturbs him if we move about!' said the little spinster in a smilingwhisper, her finger on her lip. And suddenly the girl was conscious of alightning flash from lifted eyes--a look threatening and peremptory. Shesettled herself into her chair again as quietly as possible, and sat withhead bent, a smile she could not repress playing round her lips. It was allshe could do indeed not to laugh, so startling and passionate had been themonition conveyed in Mr. Manisty's signal. That the great man should takelittle notice of his aunt's guest was natural enough. But to be frownedupon the first evening, as though she were a troublesome child!--she didnot resent it at all, but it tickled her sense of humour. She thoughthappily of her next letter to Uncle Ben; how she would describe theserather strange people. 

And at first she hardly listened to what was being read. The voicedispleased her. It was too emphatic--she disliked its tremolo, its deepbass vibrations. Surely one should read more simply!

Then the first impression passed away altogether. She looked up--her eyesfastened themselves on the reader--her lips parted--the smile changed. 

 * * * * *

What the full over-rich voice was calling up before her was a littlemorning scene, as Virgil might have described it, passing in the hut of aLatian peasant farmer, under Tiberius. 

It opened with the waking at dawn of the herdsman Cæculus and his littleson, in their round thatched cottage on the ridge of Aricia, beneath theAlban Mount. It showed the countryman stepping out of his bed into thedarkness, groping for the embers on the hearth, re-lighting his lamp, andcalling first to his boy asleep on his bed of leaves, then to their Africanservant, 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 grindinghis corn, and singing at his work--the baking of the flat wheaten cakes onthe hot embers--the gathering of herbs from the garden--the kneading themwith a little cheese and oil to make a relish for the day--the harnessingof the white steers under the thonged yoke--the man going forth to hisploughing, under the mounting dawn, clad in his goatskin tunic and hisleathern 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, tothe misty woods beyond. 

With every touch, the earlier world revived, grew plainer in the sun, tillthe listener found herself walking with Manisty through paths that cut theAlban Hills in the days of Rome's first imperial glory, listening to histale of the little goatherd, and of Nemi. 

 * * * * *

'So the boy--Quintus--left the ploughed lands, and climbed a hill above thesleeping town. And when he reached the summit, he paused and turned him tothe west. 

'The Latian plain spreads beneath him in the climbing sun; at its edge isthe sea in a light of pearl; the white fishing-boats sparkle along theshore. Close at his feet runs a straight road high upon the hill. He cansee the country folk on their laden mules and donkeys journeying alongit, journeying northwards to the city in the plain that the spurs of themountain 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 tosee the shops, and the Forum, and the new white temples, and Cæsar's greatpalace on the hill?

'Then carelessly his eyes pass southward, and there beneath him in itshollow is the lake--the round blue lake that Diana loves, where are hertemple and her shadowy grove. The morning mists lie wreathed above it; thejust-leafing trees stand close in the great cup; only a few patches of roofand 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. Bound him throng thegoats; 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 thewooden cup he has placed below; he drinks, his brown curls sweeping thecup; then he picks up his pipe and walks on proudly before his goats, hislithe body swaying from side to side as he moves, dancing to the music thathe makes. The notes float up into the morning air; the echo of them runsround 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 thewhite cistus covers the rock. The shrubs of the scattered wood send outtheir 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 richhollow it strikes the temple--Diana's temple and her grove. Out flame thewhite columns, the bronze roof, the white enclosing walls. Piercingly whitethe holy and famous place shines among the olives and the fallows; the sunburns upon the marble; Phoebus salutes his great sister. And in the watersof the lake reappear the white columns; the blue waves dance around theshimmering 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 thegrove of the goddess. Twice, indeed, on the great June festivals has hewitnessed the solemn sacrifices, and the crowds of worshippers, and thetorches mirrored in the lake. But without his father, fear has hithertostayed his steps far from the temple. 

'To-day, however, as the sun mounts, and the fresh breeze breaks from thesea, his youth and the wildness of it dance within his blood. He and hisgoats pass into an olive garden. The red-brown earth has been freshlyturned amid the twisted trunks; the goats scatter, searching for thepatches of daisied grass still left by the plough. Guiltily the boy looksround him--peers through the olives and their silvery foam of leaves, asthey fall past him down the steep. Then like one of his own kids he lowershis head and runs; he leaves his flock under the olives; he slips into adense ilex-wood, still chill with the morning; he presses towards its edge;panting he climbs a huge and ancient tree that flings its boughs forwardabove the temple wall; he creeps along a branch among the thick smallleaves, --he lifts his head. 

'The temple is before him, and the sacred grove. He sees the greatterrace, stretching to the lake; he hears the little waves plashing on itsbuttressed wall. 

'Close beneath him, towards the rising and the midday sun there stretchesa 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 theFar-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 andhis 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 onhis branch for fear. Hurriedly he turns his look on the dwellings of thepriestesses, where all still sleeps; on the rows of shining pillars thatstand round about the temple; on the close-set trees of the grove thatstands between it and the lake. 

'Hark!--a clanging of metal--of great doors upon their hinges. From theinner temple--from the shrine of the goddess, there comes a man. His headis bound with the priest's fillet; sharply the sun touches his whitepointed cap; in his hand he carries a sword. 

'Between the temple and the grove there is a space of dazzling light. Theman passes into it, turns himself to the east, and raises his hand tohis mouth; drawing his robe over his head, he sinks upon the ground, andprostrate there, adores the coming god. 

'His prayer lasts but an instant. Rising in haste, he stands looking aroundhim, his sword gathered in his hand. He is a man still young; his statureis 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 againthe boy among his leaves draws his trembling body close, hiding, likea lizard, when some passing step has startled it from the sun. For onthis haggard face the gods have written strange and terrible things; thepriest's eyes deep sunk under his shaggy hair dart from side to side in ahorrible unrest; he seems a creature separate from his kind--possessed ofevil--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 itpaces the priest, alone in the morning light. 

'But his is no holy meditation. His head is thrown back; his ear listensfor every sound; the bared sword glitters as he moves ... 

'There is a rustle among the further trees. Quickly the boy stretches hisbrown neck; for at the sound the priest crouches on himself; he throws therobe from his right arm; and so waits, ready to strike. The light falls onhis 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 Terrorin 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 ofdoom. 

'But hark! a cry!--and yet another answering--a dark form bursting from thegrove--a fierce locked struggle under the sacred tree. The boy crawls tothe 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, childreneven--gathering in haste. But they pause afar off. Not a living soulapproaches the place of combat; not a hand gives aid. The boy can see thefaces 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 watchcalmly for the issue of the strife. 

'And on the further side, at the edge of the grove stand country folk, menin goatskin tunics and leathern hats like the boy's father. And the littlegoatherd, not knowing what he does, calls to them for help in his shrillvoice. But no one heeds; and the priest himself calls no one, entreats noone. 

'Ah! The priest wavers--he falls--his white robes are in the dust. Thebright steel rises--descends:--the last groan speeds to heaven. 

 * * * * *

'The victor raised himself from the dead, all stained with the blood andsoil of the battle. Quintus gazed upon him astonished. For here was norude soldier, nor swollen boxer, but a youth merely--a youth, slender andbeautiful, fair-haired, and of a fair complexion. His loins were girt witha slave's tunic. Pallid were his young features; his limbs wasted withhunger and toil; his eyes blood-streaked as those of the deer when the dogsclose upon its tender life. 

'And looking down upon the huddled priest, fallen in his blood upon thedust, he peered long into the dead face, as though he beheld it for thefirst time. Shudders ran through him; Quintus listened to hear him weep ormoan. But at the last, he lifted his head, fiercely straightening his limbslike 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 criesthey came upon him; they snatched the purple-striped robe from the murderedpriest, and with it they clothed his murderer. They put on him the priest'sfillet, and the priest's cap; they hung garlands upon his neck; and withrejoicing and obeisance they led him to the sacred temple.... 

'And for many hours more the boy remained hidden in the tree, held thereby the spell of his terror. He saw the temple ministers take up the bodyof the dead, and carelessly drag it from the grove. All day long was therecrowd and festival within the sacred precinct. But when the shadows beganto fall from the ridge of Aricia across the lake; when the new-made priesthad 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 theimmortal, whom in ancient days great Diana had snatched from the gods'wrath, and hidden here, safe within the Arician wood, --when these weredone, the crowd departed and the Grove-King came forth alone from thetemple. 

'The boy watched what he would do. In his hand he carried the sword, whichat the sunrise he had taken from the dead. And he came to the sacred treethat 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 oncewhen 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 heavenwith a hoarse and piercing cry--the cry of him who accuses and arraigns thegods. 

'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 themhome, not staying even to quench his thirst from their swollen udders. Andin the shepherd's hut he found his father Cæculus; and sinking down besidehim with tears and sobs he told his tale. 

'And Cæculus pondered long. And without chiding, he laid his hand upon theboy's head and bade him be comforted. "For, " said he, as though he spakewith himself--"such is the will of the goddess. And from the furthesttimes it has happened thus, before the Roman fathers journeyed from theAlban Mount and made them dwellings on the seven hills--before Romulusgave laws, --or any white-robed priest had climbed the Capitol. From bloodsprings up the sacred office; and to blood it goes! No natural death mustwaste the priest of Trivia's tree. The earth is hungry for the blood in itsstrength--nor shall it be withheld! Thus only do the trees bear, and thefields bring forth. "

'Astonished, the boy looked at his father, and saw upon his face, as heturned it upon the ploughed lands and the vineyards, a secret and a savagejoy. And the little goatherd's mind was filled with terror--nor would hisfather tell him further what the mystery meant. But when he went to his bedof dried leaves at night, and the moon rose upon the lake, and the greatwoods murmured in the hollow far beneath him, he tossed restlessly fromside to side, thinking of the new priest who kept watch there--of his younglimbs and miserable eyes--of that voice which he had flung to heaven. Andthe child tried to believe that he might yet escape. --But already in hisdreams he saw the grove part once more and the slayer leap forth. He sawthe watching crowd--and their fierce, steady eyes, waiting thirstily forthe spilt blood. And it was as though a mighty hand crushed the boy'sheart, and for the first time he shrank from the gods, and from hisfather, --so that the joy of his youth was darkened within him. '

 * * * * *

As he read the last word, Manisty flung the sheets down upon the tablebeside him, and rising, he began to pace the room with his hands upon hissides, frowning and downcast. When he came to Mrs. Burgoyne's chair hepaused beside her--

'I don't see what it has to do with the book. It is time lost'--he said toher abruptly, almost angrily. 

'I think not, ' she said, smiling at him. But her tone wavered a little, andhis look grew still more irritable. 

'I shall destroy it!'--he said, with energy--'nothing more intolerable thanornament 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 hercheek, her beautiful eyes were warm and eager. Manisty for the first timeobserved her, took note also of the loosened hair and Eleanor's cloak. 

'You liked it?' he said with some embarrassment. He had entirely forgottenthat 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 feelingwas divided between her old enthusiasm and her new disillusion. She wouldhave liked to tell him that his reading had reminded her of the book sheloved. But the man, standing beside her, chilled her. She wished she hadnot spoken. It began to seem to her a piece of forwardness. 

'Well, you're very kind'--he said, rather formally--'But I'm afraid itwon'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 uphis papers under his arm in a ruthless confusion, and walked away into hisstudy, leaving discomfort behind him. 

Mrs. Burgoyne sat silent, a little tired and pale. She too would haveliked to praise and to give pleasure. It was not wonderful indeed that thechild's fancy had been touched. That thrilling, passionate voice--her owndifficulty 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 theeastern 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 withstatues and plashing water showing dimly in the moonlight; and beyond thewall there was a space of blue and silver lake; and girdling the lake theforest-covered Monte Cavo rose towering into the moonlit sky, just showingon its topmost peak that white speck which once was the temple of theLatian Jupiter, and is now, alas! only the monument of an Englishman'scrime against history, art, and Rome. The air was soft, and perfumed withscent from the roses in the side-alleys below. A monotonous bird-note camefrom the ilex darkness, like the note of a thin passing bell. It was thecry of a small owl, which, in its plaintiveness and changelessness, hadoften seemed to Manisty and Eleanor the very voice of the Roman night. 

Suddenly Mrs. Burgoyne said--'I have a different version of your Nemi storyrunning in my head!--more tragic than yours. My priest is no murderer. Hefound 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. Thereis 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 ownthoughts, did not detect. He smiled. 

'Well!--you'll compete with Renan. He made a satire out of it. His priestis a moral gentleman who won't kill anybody. But the populace soon settlethat. 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 apause. 'So don't pretend!'

She roused herself at once, and began to talk with her usual eagerness andsympathy. It was a repetition of the scene before dinner. Only this timeher effect was not so great. Manisty's depression did not yield. 

Presently, however, he looked down upon her. In the kind, concealingmoonlight 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 abouther. 

'You lent it to Miss Foster'--he said, surveying her. 'It became her--butit knows its mistress!'

The colour mounted an instant in her cheek. Then she moved further awayfrom him. 

'Have you discovered yet'--she said--'that that girl is extraordinarilyhandsome?'

'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 rawgirls, '--he said, with a shrug and a sigh. 

They bade each other good-night, and Mrs. Burgoyne disappeared through theglass 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 highpainted ceiling, and both its windows open to the night. 

She had entered her room in a glow of something which had been halftorment, half happiness. Now, after an hour's dreaming, she suddenly bentforward and, parting the cloud of fair hair that fell about her, shelooked in the glass before her, at the worn, delicate face haloed withinit--thinking all the time with a vague misery of Lucy Foster's untouchedbloom. 

Then her eyes fell upon two photographs that stood upon her table. Onerepresented 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 upthe picture, she bowed her head upon it, kissing it. The touch of it calmedher. But she could not part from it. She put it in her breast, and when sheslept, 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 onthe eastern balcony, buttoning a dainty grey glove, while Manisty a fewpaces 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 thatpatch of broom on the lake side. Come and walk there before _déjeuner_--andmake a round home by Aricia. '

Mrs. Burgoyne shook her head. 

'No--I like my little idolatries, ' she said, with decision. It was Sundaymorning. The bells in Marinata were ringing merrily. Women and girls withblack lace scarves upon their heads, handsome young men in short coats andsoft peaked hats, were passing along the road between the villa and thelake, on their way to mass. It was a warm April day. The clouds of yellowbanksia, hanging over the statued wall that girdled the fountain-basin, were breaking into bloom; and the nightingales were singing with aprodigality that was hardly worthy of their rank and dignity. Nature intruth is too lavish of nightingales on the Alban Hills in spring! Sheforgets, as it were, her own sweet arts, and all that rareness adds tobeauty. One may hear a nightingale and not mark him; which is a _lèsemajesté_. 

Mrs. Burgoyne's toilette matched the morning. The grey dress, so fresh andelegant, the broad black hat above the fair hair, the violets dewy from thegarden that were fastened at her slender waist, and again at her throatbeneath the pallor of the face, --these things were of a perfection quiteevident to the critical sense of Edward Manisty. It was the perfectionthat was characteristic. So too was the faded fairness of hair and skin, the frail distinguished look. So, above all, was the contrast between theminute care for personal adornment implied in the finish of the dress, andthe melancholy shrinking of the dark-rimmed eyes. 

He watched her, through the smoke wreaths of his cigarette, --pleasantly andlazily 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 andlooking 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 onpraying for the primitive, --but when it comes--No!--it is not permitted tobe as typical as Miss Foster. '

'Typical of what?'

'The dissidence of Dissent, apparently--and the Protestantism of theProtestant religion. Confess:--it was an odd caprice on the part of highJove 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 andwrote a book on the Inquisition!'--

Manisty repeated his gesture. 

'--And as I told you last night, she is almost as handsome as your Greekhead--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, thatthere 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 owntown!'

For Marinata owned a Papal villa and had once been a favourite summerresidence of the Popes. 

'No--but she thought she might have gone into Rome, and she missed thetrains. I found her wandering about the salon looking quite starved andrestless. '

'Those are hungers that pass!--My heart is hard. --There--your bell isstopping. 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'tplease you at all. There will be the dirty floor, and the bad music, --andthe little priest intoning through his nose--and the scuffling boys, --andthe abominable pictures--and the tawdry altars. Much better stay athome--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 likethat!' she said, flushing. 

'Then they would think it unjustly. --I don't mean to be my own dupe, that'sall. '

'The dupes are the happiest, ' she said in a low voice. 'There is somethingbetween them, and--Ah! well, never mind!'--

She stood still a moment, looking across the lake, her hands restinglightly on the stone balustrade of the terrace. Manisty watched her insilence, occasionally puffing at his cigarette. 

'Well, I shall be back very soon, ' she said, gathering up her prayer-bookand 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 theopenings of the balustrade, Manisty could watch her climbing the villagestreet with her dress held high above her daintily shod feet, a crowd ofchildren asking for a halfpenny following at her heels. Presently he sawher stop irresolutely, open a little velvet bag that hung from her waistand 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 headand walked on. 

'Eleanor--you coward!' said Manisty, throwing himself back in his chairwith a silent laugh. 

Under his protection, or his aunt's, as he knew well, Mrs. Burgoyne couldwalk past those little pests of children, even the poor armless and leglesshorrors on the way to Albano, and give a firm adhesion to Miss Manisty'sScotch doctrines on the subject of begging. But by herself, she could notrefuse--she could not bear to be scowled on--even for a moment. She mustyield--must give herself the luxury of being liked. It was all of a piecewith her weakness towards servants and porters and cabmen--her absurditiesin the way of tips and gifts--the kindnesses she had been showing duringthe last three days to the American girl. Too kind! Insipidity lay thatway. 

Manisty returned to his newspapers. When he had finished them he got up andbegan to pace the stone terrace, his great head bent forward as usual, asthough the weight of it were too much for the shoulders. The newspapers hadmade 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--'whileall these things are happening. '

For the papers were full of news--of battles lost and won, on questionswith which he had been at one time intimately concerned. Once or twice inthe course of these many columns he had found his own name, his own opinionquoted, but only as belonging to a man who had left the field--a man of thepast--politically dead. 

As he stood there with his hands upon his sides, looking out over the AlbanLake, and its broom-clad sides, a great hunger for London swept suddenlyupon him, for the hot scent of its streets, for its English crowd, forthe look of its shops and clubs and parks. He had a vision of the clubwriting-room--of well-known men coming in and going out--discussing thenews of the morning, the gossip of the House--he saw himself accostedas one of the inner circle, --he was sensible again of those short-livedpleasures of power and office. Not that he had cared half as much for thesepleasures, when he had them, as other men. To affirm with him meant to bealready half way on the road to doubt; contradiction was his character. Nevertheless, now that he was out of it, alone and forgotten--now that thegame was well beyond his reach--it had a way of appearing to him at momentsintolerably attractive!

Nothing before him now, in these long days at the villa, but the hours ofwork with Eleanor, the walks With Eleanor, the meals with his aunt andEleanor--and now, for a stimulating change, Miss Foster! The male in himwas restless. He had been eager to come to the villa, and the quiet of thehills, 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 thousanddiscontents and misgivings were creeping upon him. In Rome he was stilla power. In spite of his strange detached position, it was known that hewas the defender of the Roman system, the panegyrist of Leo XIII. , theapologist of the Papal position in Italy. And this had been more thanenough to open to him all but the very inmost heart of Catholic life. Theirapartments in Rome, to the scandal of Miss Manisty's Scotch instincts, hadbeen haunted by ecclesiastics of every rank and kind. Cardinals, Italianand foreign, had taken their afternoon tea from Mrs. Burgoyne's hands; theblack and white of the Dominicans, the brown of the Franciscans, the blackof the Jesuits, --the staircase in the Via Sistina had been well acquaintedwith them all. Information not usually available had been placed lavishlyat Manisty's disposal; he had felt the stir and thrill of the greatCatholic organisation as all its nerve-threads gather to its brain andcentre in the Vatican. Nay, on two occasions, he had conversed freely withLeo 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 hebeginning to lose faith in the book, and the compensation it was to bringhim? Unless this book, with its scathing analysis of the dangers anddifficulties 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, takingall the savour out of life and work. No doubt it would be the same tothe end, --the politician in him just strong enough to ruin the man ofletters--the man of letters always ready to distract and paralyse thepolitician. And as for the book, there also he had been the victim ofa double mind. He had endeavoured to make it popular, as Chateaubriandmade the great argument of the _Génie du Christianisme_ popular, by theintroduction of an element of poetry and romance. For the moment he wastotally 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 wouldsuffer. --Poor Eleanor!--poor, kind, devoted Eleanor!

Yet as the thought of her passed through his meditations, a certainannoyance mingled with it. What if she had been helping to keep him, allthis time, in a fool's paradise--hiding the truth from him by this softenveloping sympathy of hers?

His mind started these questions freely. Yet only to brush them away with asense of shame. Beneath his outer controlling egotism there were large andgenerous elements in his mixed nature. And nothing could stand finallyagainst the memory of that sweet all-sacrificing devotion which had beenlavished 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 friendsand acquaintances who had seen them together in Rome. Eleanor Burgoynewas but just thirty, very attractive, and his distant kinswoman. As forhimself, he knew very well that according to the general opinion of theworld, 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. Hewas tolerably sure that Aunt Pattie had already had glimpses of EleanorBurgoyne in that position. 

Well--if so, Aunt Pattie was less shrewd than usual. Marriage! The notionof its fetters and burdens was no less odious to him now than it had beenat twenty. What did he want with a wife--still more, with a son? Thethought of his own life continued in another's filled him with a shock ofrepulsion. Where was the sense of infusing into another being the blackdrop of discontent that poisoned his own? A daughter perhaps--with the eyesof his mad sister Alice? Or a son--with the contradictions and weaknesses, without the gifts, of his father? Men have different ways of challengingthe future. But that particular way called paternity had never in his mostoptimistic moments appealed to Manisty. 

And of course Eleanor understood him! He had not been ungrateful. No!--heknew well enough that he had the power to make a woman's hours passpleasantly. Eleanor's winter had been a happy one; her health and spiritshad alike revived. Friendship, as they had known it, was a very rare andexquisite thing. No doubt when the book was done with, their relations mustchange somewhat. He confessed that he might have been imprudent; that hemight have been appropriating the energies and sympathies of a delightfulwoman, as a man is hardly justified in doing, unless--. But, after all, afew 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 subtlerbonds. The day of great passions was gone by. There were one or twoincidents in his earlier manhood on which he could look back with thehalf-triumphant consciousness that no man had dived deeper to the heart offeeling, had drunk more wildly, more inventively, of passion than he, inmore than one country of Europe, in the East as in the West. These eventshad occurred in those wander-years between twenty and thirty, which he hadspent in travelling, hunting and writing, in the pursuit, alternately eagerand fastidious, of as wide an experience as possible. But all that wasover. These things concerned another man, in another world. Politics andambition had possessed him since, and women now appealed to other instinctsin him--instincts rather of the diplomatist and intriguer than of thelover. Of late years they had been his friends and instruments. And byno unworthy arts. They were delightful to him; and his power with themwas based on natural sympathies and divinations that were perhaps hisbirthright. His father had had the same gift. Why deny that both his fatherand he had owed much to women? What was there to be ashamed of? His fatherhad been one of the ablest and most respected men of his day and so far asEnglish society was concerned, the son had no scandal, nor the shadow ofone, 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 nomere girl, brimful of illusions and dreaming of love-affairs. What ahistory!--Good heavens! Why had he not known and seen something of her inthe 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 whichhe stood, find his way back to activity and his rightful place, and manythings might look differently. Perhaps--who could say?--in the future, whenyouth was still further forgotten by both of them, he and Eleanor mightafter all take each other by the hand--sit down on either side of the samehearth--their present friendship pass into one of another kind? It wasquite possible, only--

The sudden crash of a glass door made him look round. It was Miss Fosterwho was hastening along the enclosed passage leading to the outer stair. She had miscalculated the strength of the wind on the north side of thehouse, and the glass door communicating with the library had slipped fromher hand. She passed Manisty with a rather scared penitent look, quicklyopened the outer door, and ran downstairs. 

Manisty watched her as she turned into the garden. The shadows of theilex-avenue chequered her straw bonnet, her prim black cape, her whiteskirt. There had been no meddling of freakish hands with her dark hairthis morning. It was tightly plaited at the back of her head. Her plainsun-shade, her black kid gloves were neatness itself--middle-class, sabbatical neatness. 

Manisty recalled his thoughts of the last half-hour with a touch ofamusement. He had been meditating on 'women'--the delightfulness of'women, ' his own natural inclination to their society. But how narrow iseverybody's world!

His collective noun of course had referred merely to that small, high-bred, cosmopolitan class which presents types like Eleanor Burgoyne. And herecame 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. Therewas a free and springing youth in all her movements that he could not butfollow with eyes that noticed all such things as she passed through the oldtrees, and the fragments of Græco-Roman sculpture placed among them. 

 * * * * *

That afternoon Lucy Foster was sitting by herself in the garden of thevilla. She had a volume of sermons by a famous Boston preacher in herhand, and was alternately reading--and looking. Miss Manisty had told herthat some visitors from Rome would probably arrive between four and fiveo'clock, and close to her indeed the little butler, running hither andthither with an anxiety, an effusion that no English servant would havedeigned to show, was placing chairs and tea-tables and putting outtea-things. 

Presently indeed Alfredo approached the silent lady sitting under thetrees, 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 givendirections--but he, Alfredo, was not sure--and it would be so sad if whenshe 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 avenuewith short, scudding steps, his coat-tails streaming behind him. 

What a child-like eagerness to please! Yet he had been five years in thecavalry; he was admirably educated; he wrote a better hand than Manisty'sown, 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 afirework factory in Rome. 

Lucy's look pursued the short flying figure of the butler with a smilingkindness. What was wrong with this clever and loveable people that Mr. Manisty should never have a good word for their institutions, or theirhistory, or their public men? Unjust! Nor was he even consistent with hisown 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 adoredhim, and all the long street of Marinata welcomed him with friendly eyes. His Italian was fluency itself; and his handsome looks perhaps, his keencommanding air gave him a natural kingship among a susceptible race. 

But to laugh and live with a people, merely that you might gibbet it beforeEurope, that you might show it as the Helot among nations--there was a kindof treachery in it! Lucy Foster remembered some of the talk and feeling inAmerica after the Manistys' visit there had borne fruit in certain hostilelectures and addresses on the English side of the water. She had shared thefeeling. She was angry still. And her young ignorance and sympathy were upin arms so far on behalf of Italy. Who and what was this critic that heshould blame so freely, praise so little?

Not that Mr. Manisty had so far confided any of his views to her! It seemedto her that she had hardly spoken with him since that first evening of herarrival. But she had heard further portions of his book read aloud; takenfrom the main fabric this time and not from the embroideries. The wholevilla indeed was occupied, and pre-occupied by the book. Mrs. Burgoyne waslooking 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 somefrightful accident--she was not going to marry Mr. Manisty--at least nobodysaid so--and though she went to mass, she was not a Catholic, but on thecontrary a Scotch Presbyterian, by birth, being the daughter of a Scotchlaird of old family--one General Delafield Muir--?

'She is very kind to me, ' thought Lucy Foster in a rush of gratitude mixedwith some perplexity. --'I don't know why she takes so much trouble aboutme. She is so different--so--so fashionable--so experienced. She can't carea 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 tohis cousin. She had never seen anything like it. The mere neighbourhoodof it thrilled her, she could not have told why. Was it the intimacy thatit implied--the intimacy of mind and thought? It was like marriage--butmarried people were more reserved, more secret. Yet of course it was onlyfriendship. Miss Manisty had said that her nephew and Mrs. Burgoyne were'very great friends. ' Well--One read of such things--one did not often seethem. 

 * * * * *

The sound of steps approaching made her lift her eyes. 

It was not Alfredo, but a young man, a young Englishman apparently, whowas coming towards her. He was fair-haired and smiling; he carried his hatunder his arm; and he wore a light suit and a rose in his button-hole--thiswas 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 findyou. 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 youall 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 confidentand appealing. 

Was this the 'delightful boy' from the Embassy Mrs. Burgoyne had announcedto her? No doubt. The colour rose softly in her cheek. She was notaccustomed 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 ather 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 ratherknocked 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 notbe 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. Butshe's handsome. '

The real point was, however, that Mrs. Burgoyne had told him to go out andmake himself agreeable, and he was accustomed to obey orders from thatquarter. 

'Doesn't he read it to you all day and all night?' he asked. 'That's hisway. '

'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 hereand write a book to run down Italy?--And an Englishman that's been in theGovernment, too--so of course what he says'll have authority. Why, we'refriends with Italy--we've always stuck up for Italy! When I think what he'swriting--and what a row it'll make--I declare I'm ashamed to look one'sItalian friends in the face!--And just now, too, when they're so down ontheir luck. '

For it was the year of the Abyssinian disasters; and the carnage of Adowawas 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 doanything? Of course, I oughtn't to talk. I'm just an understrapper--andhe's a man of genius, --more or less--we all know that. But what made himdo what he did last year? I say it was because his chief--he was in theEducation Office you know--was a Dissenter, and a jam manufacturer, and hadmutton-chop whisker. Manisty just couldn't do what he was told by a manlike that. He's as proud as Lucifer. I once heard him tell a friend of minethat he didn't know how to obey anybody--he'd never learnt. That's becausethey didn't send him to a public school--worse luck; that was his mother'sdoing, I believe. She thought him so clever--he must be treated differentlyto 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. Allyour people want to go one better than anybody else. But I can tell you itdoesn'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 intoParliament at all. He'd been abroad for seven or eight years, living withall the big-wigs and reactionaries everywhere. The last thing in the worldhe knew anything about was English politics. --But then his father had beena Liberal, and a Minister for ever so long. And when Manisty came home, andthe member for his father's division died, I don't deny it was very naturalthey should put him in. And he's such a queer mixture, I dare say he didn'tknow 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 soundmuch--but I declare it's the root of everything. Now Manisty was alwaysdining with the other side. All the great Tory ladies, --and the charmingHigh Churchwomen, and the delightful High Churchmen--and they _are_ nicefellows, I can tell you!--got hold of him. And then it came to somequestion about these beastly schools--don't you wish they were all atthe bottom of the sea?--and I suppose his chief was more annoying thanusual--(oh, but he had a number of other coolnesses on his hands by thattime--he wasn't meant to be a Liberal!) and his friends talked to him--andso--Ah! there they are!

And lifting his hat, the young man waved it towards Mrs. Burgoyne who withManisty and three or four other companions had just become visible at thefurther end of the ilex-avenue which stretched from their stone bench tothe villa. 

'Why, that's my chief, '--he cried--'I didn't think he was to be here thisafternoon. I say, do you know my chief?'

And he turned to her with the brightest, most confiding manner, as thoughhe 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 forhim just now. --I'll tell you something, if you'll keep a secret'--he benttowards her, --'He likes Mrs. Burgoyne of course, --everybody does--buthe don't take Manisty at his own valuation. I've heard him say someawfully good things to Manisty--you'd hardly think a man would get overthem. --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 readsome of his poems--or plays? Rome has hardly been able to hold the twoof them this winter. It's worse than the archæologists. Mrs. Burgoyne isalways trying to be civil to him, so that he mayn't make uncivil remarksabout Manisty. I say--don't you think she's delightful?'

He lowered his voice as he looked round upon his companion, but his blueeyes 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, youknow, for I'm her cousin, just as Manisty is--only on the other side. Ihave been trying to look after her a bit this winter in Rome; she neverlooks after herself. And she's not a bit strong. --You know her history ofcourse?'

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 chillafter a walk--and one night he was raving mad, mad you understand withdelirium and fever--and poor Eleanor was so ill, they had taken her awayfrom her husband, and put her to bed on the other side of the hotel. --Andthere was a drunken nurse--it's almost too horrible, isn't it?--and whileshe was asleep Mr. Burgoyne got up, quite mad--and he went into the nextroom, where the baby was, without waking anybody, and he took the child outasleep in his arms, back to his own room where the windows were open, andthere he threw himself and the boy out together--headlong! The hotel washigh up, --built, one side of it, above a rock wall, with a stream belowit. --There had been a great deal of rain, and the river was swollen. Thebodies were not found for days. --When poor Eleanor woke up, she had losteverything. --Oh! I dare say, when the first shock was over, the husbanddidn'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 thethroat, the flowers at the waist. Lucy Foster's eyes, dim with suddentears, fastened themselves upon the slender, advancing form. 

CHAPTER IV

The party grouped themselves round the tea-tables. Mrs. Burgoyne laida kind hand on Lucy Foster's arm, and introduced one or two of thenew-comers. 

Then, while Miss Manisty, a little apart, lent her ear to the soft chatof the ambassador, who sat beside her, supporting a pair of old and verywhite 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 ashort time to spare. 

He was a tall stiffly built man, with a heavy white face, and a shock ofblack hair combed into a high and bird-like crest. As to Mrs. Burgoyne'sattentions, he received them with a somewhat pinched but still smilingdignity. Manisty, meanwhile, a few feet away, was fidgetting on his chair, in one of his most unmanageable moods. Around him were two or three youngmen bearing the great names of Rome. They all belonged to the GuardiaNobile, 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, nibbledit and threw it away--a constant habit of his when he was annoyed or out ofspirits. 

"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 theefforts 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 toldyou what we thought about it?'

And she glanced towards Manisty for support. He, however, did notapparently hear what she said. Mr. Bellasis also looked round in hisdirection; 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 appreciatedexcept at a second or third reading--'

Mrs. Burgoyne looked up in dismay, as a shower of gravel descended on thetea-table. Manisty has just beckoned in haste to his great Newfoundland whowas 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, andresumed:--

'I have just got a batch of the first reviews. Really criticism has becomean 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 laughedloud--'Why the style is done with a magnifying-glass!--There's not aphrase, --not a word that I don't stand by. '

'Mr. Bellasis'--said the courteous voice of the ambassador--'are you goingby this train?'

The great man held out his watch. 

'Yes indeed--and I must catch it!' cried the man of letters. He started tohis feet, and bending over Mrs. Burgoyne, he said in an aside perfectlyaudible to all the world--'I read my new play to-night--just finished--atMadame Salvi's!'

Eleanor smiled and congratulated him. He took his leave, and Manisty in anembarrassed silence accompanied him half way down the avenue. 

Then returning, he threw himself into a chair near Lucy Foster and youngBrooklyn, with a sigh of relief. 

'Intolerable ass!'--he said under his breath, as though quite unconsciousof 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! Letme guess. She is a New Englander--not from Boston, but from the country. Iremember the type exactly. The year I was at Washington I spent some weeksin the summer convalescing at a village up in the hills of Maine. --Thewomen 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 cansee it from here, ' said the suave polished voice. 

Lucy rose in a shy pleasure that became her. The thought flashed happilythrough her, as she walked beside the old man, that Uncle Ben would liketo hear of it! She had that 'respect of persons' which comes not fromsnobbishness, but from imagination and sympathy. The man's office thrilledher, not his title. 

The ambassador's shrewd eyes ran over her face and bearing, taking note ofall the signs of character. Then he began to talk, exerting himself as hehad not exerted himself that morning for a princess who had lunched at histable. And as he was one of the enchanters of his day, known for such inhalf a dozen courts, and two hemispheres, Lucy Foster's walk was a walkof delight. There was only one drawback. She had heard some member of theparty 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 shewould not have gladly paid him, if she had known how. 

They emerged at last upon the stone terrace at the edge of the gardenlooking out upon the Campagna. 

'Ah! there it is!'--said the ambassador, and, walking to the corner of theterrace, he pointed northwards. 

And there--just caught between two stone pines--in the dim blue distancerose the great dome. 

'Doesn't it give you an emotion?' he said, smiling down upon her. --'WhenI 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 domefollows you. Again and again, storm and mist may blot out the rest--thatremains. The peasants on these hills have a superstition about it. Theylook for that dome as they look for the sun. When they can't see it, theyare unhappy--they expect some calamity. --It's a symbol, isn't it, anidea?--and those are the things that touch us. I have a notion'--he turnedto 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 beatbecause it speaks of so much--half the history of our race. But lookingback--I remember another symbol--I was at Harvard in '69; and I rememberthe first time I ever saw those tablets--you recollect--in the MemorialHall--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 twobrothers--both their names are there. "

The ambassador looked at her kindly. --"Well--be proud of it!--be proud ofit! 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, "--hepointed to the dome, --"that's Religion. And the other's Country. It'scountry that Mr. Manisty forgets--isn't it?"

The old man shook his head, and fell silent, looking out over thecloud-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, ina good humour with himself and the day. He had that morning sent off whathe knew to be a masterly despatch, and in the afternoon, as he was alsoquite conscious, he had made a young thing happy. 

 * * * * *

Manisty could not attend the ambassador to his carriage. He was absorbed byanother guest. Mrs. Burgoyne, young Brooklyn, and Lucy, paid the necessarycivilities. 

When they returned, they found a fresh group gathered on the terrace. Twopersons made the centre of it--a grey-haired cardinal--and Manisty. 

Lucy looked at her host in amazement. What a transformation! The man whohad been lounging and listless all the afternoon--barely civil to hisguests--making no effort indeed for anyone, was now another being. An hourbefore he had been in middle age; now he was young, handsome, courteous, animating, and guiding the conversation around him with the practised easeof 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 neckof the Newfoundland. It was a typical Italian face, large-cheeked andlarge-jawed, with good eyes, --a little sleepy, but not unspiritual. Hisred-edged cassock allowed a glimpse of red stockings to be seen, and hisfinely worked cross and chain, his red sash, and the bright ribbon that litup his broad-brimmed hat, made spots of cheerful colour in the shadow ofthe trees. 

He was a Cardinal of the Curia, belonging indeed to the Congregation of theIndex. The vulgar believed that he was staying on the hills for his health. 

The initiated, however, knew that he had come to these heights, bringingwith him the works of a certain German Catholic professor threatened withthe thunders of the Church. It was a matter that demanded leisure and aquiet mind. 

As he sat sipping Miss Manisty's tea, however, nothing could be divined ofthose scathing Latin sheets on which he had left his secretary employed. Hehad the air of one at peace with all the world--hardly stirred indeed bythe brilliance of his host. 

'Italy again!'--said Reggie Brooklyn in Lucy's ear--poor old Italy!--onemight 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 accountof some fresh vandalism of the Government--the buildings of an old Umbrianconvent turned to Government uses--the disappearance of some famouspictures in the process, supposed to have passed into the bands of a Parisdealer by the connivance of a corrupt official. 

The story had roused Manisty to a white heat. This maltreatment ofreligious buildings and the wasting of their treasures was a subject onwhich he was inexhaustible. Encouraged by the slow smile of the Cardinal, the laughter and applause of the young men, he took the history of amonastery in the mountains of Spoleto, which had long been intimately knownto him, and told it, --with a variety, a passion, an irony, that only hecould achieve--that at last revealed indeed to Lucy Foster, as she satquivering with antagonism beside Miss Manisty, all the secret of the man'sfame and power in the world. 

For gradually--from the story of this monastery, and its suppression atthe 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 anddefenceless. And then a natural turn of thought, or a suggestion from oneof the group surrounding him, brought him to the scandals connected withthe Abyssinian campaign--to the charges of incompetence and corruptionwhich every Radical paper was now hurling against the Crispi government. He gave the latest gossip, handling it lightly, inexorably, as one moresymptom of an inveterate disease, linking the men of the past with the menof the present, spattering all with the same mud, till Italian Liberalism, from Cavour to Crispi, sat shivering and ugly--stripped of all those pleasand glories wherewith she had once stepped forth adorned upon the page ofhistory. 

Finally--with the art of the accomplished talker--a transition! Back to themountains, and the lonely convent on the heights--to the handful of monksleft 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 haddestroyed and outlived the Old Rome, --offering the daily sacrifice amid themurmur and solitude of the woods, --confident, peaceful, unstained; whilethe 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 snatchesof paradox and mockery; of emotion touched and left; interrupted, moreover, by the lively give and take of conversation with the young Italians, bythe quiet comments of the Cardinal. None the less, the whole final imageemerged, 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 thespring 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 ownknowledge--a stroke of character--a phrase of compassion that bit moresharply even than Manisty's scorns--a smile--a shake of the head. Andsometimes, as Manisty talked with the young men, the sharp wrinkled eyesrested upon the Englishman with a scrutiny, instantly withdrawn. All thecaution of the Roman ecclesiastic, --the inheritance of centuries--spoke inthe glance. 

It was perceived by no one, however, but a certain dark elderly lady, whowas sitting restlessly silent beside Miss Manisty. Lucy Foster had noticedher 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 wascurious to notice how a place was always made for her beside him!--her headraised a little towards him, her eyes bright and fixed. The force thatbreathed from him passed through her frail being, quickening every pulse oflife. She neither criticised nor accepted what he said. It was the man'ssplendid vitality that subdued and mastered her. 

Yet she alone knew what no one else suspected. At the beginning of theconversation Manisty had placed himself behind an old stone table of oblongshape and thick base, of which there were several in the garden. Round itgrew up grasses and tall vetches which had sown themselves among the gapingstones of the terrace. Nothing, therefore, could be seen of the talker ashe leant carelessly across the table but the magnificent head, and theshoulders on which it was so freely and proudly carried. 

Anybody noticing the effect--for it was an effect--would have thought ita mere happy accident. Eleanor Burgoyne alone knew that it was conscious. She had seen the same pose, the same concealment practised too often to bemistaken. But it made no difference whatever to the spell that held her. The small vanities and miseries of Manisty's nature were all known toher--and alas! she would not have altered one of them!

 * * * * *

When the Cardinal rose to go, two Italian girls, who had come with theirbrother, the Count Casaleschi, ran forward, and curtseying kissed theCardinal's ring. And as he walked away, escorted by Manisty, a gardenercrossed the avenue, who also at sight of the tall red-sashed figure fell onhis 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 MissManisty. '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 makeitself in a generation--let him show it us! Ah! you English--with all youradvantages--and your proud hearts. --Perhaps we too could pick some holes inyou!'

She fanned herself with angry vigour. The young men came to stand roundher arguing and laughing. She was a favourite in Rome, and as a Frenchwoman, and the widow of a Florentine man of letters, occupied a somewhatindependent position, and was the friend of many different groups. 

'And you--young lady, what do you think?'--she said suddenly, laying alarge hand on Lucy Foster's knee. 

Lucy, startled, looked into the sparkling black eyes brought thus close toher own. 

'But I just _long_'--she said, catching her breath--'to hear the otherside. '

'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 getrid of all those priests--and then we will speak our mind? Oh, and youtoo, '--she waved her hand with a motherly roughness towards the youngmen, --'What do you know about it, Signor Marchese? If there were no GuardiaNobile, you would not wear those fine uniforms. --That is why you like thePope. '

The Marchese Vitellucci--a charming boy of two and twenty, tall, thin-facedand pensive, --laughed and bowed. 

'The Pope, Madame, should establish some _dames d'honneur_. Then he wouldhave all the ladies too on his side. 

'_O, mon Dieu!_--he has enough of them, ' cried Madame Variani. 'But herecomes Mr. Manisty, I must drink my tea and hold my tongue. I am going outto dinner to-night, and if one gets hot and cross, that is not good for thecomplexion. '

Manisty advanced at his usual quick pace, his head sunk once more betweenhis shoulders. 

Young Vitellucci approached him. 'Ah! Carlo!' he said, looking upaffectionately--'dear fellow!--Come for a stroll with me. '

And linking his arm in the young man's, he carried him off. Their peals oflaughter 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 MissManisty. '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 pulsesstill tingling with a wholly new sense of passionate hostility--dislikeeven. But none the less did the stage seem empty and meaningless when hehad left it. 

 * * * * *

Manisty and Mrs. Burgoyne were closeted in the library for some time beforedinner. Lucy in the salon could hear him pacing up and down, and the deepvoice dictating. 

Then Mrs. Burgoyne came into the salon, and not noticing the girl who washidden behind a great pot of broom threw herself on the sofa with a longsigh of fatigue. Lucy could just see the pale face against the pillow andthe closed eyes. Thus abandoned and at rest, there was something strangelypitiful in the whole figure, for all its grace. 

A wave of feeling rose in the girl's breast. She slipped softly from herhiding-place, took a silk wrap that was lying on a chair, and approachedMrs. Burgoyne. 

'Let me put this over you. Won't you sleep before dinner? And I will shutthe window. It is getting cold. '

Mrs. Burgoyne opened her eyes in astonishment, and murmured a few words ofthanks. 

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 ratherpiteously to remind herself that it was Sunday. Far away in a New Englandvillage, the bells were ringing for the evening meeting. Lucy, shuttingher eyes, could smell the spring scents in the church lane, could hearthe 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 herheart. 

Then, as she rose to dress, there burst upon her through the open windowthe sunset blaze of the Campagna with the purple dome in its midst. Andwith 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, underthe stress of new thinking, like something stretched and sore. In the NewEngland house where she had grown up, a corner of the old-fashioned studywas given up to the books of her grandfather, the divinity professor. Theywere a small collection, all gathered with one object, --the confuting andconfronting of Rome. Like many another Protestant zealot, the old professorhad brooded on the crimes and cruelties of persecuting Rome, till theybecame a madness in the blood. How well Lucy remembered his books--withtheir backs of faded grey or brown cloths, and their grim titles. Most ofthem 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 habituallydid or permitted, what at any rate she had habitually done or permitted inthe past, could not--it seemed--be known by a pure woman! And she wouldglance from the books to the engraving of her grandfather above them, --tothe stern and yet delicate face of the old Calvinist, with its high-peakedbrow, and white neckcloth supporting the sharp chin; lifting her heartto him in a passionate endorsement, a common fierce hatred of wrong andtyranny. 

She had grown older since then, and her country with her. New EnglandPuritanism was no longer what it had been; and the Catholic Church hadspread in the land. But in Uncle Ben's quiet household, and in her ownfeeling, the changes had been but slight and subtle. Pity, perhaps, hadinsensibly 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 tocorrupt and deface the purity of Christ. 

And of what that purity might be, she had such tender, such positivetraditions! Her mother had been a Christian mystic--a 'sweet woman, ' meekas a dove in household life, yet capable of the fiercest ardours as apreacher and missionary, gathering rough labourers into barns and by thewayside, and dying before her time, worn out by the imperious energies ofreligion. Lucy had always before her the eyes that seemed to be shiningthrough a mist, the large tremulous mouth, the gently furrowed brow. Thosestrange forces--'grace'--and 'the spirit'--had been the realities, thedeciding powers of her childhood, whether in what concerned the greatemotions of faith, or the most trivial incidents of ordinary life--writinga letter--inviting a guest--taking a journey. The soul bare before God, depending on no fleshly aid, distracted by no outward rite; sternlydefending its own freedom as a divine trust:--she had been reared on thesemain thoughts of Puritanism, and they were still through all insensibletransformation, the guiding forces of her own being. 

Already, in this Catholic country, she had been jarred and repelled on allsides. Yet she found herself living with two people for whom Catholicismwas not indeed a personal faith--she could not think of that side of itwithout indignation--but a thing to be passionately admired and praised, like art, or music, or scenery. You might believe nothing, and yet writepages and pages in glorification of the Pope and the Mass, and in contemptof everything else!--in excuse too of every kind of tyranny so long as itserved the Papacy and 'the Church. '

She leaned out to the sunset, remembering sentence after sentence from thetalk on the terrace--hating or combating them all. 

Yet all the time a new excitement invaded her. For the man who had spokenthus was, in a sense, not a mere stranger to her. Somewhere in his beingmust be the capacity for those thoughts and feelings that had touched herso deeply in his book--for that magical insight and sweetness--

Ah!--perhaps she had not understood his book--no more than she understoodhim now. The sense of her own ignorance oppressed her--and of all that_might_ be said, with regard apparently to anything whatever. Was therenothing quite true--quite certain--in the world?

So the girl's intense and simple nature entered like all its fellows, uponthe old inevitable struggle. As she stood there, with locked hands andflushed cheeks, conscious through every vein of the inrush and shock of newperceptions, new comparisons, she was like a ship that leaves the harbourfor the open, and feels for the first time on all her timbers the strain ofthe unplumbed sea. 

And of this invasion, this excitement, the mind, in haunting debate andantagonism, made for itself one image, one symbol--the face of EdwardManisty. 

CHAPTER V

While he was thus--unknowing--the cause of so many new attractions andrepulsions in his guest's mind, Manisty, after the first shock of annoyanceproduced by her arrival was over, hardly remembered her existence. He wasincessantly occupied by the completion of his book, working late and early, sometimes in high and even extravagant spirits, but, on the whole, morecommonly depressed and discontented. 

Eleanor Burgoyne worked with him or for him many hours in each day. Herthin pallor became more pronounced. She ate little, and Miss Manistybelieved that she slept less. The elder lady indeed began to fidget andprotest, to remonstrate now and then with Manisty himself, even to threatena letter to 'the General. ' Eleanor's smiling obstinacy, however, carriedall before it. And Manisty, in spite of a few startled looks andperfunctory dissuasions, whenever his aunt attacked him, soon slipped backinto his normal ways of depending on his cousin, and not being able to workwithout her. Lucy Foster thought him selfish and inconsiderate. It gave herone more cause of quarrel with him. 

For she and Mrs. Burgoyne were slowly but surely making friends. Theclearer it became that Manisty took no notice of Miss Foster, and refusedto be held in any way responsible for her entertainment, the more anxious, it seemed, did Eleanor show herself to make life pleasant for the Americangirl. 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 itentirely to Lucy Foster's advantage. 

Not much indeed could be done for the stranger while the stress ofManisty's work lasted. Aunt Pattie braced herself once or twice, got outthe guide-books and took her visitor into Rome to see the sights. But thelittle lady was so frankly worn out by these expeditions, that Lucy, fullof compunctions, could only beg to be left to herself in future. Were notthe garden and the lake, the wood-paths to Rocca di Papa, and the roads toAlbano good enough?

So presently it came to her spending many hours alone in the terracedgarden on the hill-side, with all the golden Campagna at her feet. Heryoung fancy, however, soon learnt to look upon that garden as the veryconcentration and symbol of Italy. All the Italian elements, the Italianmagics were there. Along its topmost edge ran a vast broken wall, builtinto 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 ofthe wall--in days when, in that dim Rome upon the plain, many still livedwho could remember the voice and the face of Paul of Tarsus--Domitian hadmade niches and fountains; and he had thrown over the terrace, now darkenedby the great ilex boughs, a long portico roof supported on capitals andshafts of gleaming marble. Then in the niches round the clear fountains, he had ranged the fine statues of a still admirable art; everywhere he hadlavished marbles, rose and yellow and white, and under foot he had spread amosaic floor, glistening beneath the shadow-play of leaf and water, in therich reflected light from the garden and the Campagna outside; while atintervals, he had driven through the very crest of the hill long tunnelledpassages, down which one might look from the garden and see the blue lakeshining at their further end. 

And still the niches and the recesses were there, --the huge wall too alongthe face of the hill; all broken and gashed and ruinous, showing the finereticulated brickwork that had been once faced with marble; alternatelysupported and torn by the pushing roots of the ilex-trees. The tunnelledpassages too were there, choked and fallen in; no flash of the lake nowbeyond their cool darkness! And into the crumbling surface of the wall, rude hands had built fragments of the goddesses and the Cæsars that hadonce reigned there, barbarously mingled with warm white morsels fromthe great cornice of the portico, acanthus blocks from the long buriedcapitals, or dolphins orphaned of Aphrodite. 

The wreck was beautiful, like all wrecks in Italy where Nature has had herway. For it was masked in the gloom of the overhanging trees; or hiddenbehind dropping veils of ivy; or lit up by straggling patches of broom andcytisus that thrust themselves through the gaps in the Roman brickwork andshone 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 withlong-stalked violets, or pink with the sharp heads of the cyclamen. And alittle further, from the same grass, there shot up in a happy neglect, tallcamellia-trees ragged and laden, strewing the ground red and white beneaththem. And above the camellias again, the famous stone-pines of the villaclimbed into the high air, overlooking the plain and the sea, peering atRome and Soracte. 

So old it was!--and yet so fresh with spring! In the mornings at least thespring was uppermost. It silenced the plaint of outraged beauty which theplace seemed to be always making, under a flutter of growth and song. Waterand flowers and nightingales, the shadow, the sunlight, and the heat, wereall alike strong and living, --Italy untamed. It was only in the eveningsthat Lucy shunned the path. For then, from the soil below and the wallabove, 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, thereis always something in the shade of Italy that fights with human life. Thepoor ghosts rise from the earth--jealous of those that are still walkingthe warm ways of the world. 

But in the evenings, when the Fountain Walk drove her forth, the centralhot 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 thesunsets. 

Evening after evening Lucy might have been found perched on the stonecoping 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 archæologistsindeed said must be--buried beneath her feet; of the marble limbs and facespressed 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 companionof 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 somestrange bright bird of fairy-tale, flashing from one deep garden-shadow toanother. 

Yet the garden was not always given up to her and the birds. Peasant folkcoming from Albano or the olive-grounds between it and the villa wouldtake 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 neighbouringseminary would suddenly throng its paths, playing mild girlish games, with infinite clamour and chatter, running races as far and fast as theirblack petticoats would allow, twisting their long overcoats and red sashesmeanwhile round a battered old noseless bust that stood for Domitian at theend of a long ilex-avenue, and was the butt for all the slings and arrowsof the day, --poor helpless State, blinded and buffeted by the Church!

Lucy would hide herself among the lilacs and the arbutus when the seminaryinvaded her; watching through the leaves the strapping Italian boysin their hindering womanish dress; scorning them for their state ofsupervision and dependence; pitying them for their destiny!

And sometimes Manisty, disturbed by the noise, would come out--pale andfrowning. But at the sight of the seminarists and of the old priest incommand of them, his irritable look would soften. He would stand indeedwith his hands on his sides, laughing and chatting with the boys, his headuncovered, his black curls blown backward from the great furrowed brow; andin the end Lucy peering from her nook would see him pacing up and down theilex-walk with the priest, --haranguing and gesticulating--the old man ina pleased wonder looking at the Englishman through his spectacles, andthrowing in from time to time ejaculations of assent, now half puzzled, and now fanatically eager. "He is talking the book!"--Lucy would think toherself--and her mind would rise in revolt. 

One day after parting with the lads he came unexpectedly past herhiding-place, and paused at sight of her. "Do the boys disturb you?" hesaid, glancing at her book, and speaking with the awkward abruptness whichwith 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 suchbabies--those great boys!"

His eye kindled. 

"So you would like them to be more independent--more brutal. You prefera Harvard and Yale football match--with the dead and wounded left on theground?"

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 ofsomething cool and critical in her attitude towards him. Very possibly hehad been conscious of it for some time, which accounted for his instinctiveavoidance of her. In the crisis of thought and production through whichhe was passing he shrank from any touch of opposition or distrust. Hedistrusted himself enough. It was as though he carried about with himwounds that only Eleanor's soft touch could be allowed to approach. Andfrom the first evening he had very naturally divined in this Yankee girl, with her mingled reserve and transparency, her sturdy Protestantisms of allsorts, elements antagonistic to himself. 

She answered his question, however, by another--still referring to theseminarists. 

'Isn't that the reason why they take and train them so young--that they mayhave no will left?'

'Well, is that the worst condition in the world--to give up your own willto an idea--a cause?'

She laughed shyly--a low musical sound that suddenly gave him, as itseemed, 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. Soonit will be some one else's turn to give them the orders--'

'Till the time comes for them to give orders themselves?--Well, what isthere to object to in that?' He scanned her severely. 'What does it meanbut that they are parts of a great system, properly organised, to a greatend? 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 greatmodern panacea. ' He paused, staring at her without being conscious of it, with his absent brilliant eyes. Then he broke out--'Well! so you despisemy little priests! Did you ever think of inquiring, however, which wearsbest--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 notionthat their enemies here go to work upon? Look into the history of thisAbyssinian war--everybody free to make fools of themselves, in Romeor Africa--and doing it magnificently! Private judgment--private aimseverywhere--from Crispi to the smallest lieutenant. Result--universal wreckand 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 a11 going to mass--the peopleworking in the fields, our servants, the bright little priests. To-morrow'sHoly Thursday. From now till Sunday, nobody here will eat anything but alittle bread and a few olives. The bells will cease to-morrow. If a singlechurch-bell rang in Rome--over this plain, and these mountains--through thewhole of Italy--from mass to-morrow till mass on Saturday--a whole nationwould feel pain and outrage. Then on Saturday--marvellous symbol!--listenfor the bells. You will hear them all loosed together, as soon as theSanctus begins--all over Italy. And on Sunday--watch the churches. If itisn't Matthew Arnold's "One common wave of thought and joy--Lifting mankindamain, "--what is it? To me, it's what keeps the human machine running. Makethe comparison!--it will repay you. My little muffs of priests with theirsilly obedience won't come so badly out of it. '

Unconsciously he had taken a seat beside her, and was looking at her witha sharp imperious air. She dimly understood that he was not talking to herbut 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 consecutivesentences to her excited her after these many days of absolute neglect andindifference 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 Imean, '--her words came out a little hurried and breathless--'I don't seehow _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 alittle, 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 indulgenceof the politician and man of affairs towards the little backwoods girl whowas setting him to rights. 

'We must have it out, ' he said, 'I see I shall have to defend myself. Butnow I fear Mrs. Burgoyne will be waiting for me. '

And lifting his hat with the somewhat stately and excessive manner, whichhe could always substitute at the shortest notice for _brusquerie_ orinattention, he went his way. 

Lucy Foster was left with a red cheek. She watched him till he had passedinto the shadow of the avenue leading to the house; then with an impetuousmovement 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 thelife 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 libraryin Rome to which the Manistys had access--with the books of the Italian_Risorgimento_, that great movement, that heroic making of a nation, inwhich our fathers felt so passionate an interest, which has grown so dimand far away now, not only in the mind of a younger England, but even inthat of a younger Italy. 

But to Lucy--reading the story with the plain of Rome, and St. Peter's insight, her wits quickened by the perpetual challenge of Manisty's talk withMrs. Burgoyne, or any chance visitor, --Cavour, Garibaldi, Mazzini; all thestriking figures and all the main stages in the great epic; the blind, mad, hopeless outbreaks of '48; the hangings and shootings and bottomlessdespairs of '49; the sullen calm of those waiting years from '49 to '58;the ecstasy of Magenta and Solferino, and the fierce disappointment ofVillafranca; the wild golden days of Sicily in 1860; the plucking of Venicelike a ripe fruit in '66; of Rome, in 1870; all the deliriums of freedom, vengeance, union--these immortal names and passions and actions, werethrilling through the girl's fresh poetic sense, and capturing all hersympathies. Had Italy indeed been 'made too quick'? Was all the vaststruggle, and these martyred lives for nothing--all to end like a chokedriver in death and corruption? Well, if so, whose fault was it, but thepriests'?--of that black, intriguing, traitorous Italy, headed by thePapacy, which except for one brief moment in the forties, had upheld everytyranny, and drenched every liberty in blood, had been the supporter of theAustrian and the Bourbon, and was now again tearing to pieces the Italythat so many brave men had died to make?

The priests!--the Church!--Why!--she wondered, as she read the story ofCharles Albert, and Metternich and the Naples Bourbons, that Italy stilldared to let the ignorant, persecuting brood live and thrive in her midstat all! Especially was it a marvel to her that any Jesuit might still walkItalian streets, that a nation could ever forgive or forget such crimesagainst her inmost life as had been the crimes of the Jesuits. She wouldstand 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 openedwith the experiences of a Neapolitan boy at school in Naples during thepriest-ridden years of the twenties, when Austrian bayonets, after therising of '21, had replaced Bourbons and Jesuits in power, and crushed thelife out of the young striving liberty of '21, as a cruel boy may crush andstrangle a fledgling bird. 'What did we learn, ' cried the author of thememoir--'from that monkish education which dwarfed both our mind and body?How many have I seen in later life groaning over their own ignorance, andpouring maledictions on the seminary or the college, where they had wastedso 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 challengeto that great dome hovering amid the sunny haze. That old man there, amonghis Cardinals--she thought of him with a young horror and revolt; yet notwithout a certain tremor of the imagination. Well!--in a few days--Sundayweek--she was to see him, and judge for herself. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile visitors were almost shut out. The villa sank into a convent-likequiet; for in a week, ten days, the book was perhaps to be finished. MissManisty, as the crisis approached, kept a vigilant eye on Mrs. Burgoyne. She was in constant dread of a delicate woman's collapse; and after thesittings in the library had lasted a certain time she had now the courageto break in upon them, and drive Manisty's Egeria out of her cave to restand to the garden. 

So Lucy, as the shadows lengthened in the garden, would hear the sound of alight though languid step, and would look up to see a delicate white facesmiling down upon her. 

'Oh! how tired you must be!' she would say, springing up. 'Let me make aplace 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 anevident relief from tension which only betrayed the mental and physicalfatigue behind. 

Lucy wondered to see how exquisite, how dainty, she would emerge from thesewrestles with hard work. Her fresh white or pale dresses, the few jewelshalf-hidden at her wrists or throat, the curled or piled masses of the fairhair, were never less than perfection, it seemed to Lucy; she was nevermore the woman of fashion and the great world than when she came out froma 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 whichit was good to talk with her. 

But how eagerly she would throw off that stress, and turn to wooing andwinning Lucy Foster! All hanging back in the matter was gone. Certain vaguethoughts and terrors were laid to sleep, and she must needs allow herselfthe luxury of charming the quiet girl, like all the rest--the dogs, theservants or the village children. There was a perpetual hunger for love inEleanor's nature which expressed itself in a thousand small and piteousways. She could never help throwing out tendrils, and it was rarely thatshe ventured them in vain. 

In the case of Lucy Foster, however, her fine tact soon discovered thatcaresses were best left alone. They were natural to herself, and once ortwice as the April days went by, she ventured to kiss the girl's freshcheek, or to slip an arm round her waist. But Lucy took it awkwardly. Whenshe was kissed she flushed, and stood passive; and all her personal wayswere a little stiff and austere. After one of these demonstrations indeedMrs. Burgoyne generally found herself repaid in some other form, by somesmall thoughtfulness on Lucy's part--the placing of a stool, the fetchingof 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. Therewas even a kind of charm in it. The prevailing American type in Rome thatwinter had been a demonstrative type. 

Lucy's manner in comparison was like a cool and bracing air. 'And when shedoes 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 literaturethat lay about. She would turn the books over and read their titles, hereyes sparkling with a little gentle mischief, as she divined the girl'sdisapproval of her host and his views. But she never argued with Lucy. Shewas too tired of the subject, too eager to seek relief in talking of thebirds 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 alldaily 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 samekind, had been cast out of the text; which now presented one firm andvigorous whole of social and political discussion. But the Nemi piece wasto be specially bound for Eleanor, together with some drawings that she hadmade of the lake and the temple site earlier in the spring. And on the daythe book was finished--somewhere within the next fortnight--there was to bea festal journey to Nemi--divine and blessed place!

So she felt no fatigue, and was always ready to chatter to Lucy of the mostwomanish things. Especially, as the girl's beauty grew upon her, was sheanxious to carry out those plans of transforming her dress and hair, --hergowns and hats and shoes--the primness of her brown braids, which she andMiss Manisty had confided to each other. 

But Lucy was shy--would not be drawn that way. There were fewer visitorsat the villa than she had expected. For this quiet life in the garden, andon the country roads, it seemed to her that her dresses did very well. Thesense of discomfort excited by the elegance of her Florentine acquaintancedied away. And she would have thought it wrong and extravagant to spendunnecessary money. 

So she had quietly ceased to think about her dress; and the blue and whitecheck, to Eleanor's torment, had frequently to be borne with. 

Even the promised invitation to the Embassy had not arrived. It was saidthat the Ambassador's daughter had gone to Florence. Only Lucy wishedshe had not written that letter to Uncle Ben from Florence:--thatrather troubled and penitent letter on the subject of dress. He mightmisunderstand--might do something foolish. 

 * * * * *

And apparently Uncle Ben did do something foolish. For a certain letterarrived from Boston on the day after the seminarists' invasion of thegarden. Lucy after an hour's qualms and hesitations, must needs reluctantlyconfide the contents of it to Miss Manisty. And that lady with smiles andevident pleasure called Mrs. Burgoyne--and Eleanor called her maid, --andthe ball began to roll. 

 * * * * *

On Saturday morning early, Mrs. Burgoyne's room indeed was in abustle--delightful to all but Lucy. Manisty was in Rome for the day, andEleanor had holiday. She had never looked more frail--a rose-leaf pink inher cheek--nor more at ease. For she was at least as good to consult abouta skirt as an idea. 

'Marie!'--she said, giving her own maid a little peremptory push--'just runand 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 ratherred 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, asthey rose from breakfast, with a twinkle of her small eyes. 'The questionis; 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 newestgowns and Lucy was submissively putting them on one after the other. Eleanor was in pursuit first of all of some general conceptions. What wasthe 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 madein Rome. But as we have the models--and these two maids have nothing todo--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--thatother girls had. Why, it was demanded of her, had she been economical andscrupulous before starting? Folly and disobedience! He had been told ofher silly hesitations, her detestable frugalities--he had ferretted it allout. And now she was at a disadvantage--was she? Let her provide herself atonce, or old as he was, he would take train and steamer and come and see toit!

She was not submissive in general--far from it. But the reading of UncleBen'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 moneyon oneself, to think so much about it? Their life together had been sosimple, the question had hardly emerged. Of course it was right to be neatand fresh, and to please his taste in what she wore. But--

The net result of all this internal debate, however, was to give a peculiarcharm, like the charm of rippled and sensitive water, to features that weregenerally too still and grave. She stood silently before the long glasswhile Mrs. Burgoyne and the maids talked and pinned. She walked to the endof 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 gownafter another, she became more and more alive to the beauty of the softstuffs, the invention and caprice with which they were combined, thedaintiness of their pinks and blues, their greys and creams, their lilacsand 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 tallform had been draped in this garment, her three attendants fell back withone 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, andhow it falls! That's the green. Yes, when Mathilde is as good as that she'sdivine. --Now all you've got to do is just to copy that. And the materialsare 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 greatpity. Well now, for the coat and skirt, '--she checked them off on her slimfingers--'for the afternoon gown, and one evening dress, I think I see myway--'

'Enough for one morning isn't it?' said Lucy half laughing, half imploring. 

'Yes, '--said Mrs. Burgoyne absently, her mind already full of furtherdevelopments. 

The gowns were carried away, and Aunt Pattie's maid departed. Then as Lucyin her white cotton wrapper was retiring to her own room, Mrs. Burgoynecaught her by the arm. 

'You remember, '--she said appealingly, --'how rude I was that eveningyou came--how I just altered your hair? You don't know how I long todo it properly! You know I shall have a little trouble with thesedresses--trouble I like--but still I shall pretend it's trouble, that youmay pay me for it. Pay me by letting me experiment! I just long to take allyour hair down, and do it as it ought to be done. And you don't know howclever I am. _Let_ me!'

And already, before the shamefaced girl could reply, she was gently pushedinto the chair before Mrs. Burgoyne's dressing-table, and a pair of skilledhands went to work. 

'I can't say you look as though you enjoyed it, ' said Mrs. Burgoyne by thetime she had covered the girl's shoulders with the long silky veil whichshe had released from the stiff plaits confining it. 'Do you think it'swrong to do your hair prettily?' Lucy laughed uneasily. 

'I was never brought up to think much about it. My mother had very strictviews. '

'Ah!'--said Eleanor, with a discreet intonation. 'But you see, at Rome itis really so much better for the character to do as Rome does. To be out ofthe way makes one self-conscious. Your mother didn't foresee that. '

Silence, --while the swift white fingers plaited and tied and laidfoundations. 

'It waves charmingly already'--murmured the artist--'but it must be justa 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 thosefinest hairpins. '

The maid flew, infected by the ardour of her mistress, and between themthey worked to such purpose that when at last they released their victim, they had turned the dark head into that of a stately and fashionablebeauty. The splendid hair was raised high in small silky ripples abovethe white brow. The little love-locks on the temples had been delicatelyarranged so as to complete the fine oval of the face, and at the back theblack masses drawn lightly upwards from the neck, and held in place thereby a pearl comb of Mrs. Burgoyne's, had been piled and twisted into a crownthat would have made Artemis herself more queenly. 

'Am I really to keep it like this?' cried Lucy, looking at herself in theglass. 

'But of course you are!' and Mrs. Burgoyne instinctively held the girl'sarms, lest any violence should be offered to her handiwork--'And you mustput on your _old_ white frock--_not_ the check--the nice soft one that'sbeen washed, with the pink sash--Goodness, how the time goes! Marie, runand 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. Herblue eyes under the black brows showed a feeling that she did not know howto express. The subdued responsiveness, indeed, of Lucy's face was likethat of Wordsworth's Highland girl struggling with English. You felt her'beating up against the wind, '--in the current, yet resisting it. Orto take another comparison, her nature seemed to be at once stiff andrich--like some heavy church stuff, shot with gold. 

'Oh! these things are my snare, ' said Eleanor, laughing--'If I have anygift, 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, ' shesaid, 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, colouringdeeply. 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 newways of doing one's hair?'

She moved away from Lucy, a touch of cold defensive dignity effacing allher pliant sweetness. 

Lucy followed and caught her hand. 

'Oh no! no!'--she said--'it is only so brave and good of you--to be ablestill--to take an interest--'

'Do I take it?' said Eleanor, scornfully, raising her other hand andletting it fall. 

Lucy was silenced. After a moment Eleanor looked round, calmly took thephotograph 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 hisnight-gown. I was very ill that night--they wouldn't let me stay with myhusband--but after I left him, I came and rocked the baby and tucked himup--and leant my face against his. He was so warm and sweet always in hissleep. The touch of him--and the scent of him--his dear breath--and hiscurls--and the moist little hands--sometimes they used to intoxicate me--togive 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'scheek. 

'Oh! I am not worthy either to have had him--or lost him--' she saidbitterly. There was a little pause, which Eleanor broke. 'Now really wemust 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 thosestrapping priests. Go it, ye cripples!'

Lucy tamed her run to a quick walk, and Mr. Reggie took care of her, whileManisty disappeared ahead with Mrs. Burgoyne, and Aunt Pattie fell to theshare of a certain Mr. Vanbrugh Neal, an elderly man tall and slim, andof a singular elegance of bearing, who had joined them at the Piazza, andseemed to be an old friend of Mr. Manisty's. 

Lucy looked round her in bewilderment. Before the first stroke of the bellthe Piazza of St. Peter's had been thickly covered with freely movinggroups, all advancing in order upon the steps of the church. But as thebell began to speak, there was a sudden charge mostly of young priests andseminarists--black skirts flying, black legs leaping--across the open spaceand up the steps. 

'Reminds me of nothing so much'--said Reggie laughing back over hisshoulder at a friend behind--'as the charge of the Harrow boys at Lord'slast year--when they stormed the pavilion--did you see it?--and that littleHarrow chap saved the draw? I say!--they've broken the line!--and there'llbe a bad squash somewhere. '

And indeed the attacking priests had for a moment borne down the Italiansoldiers who were good-naturedly guarding and guiding the Pope's guestsfrom the entrance of the Piazza to the very door of the church. But thelittle men--as they seemed to Lucy's eyes--recovered themselves in atwinkling, threw themselves stoutly on the black gentry, like sheep dogs onthe 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 adangerous pressure on the central door was averted. 

Meanwhile Lucy was hurried forward with the privileged crowd going to thetribunes, towards the sacristy door on the south. 

'Let's catch up Mrs. Burgoyne'--said the young man, looking ahead with someanxiety--'Manisty's no use. He'll begin to moon and forget all about her. Isay!--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 andapses and cornices of the southern side--golden ivory or wax against theblue. --The pigeons flew in white eddies above their heads; the April windflushed Lucy's cheek, and played with her black mantilla. All qualms weregone. After her days of seclusion in the villa garden, she was passionatelyconscious of this great Rome and its magic; and under her demure and ratherstately air, her young spirits danced and throbbed with pleasure. 

'How that black lace stuff does become all you women!'--said ReggieBrooklyn, throwing a lordly and approving glance at her and his cousinEleanor, as they all met and paused amid the crowd that was concentratingitself on the sacristy door; and Lucy, instead of laughing at thelad's airs, only reddened a little more brightly and found it somehowsweet--April sweet--that a young man on this spring morning should admireher; though after all, she was hardly more inclined to fall in love withReggie Brooklyn than with Manisty's dear collie puppy, that had been leftbehind, 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'llstand 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 andcorridors, part of a laughing, pushing, chatting crowd, containing all thetypes that throng the Roman streets--English and American tourists, Irishor German or English priests, monks white and brown, tall girls who woretheir black veils with an evident delight in the new setting thus given totheir fair hair and brilliant skins, beside older women to whom, on thecontrary, the dress had given a kind of unwonted repose and quietness oflook, as though for once they dared to be themselves in it, and gave up thestruggle with the years. 

Reggie Brooklyn maintained a lively chatter all the time, mostly atManisty's expense. Eleanor Burgoyne first laughed at his sallies, thengently turned her head in a pause of the general advance and searched thecrowd pressing at their heels. Lucy's eyes followed hers, and there farbehind, carried forward passively in a brown study, losing ground slightlywhenever it was possible, was Manisty. The fine significant face was turneda little upward; the eyes were full of thoughts; he was at once the slaveof 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--shealone!

 * * * * *

At last the doors are passed. They are in the vast barricaded andpartitioned space, already humming with the talk and tread ofthousands, --the 'Tu es Petrus' overhead. Reggie Brooklyn would have hurriedthem on in the general rush for the tribunes. But Mrs. Burgoyne laid arestraining hand upon him. 'No--we mustn't separate, ' she said, gentlyperemptory. And for a few minutes Mr. Reggie in an anguish must needs seethe crowd flow past him, and the first seats of Tribune D filled. ThenManisty appeared, lifting his eyebrows in a frowning wonder at the youngman's impatience;--and on they flew. 

At last!--They are in the third row of Tribune D, close to the line bywhich the Pope must pass, and to the platform from which he will deliverthe Apostolic Benediction. Reggie the unsatisfied, the idealist, grumblesthat they ought to have been in the very front. But Eleanor and Aunt Pattieare well satisfied. They find their acquaintance all around them. It is ageneral flutter of fans, and murmur of talk. Already people are standing ontheir seats looking down on the rapidly filling church. In press the lessfavoured thousands from the Piazza, through the Atrium and the Easterndoor--great sea of human life spreading over the illimitable nave behindthe two lines of Swiss and Papal Guards, in quick never-ending waves thatbewilder and dazzle the eye. 

Lucy found the three hours' wait but a moment. The passing and re-passingof 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 andchats with her neighbour, Mr. Neal; the constant welling up of processionsfrom 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 Empireuniforms--half Greek, half French, half gods, half dandies, the costliestfoolishest plaything that any court can show; and finally as the time drawson, the sudden thrills and murmurs that run through the church, announcingthe great moment which still, after all, delays: these things chase theminutes, blot out, the sense of time. 

Meanwhile, again and again, Lucy, the sedate, the self-controlled, cannotprevent herself from obeying a common impulse with those about her--fromleaping on her chair--straining her white throat--her eyes. Then a handsomechamberlain would come by, lifting a hand in gentle protest, motioning tothe ladies--'De grâce, mesdames--mesdames, de _grâce_!--' Or angry murmurswould rise from those few who had not the courage or the agility tomount--'_Giù! giù!_--Descendez, mesdames!--qu'est-ce que c'est done que cesmánières?'--and Lucy, crimson and abashed, would descend in haste, only tofind a kind Irish priest behind smiling at her, --prompting her, --'Nevermind them!--take no notice!--who is it you're harmin'?'--And her excitementwould take him at his word--for who should know if not a priest?

And from these risky heights she looked down sometimes onManisty--wondering where was emotion, sympathy. Not a trace of them! Ofall their party he alone was obviously and hideously bored by the longwait. He leant back in his chair, with folded arms, staring at theceiling--yawning--fidgetting. At last he took out a small Greek book fromhis pocket, and hung over it in a moody absorption. Once only, when aprocession of the inferior clergy went by, he looked at it closely, turningafterwards to Mrs. Burgoyne with the emphatic remark: 'Bad faces!--aren'tthey?--almost all of them?'

Yet Lucy could see that even here in this vast crowd, amid the hubbub andbustle, he still counted, was still remembered. Officials came to leanand chat across the rope; diplomats stopped to greet him on the way tothe august seats beyond the Confession. His manner in return showed noparticular cordiality; Lucy thought it languid, even cold. She was struckwith the difference between his mood of the day, and that brilliant andeager homage he had lavished on the old Cardinal in the villa garden. Whata man of change and fantasy! Here it was he _qui tendait la joue_. Cold, distant, dreamy--one would have thought him either indifferent or hostileto 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 amoment beside the rope-barrier, waiting for a friend. Manisty bent over andtouched him on the arm. The old man turned. The face was parchment, thecheeks cavernous. But in the blue eyes there was an exquisite innocence andyouth. 

Manisty smiled at him. His manner showed a peculiar almost a boyishdeference. 'You join us afterwards--at lunch?'

'Yes, yes. ' The old priest beamed and nodded; then his friend came up andhe 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 Dwere on their chairs, Lucy and Eleanor among them. A roar came up thechurch--passionate--indescribable. Lucy held her breath. 

There--there he is, --the old man! Caught in a great shaft of sunlightstriking from south to north, across the church, and just touching thechapel of the Holy Sacrament--the Pope emerges. The white figure, highabove the crowd, sways from side to side; the hand upraised gives thebenediction. Fragile, spiritual as is the apparition, the sunbeam refines, subtilises, spiritualises it still more. It hovers like a dream above thevast multitudes--surely no living man!--but thought, history, faith, takingshape; the passion of many hearts revealed. Up rushes the roar towardsthe Tribunes. 'Did you hear?' said Manisty to Mrs. Burgoyne, lifting asmiling brow, as a few Papalino cries--'Viva il Papa Re'--make themselvesheard among the rest. Eleanor's thin face turns to him with responsiveexcitement. But she has seen these things before. Instinctively her eyeswander perpetually to Manisty's, taking their colour, their meaning fromhis. 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 ofthe figure and the crowd, is going mentally through a certain page of hisbook, 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 ofthe black veil fastened on her breast; but it is as though her whole innerbeing were dissolving, melting away, in the flame of the moment. It is herfirst contact with decisive central things, her first taste of the greatworld-play, as Europe has known it and taken part in it, at least sinceCharles the Great. 

Yet, as she looks, within the visible scene, there opens another: theporch of a plain, shingled house, her uncle sitting within it, his pipeand his newspaper on his knee, sunning himself in the April morning. Shepasses behind him, looks into the stiff leaf-scented parlour--at theframed Declaration of Independence on the walls, the fresh boughs in thefire-place, the Bible on its table, the rag-carpet before the hearth. She breathes the atmosphere of the house; its stern independence andsimplicities; the scorns and the denials, the sturdy freedoms both ofbody and soul that it implies--conscience the only master--vice-masterfor God, in this His house of the World. And beyond--as her lids sink foran instant on the pageant before her--she hears, as it were, the voicesof her country, so young and raw and strong!--she feels within her thethrob of its struggling self-assertive life; she is conscious too of theuglinesses and meannesses that belong to birth and newness, to growth andfermentation. Then, in a proud timidity--as one who feels herself an alienand on sufferance--she hangs again upon the incomparable scene. This is St. Peter's; there is the dome of Michael Angelo; and here, advancing towardsher amid the red of the cardinals, the clatter of the guards, the tossingof the flabellæ, as though looking at her alone--the two waxen fingersraised for her alone--is the white-robed triple-crowned Pope. 

She threw herself upon the sight with passion, trying to penetrate andpossess it; and it baffled her, passed her by. Some force of resistancewithin 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 thewind. Lucy is bending too. The Papal chair borne on the shoulders of theguards is now but a few feet distant; vaguely she wonders that the oldman keeps his balance, as he clings with one frail hand to the arm of thechair, rises incessantly--and blesses with the other. She catches thevery look and meaning of the eyes--the sharp long line of the closed andtoothless jaw. Spirit and spectre;--embodying the Past, bearing the clue tothe Future. 

'_Yeux de police!_'--laughed Reggie Brooklyn to Mrs. Burgoyne as theprocession passed--'don't you know?--that's what they say. '

Manisty bent forward. The flush of excitement was still on his cheek, buthe 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 cortègedisappeared behind the Confession, behind the High Altar, and presently, Lucy, craning her neck to the right, could see dimly in the furthestdistance, against the apse, and under the chair of St. Peter, the chair ofLeo XIII. And the white shadow, motionless, erect, within it, amid a courtof cardinals and diplomats. As for the mass that followed, it had itsmoments of beauty for the girl's wondering or shrinking curiosity, but alsoits moments of weariness and disillusion. From the latticed choir-gallery, placed against one of the great piers of the dome, came unaccompaniedmusic--fine, pliant, expressive--like a single voice moving freely inthe vast space; and at the High Altar, Cardinals and Bishops crossed andrecrossed, knelt and rose, offered and put off the mitre; amid wreaths ofincense, long silences, a few chanted words; sustained, enfolded all thewhile by the swelling tide of _Gloria_, or _Sanctus_. 

At last--the elevation!--and at the bell the whole long double line ofsoldiers, 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 onone knee--saluted. Then, crac!--and as they had dropped, they rose, thestiff white breeches and towering helmets of the Guardia Nobile, thered and yellow of the Swiss, the red and blue of the Papal guards--allmotionless as before. It was like the movement of some gigantic toy. Andwho or what else took any notice? Lucy looked round amazed. Even the Irishpriest behind her had scarcely bowed his head. Nobody knelt. Most peoplewere talking. Eleanor Burgoyne indeed had covered her face with her longdelicate fingers. Manisty leaning back in his chair, looked up for aninstant at the rattle of the soldiers, then went back sleepily to his Greekbook. Yet Lucy felt her own heart throbbing. Through the candelabra of theHigh 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 beenaccomplished--the Body and Blood are there--God has descended, hasmingled with a mortal frame. And who cares? Lucy looks round her at thegood-humoured indifference, vacancy, curiosity, of the great multitudefilling the nave; and her soul frees itself in a rush of protestingamazement. 

 * * * * *

One more 'moment' however there was, --very different from the great momentof the entry, yet beautiful. The mass is over, and a temporary platform hasbeen erected between the Confession and the nave. The Pope has been placedupon it, and is about to chant the Apostolic Benediction. 

The old man is within thirty feet of Manisty, who sits nearest to thebarrier. The red Cardinal holding the service-book, the groups of guards, clergy and high officials, every detail of the Pope's gorgeous dress, nayevery line of the wrinkled face, and fleshless hands, Lucy's eyes commandthem 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 soenfeebled, so ancient. It should not have been exacted--allowed. Lucy'sears listen painfully for the inevitable break. But no!--The Pope draws along sigh--the sigh of weakness, --('Ah! poveretto!' says a woman, close toLucy, in a transport of pity), --then once more attempts the chant--sighsagain--and sings. Lucy's face softens and glows; her eyes fill with tears. Nothing more touching, more triumphant, than this weakness and thisperseverance. Fragile indomitable face beneath the Papal crown! Under theeyes of fifty thousand people the Pope sighs like a child, because he isweak and old, and the burden of his office is great; but in sighing, keepsa 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'slistens in a tender hush. 

Then there seems to be a moment of collapse. The long straight lips closeas though with a snap, the upper jaw protruding; the eyelids drop; theemaciated form sinks upon itself. --

But his guards raise the chair, and the Pope's trance passes away. He openshis eyes, and braces himself for the last effort. Whiter than the gorgeouscope which falls about him, he raises himself, clinging to the chair; helifts the skeleton fingers of his partially gloved hand; his look searchesthe crowd. 

Lucy fell on her knees, a sob in her throat. When the Pope had passed, someinfluence made her look up. She met the eyes of Edward Manisty. They wereinstantly withdrawn, but not before the mingling of amusement and triumphin them had brought the quick red to the girl's cheek. 

 * * * * *

And outside, in the Piazza, amid the out-pouring thousands, as they wererushing 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 thewhole point. '

'Why?--Mayn't one feel it was pathetic, and touching--'

'No--not in the least!' he said, impatiently. 'What does the man himselfmatter, or his age?--That's all irrelevant, --foolish sentiment. What makesthese ceremonies so tremendous is that there is no break between that manand Peter--or Linus, if you like--it comes to the same thing:--that thebones, 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 thererecognised by half the civilised world as Peter's successor--that fivehundred, a thousand years hence, the vast probability is there will stillbe a Pope in St. Peter's to hand on the same traditions, and make the sameclaims. '

'But if you don't acknowledge the tradition or the claims!--why shouldn'tyou feel just the human interest?'

'Oh, of course, if you want to take the mere vulgar, parochial view--thehalfpenny interviewer's view--why, you must take it!' he said, almost withviolence, 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 feelingthat displeased him. She would have liked to go on walking and wranglingwith him, for the great ceremony had excited her, and made it easierfor her to talk. But at that moment Mrs. Burgoyne's voice was heardin front--'Joy! there is the carriage, and Reggie has picked upanother. --Edward, take Aunt Pattie through--we'll look after ourselves. '

 * * * * *

And soon the whole party were driving in two of the little Roman victoriasthrough streets at the back of the Capitol, and round the base of thePalatine, to the Aventine, where it appeared they were to lunch at anopen-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 shyexpressions of gratitude and pleasure, fell silent, and listened. But shenoticed very soon that Mrs. Burgoyne was talking absently. Amid the blackthat fell about her slim tallness, she was more fragile, more pale thanever; and it seemed to Lucy that her eyes were dark with a fatigue that hadnot much to do with St. Peter's. Suddenly indeed, she bent forward and saidin 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'tmind?'

She threw up her hands--

'Must you?'

'I think I must--for the good of the book, '--he said reluctantly. 'Verylikely I'm all wrong. I can only look at it as one of the public. Butthat's what he wants, '--what you both want--isn't it?'

She assented. Then she turned her head away, looked out of the carriage andsaid no more. But her face had drooped and dimmed, all in a moment; thelines graven in it long years before, by grief and delicacy, came out witha singular and sudden plainness. 

The man sitting opposite to her was of an aspect little less distinguishedthan 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 gavea first impression of weakness, which however was soon undone by the verysubtle and decided lines in which, so to speak, the mouth, and indeed theface as a whole, were drawn. All that Lucy knew of him was that he was aCambridge don, a man versed in classical archæology who was an old friendand tutor of Mr. Manisty's. She had heard his name mentioned several timesat the Villa, and always with an emphasis that marked it out from othernames. And she understood from various signs that before finally passinghis proofs for publication, Mr. Manisty had taken advantage of his oldfriend'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 littleparapet looking out through the sprays of banksia rose that were alreadymaking a white canopy above the restaurant tables, they had before themthe steep sides and Imperial ruins of the Palatine; the wonderful group ofchurches on the Coelian; the low villa-covered ridges to the right meltinginto the Campagna; and far away, the blue, Sabine mountains--'suffused withsunny air'--that look down with equal kindness on the refuge of Horace, andthe oratory of St. Benedict. What sharpness of wall and tree against thepearly sky--what radiance of blossom in the neighbouring gardens--what ruineverywhere, yet what indomitable life!

Beneath on a lower terrace, Manisty and Mr. Vanbrugh Neal were walking upand 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 nearthem, pretending to talk to Reggie Brooklyn--but in reality watching theconversation below. 

Presently some other guests arrived, and amongst them the tall andfine-faced priest who had spoken to Manisty in St. Peter's. He came in veryshyly. Eleanor Burgoyne received him, made him sit by her, and took chargeof him till Manisty should appear. But he seemed to be ill at ease withladies. He buried his hands in the sleeves of his soutane, and would answerlittle more than Yes and No. 

'There'll be a great fuss about him soon, ' whispered Aunt Pattie inLucy's ear--'I don't quite understand--but he's written a book that'sbeen condemned; and the question is, will he submit? They give you a yearapparently to decide in. Edward says the book's quite right--and yet theywere quite right to condemn him. It's very puzzling!'

When Manisty and Mr. Neal answered to the call of luncheon, Mr. Nealmounted the steps leading to the open-air restaurant, with the somewhatsheepish air of the man who has done his duty, and is inclined to feelhimself a meddler for his pains. The luncheon itself passed without gaiety. Manisty was either moodily silent, or engaged in discussions with thestrange priest, Father Benecke, as to certain incidents connected with aSouth German University, which had lately excited Catholic opinion. Hescarcely spoke to any of the ladies--least of all to Eleanor Burgoyne. Sheand Aunt Pattie must needs make all the greater efforts to carry off thefesta. Aunt Pattie chattered nervously like one in dread of a silence, while Eleanor was merry with young Brooklyn, and courteous to the otherguests whom Manisty had invited--a distinguished French journalist forinstance, an English member of Parliament and his daughter, and an Italiansenator with an English wife. 

Nevertheless when the party was breaking up, Reggie who had thrown heroccasional glances of disquiet, approached Lucy Foster and said to her in alow 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. Shedissuaded Aunt Pattie from dragging Mrs. Burgoyne through an afternoonof visits. She secured an early train for the return to Marinata, and soearned a special and approving smile from Mr. Reggie, when at last he hadsettled the three ladies safely in their carriage, and was raising his hatto them on the platform. Manisty and Mr. Neal were to follow by a latertrain. 

No sooner were they speeding through the Campagna than Eleanor sank back inher 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 ofthe morning, and closed her eyes. Her attitude by its sad unresistingnessappealed to Lucy as it had done once before. And it was borne in upon herthat what she saw was not mere physical fatigue, but a deep discouragementof mind and heart. As to the true sources of it Lucy could only guess. Sheguessed at any rate that they were somehow connected with Mr. Manisty andhis book; and she was indignant again--she hardly knew why. The situationsuggested to her a great devotion ill-repaid, a friendship, of which thestrong tyrannous man took advantage. Why should he behave as though allthat happened ill with regard to his book was somehow Mrs. Burgoyne'sfault? Claim all her time and strength--overstrain and overwork her--andthen make her tacitly responsible if anything went amiss! It was like thepetulant 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 criticalobjections both to the facts and to the arguments of one whole section ofthe book, and that Manisty had been unable to resist them. The two menwould 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 withobstinacy, with offensiveness even, for an afternoon, and then give way, with absolute suddenness. Lucy learnt with some astonishment that beneathhis outward egotism he was really amazingly dependent on the opinions oftwo or three people, of whom Mr. Neal seemed to be one. This dependenceturned out indeed to be even excessive. He would make a hard fight for hisown way; but in the end he was determined that what he wrote should pleasehis friends, and please a certain public. At bottom he was a rhetoricianwriting for this public--the slave of praise, and eager for fame, whichmade his complete indifference as to what people thought of his actionsall 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 thisrespect, Vanbrugh Neal among them. 

To do him justice, indeed, along with his dependence on Vanbrugh Neal'sopinion, there seemed to go a rather winning dependence on his affection. 

Mr. Neal was apparently a devout Anglican, of a delicate and scrupuloustype. His temper was academic, his life solitary; rhetoric left himunmoved, and violence of statement caused him to shiver. To make the Statereligious was his dearest wish. But he did not forget that to accomplishit you must keep the Church reasonable. A deep, though generally silententhusiasm for the Anglican _Via Media_ possessed him; and, like the Newmanof Oriel, he was inclined to look upon the appearance of Antichrist ascoincident with the Council of Trent. In England it seemed to him thatpersecution of the Church was gratuitous and inexcusable; for the Churchhad never wronged the State. In Italy, on the contrary, supposing the Statehad been violent, it could plead the earlier violences of the Church. Hedid not see how the ugly facts could be denied; nor did a candid unveilingof them displease his Anglican taste. 

'You should have made a study--and you have written a pamphlet, ' he wouldsay, with that slow shake of the head which showed him inexorable. 'Whyhave you given yourself to the Jesuits? You were an Englishman and anoutsider--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 ofsuperstition, which set the garden paths echoing. 

But Neal pushed quietly on; untiring, unappeasable; pointing to amisstatement here, an exaggeration there, till Manisty was in a roar ofargument, furious half with his friend, half with himself. 

Meanwhile if the writer bore attack hardly, the man of piety found it stillharder to endure the praise of piety. When Manisty denounced irresponsiblescience and free thought, as the enemies of the State, which must live, and can only live by religion; when he asked with disdain 'what reasonableman would nowadays weigh the membership of the Catholic church againstan 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 powerof religion;--his friend grew restive. And while Manisty, intoxicated withhis own phrases, and fluencies, was alternately smoking and declaiming, Neal with his grey hair, his tall spare form, and his air of old-fashionedpunctilium, would sit near, fixing the speaker with his pale-blue eyes, --alittle threateningly; always ready to shatter an exuberance, to check anoratorical flow by some quick double-edged word that would make Manistytrip and stammer; showing, too, all the time, by his evident shrinking, bycertain impregnable reserves, or by the banter that hid a feeling too keento show itself, how great is the gulf between a literary and a practicalChristianity. 

Nevertheless, from the whole wrestle two facts emerged:--the pleasure whichthese very dissimilar men took in each other's society; and that strangeultimate pliancy of Manisty which lay hidden somewhere under all the surgeand froth of his vivacious rhetoric. Both were equally surprising toLucy Foster. How had Manisty ever attached himself to Vanbrugh Neal? ForNeal had a large share of the weaknesses of the student and recluse; thefailings, that is to say, of a man who had lived much alone, and foundhimself driven to an old-maidish care of health and nerves, if a delicatephysique was to do its work. He had fads; and his fads were oftenunexpected and disconcerting. One day he would not walk; another day hewould not eat; driving was out of the question, and the sun must be avoidedlike 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 moreagreeable than other men's sense. But one might have supposed that suchclaims on a friend's part would have annoyed a man of Manisty's equallymarked but very different peculiarities. Not at all. He was patience andgood temper itself on these occasions. 

'Isn't he _bon enfant_?' Mr. Neal said once to Mrs. Burgoyne in Lucy'spresence, with a sudden accent of affection and emotion--on some occasionwhen Manisty had borne the upsetting of a cherished plan for the afternoonwith 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 mannertowards the most constant of companions and secretaries. He had given upall 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 outof the matter altogether. He scarcely consulted her indeed; he consultedMr. Neal. Mr. Neal often, moved by a secret chivalry, would insist uponbringing her in to their counsels; Manisty immediately became unmanageable, silent, and embarrassed. And how characteristic and significant was thatembarrassment 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 noticeof Lucy Foster, and to find talking with her an escape. He presently foundit amusing to 'draw' her; and subjects presented themselves in plenty. Shewas now much less shy; and her secret disapproval gave her tongue. Hischallenges and her replies became a feature of the day; Miss Manisty andMr. Neal began to listen with half-checked smiles, to relish the girl'scrisp frankness, and the quick sense of fun that dared to show itself nowthat she was more at home. 

'And how improved she is! That's like all the Americans--they're soadaptable, '--Miss Manisty would think, as she watched her nephew in theevenings teasing, sparring, or arguing with Lucy Foster--she so adorablyyoung and fresh, the new and graceful lines of the _coiffure_ that Eleanorhad forced upon her, defining the clear oval of the face and framing thelarge eyes and pure brow. Her hands, perhaps, would be lightly clasped onher white lap, their long fingers playing with some flower she had takenfrom her belt. The lines of the girlish figure would be full of dignity andstrength. She might have been herself the young America, arguing, probing, deciding for herself--refusing to be overawed or brow-beaten by the oldEurope. 

Eleanor meanwhile was unfailingly gracious both to Lucy and the others, though perhaps the grace had in it sometimes a new note of distance, ofthat delicate _hauteur_, which every woman of the world has at command. Shegave as much attention as ever--more than ever--to the fashioning of Lucy'sdresses; the girl was constantly pricked with compunction and shame on thesubject. Who was she, that Mrs. Burgoyne--so elegant and distinguished aperson--should waste so much time and thought upon her? But sometimes shecould not help seeing that Mrs. Burgoyne was glad of the occupation. Herdays had been full to the brim; they were now empty. She said nothing; shetook up the new books; she talked to and instructed the maids; but Lucydivined a secret suffering. 

 * * * * *

One evening, about a week after Mr. Neal's arrival at the Villa, Manistywas more depressed than usual. He had been making some attempts torearrange a certain section of his book which had fallen especially underthe ban of Neal's criticism. He had not been successful; and in the processhis discontent with one chapter had spread to several. In talking about thematter to Vanbrugh Neal in the salon after dinner he broke out into someexpression of disgust as to the waste of time involved in much of hiswork 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 andpenetrating power of his personality. 

Presently Eleanor Burgoyne rose, and softly approached Miss Manisty. 'DearAunt Pattie--don't move'--she said, bending over her--'I am tired and willgo 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 herpossessions, and lit her candle at the side-table. 

As she passed by him to the door, he looked at her furtively for amoment, --hanging his head. Then he pressed her hand, and said so that onlyshe 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 backto his seat discomfited. He could not defend himself against the charges ofsecret tyranny and abominable ill-humour that his conscience was prickinghim with. He was sorry--he would have liked to tell her so. And yet somehowher very weakness and sweetness, her delicate uncomplainingness seemed onlyto develope his own small egotisms and pugnacities. 

 * * * * *

That night--a night of rain and scirocco--Eleanor wrote in herjournal--'Will he ever finish the book? Very possibly it has been all amistake. Yet when he began it, he was in the depths. Whatever happens, ithas been his salvation. 

'--Surely he will finish it? He cannot forego the effect he is almost sureit will produce. But he will finish it with impatience and disgust; he isout of love with it and all its associations. All that he was talking ofto-night represents what I had most share in, --the chapters which broughtus most closely together. How happy we were over them! And now, howdifferent!

'It is curious--the animation with which he has begun to talk to LucyFoster. 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 talkedto by him, to receive courtesies from him, --how many women would like tobe in her place. Yet now she is not shy; she has no alarms; she treats himlike an equal. If it were not ridiculous, one could be angry. 

'She dislikes and criticises him, and he can have no possible understandingof or sympathy with her. But she is a way out of embarrassment. Howfastidious and proud he is with women!--malicious too, and wilful. Often Ihave wished him more generous--more kind. 

'... In three weeks the anniversary will be here--the ninth. Why am I stillalive? How often have I asked myself that! Where is my place?--who needsme?--My babe, if he still exists, is alone--there. And I still here. If Ihad only had the courage to rejoin him! The doctors deceived me. They mademe think it could not be long. And now I am better--much better. If I werehappy I should be quite well. 

'How weary seems this Italian spring!--the restlessness of this eternalwind--the hot clouds that roll up from the Campagna. "Que vivre estdifficile, ô mon coeur fatigué!"'

CHAPTER VII

'I think it's lovely, ' said Lucy in an embarrassed voice. 'And I just don'tknow how to thank you--indeed I don't. '

She was standing inside the door of Mrs. Burgoyne's room, arrayed in thewhite crepe gown with the touches of pale green and vivid black thatEleanor had designed for her. Its flowing elegance made her positively astranger to herself. The two maids moreover who had attired her had beenintent upon a complete, an indisputable perfection. Her hat had beencarried off and retrimmed, her white gloves, her dainty parasol, the bunchof roses at her belt--everything had been thought for; she had been alloweda voice in nothing. And the result was extraordinary. The day beforeshe had been still a mere fresh-cheeked illustration of those 'moeursde province' which are to be found all over the world, in Burgundy andYorkshire no less and no more than in Vermont; to-day she had become whatothers copy, the best of its kind--the 'fleeting flower' that 'bloomsfor one day at the summit'--as the maids would no doubt have expressedthemselves, 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 wasassimilating her new frocks, as she had already assimilated so many otherthings, during her weeks at the villa--points of manner, of speech, ofmental perspective. Unconsciously she copied Mrs. Burgoyne's movementsand voice; she was learning to understand Manisty's paradoxes, and AuntPattie's small weaknesses. She was less raw, evidently; yet not lessindividual. Her provincialisms were dropping away; her character, perhaps, was only emerging. 

'Are you pleased with it?' she said timidly, as Mrs. Burgoyne bade her comein, and she advanced towards that lady, who was putting on her own hatbefore 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 kindand 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 headacheis still so bad. '

'Ah!'--said Eleanor, absently, rummaging among her gloves; 'this sciroccoweather doesn't suit her. '

Lucy fidgetted a little as she stood by the dressing-table, took up oneknick-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? MissManisty is so kind--she wants me to stay till you leave, and then go toVallombrosa 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 somefriends of theirs will be staying till the middle of June. They would letme 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 herto 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 thatshe had left the question alone. 

'I don't understand'--said Mrs. Burgoyne, stooping to look for herwalking-shoes. 

'I didn't--I didn't know whether it was still to be finished by thesummer?'

'No one knows, --certainly not the author! But it doesn't concern me in theleast. '

'How can it be finished without you?' said Lucy wondering. Again she couldnot restrain the spirit of eager championship which had arisen in her mindof late; though she was tremulously uncertain as to how far she mightexpress it. 

Certainly Mrs. Burgoyne showed a slight stiffening of manner. 

'It will have to get finished without me, I'm afraid. Luckily I'm notwanted; but if I were, I shall have no time for anything but my father thissummer. '

Lucy was silent. Mrs. Burgoyne finished tying her shoes, then rose, andsaid lightly--

'Besides--poor book! It wanted a change badly. So did I. --Now Mr. Neal willsee it through. '

 * * * * *

Lucy went to say good-bye to Aunt Pattie before starting. Eleanor, leftalone, stood a moment, thoughtful, beside the dressing-table. 

'She is sorry for me!' she said to herself, with a sudden, passionatemovement. 

This was the Nemi day--the day of festival, planned a fortnight before, tocelebrate the end, the happy end of the book. It was to have been Eleanor'sspecial day--the sign and seal of that good fortune she had brought hercousin and his work. 

And now?--Why were they going? Eleanor hardly knew. She had tried to stopit. But Reggie Brooklyn had been asked, and the Ambassador's daughter. AndVanbrugh Neal had a fancy to see Nemi. Manisty, who had forgotten all thatthe day was once to signify, had resigned himself to the expedition--he whohated expeditions!--' because Neal wanted it. ' There had not been a wordsaid about it during the last few days that had not brought gall and woundto Eleanor. She, who thought she knew all that male selfishness was capableof, was yet surprised and pricked anew, hour after hour, by Manisty'scasual sayings and assumptions. 

It was like some gourd-growth in the night--the rise of this entanglingbarrier between herself and him. She knew that some of it came from thosesecret superstitions and fancies about himself and his work which she hadoften detected in him. If a companion or a place, even a particular tableor pen had brought him luck, he would recur to them and repeat them witheagerness. But once prove to him the contrary, and she had seen him dropfriend and pen with equal decision. 

And as far as she could gather--as far as he would discuss the matter atall--it was precisely with regard to those portions of the book where herinfluence upon it had been strongest, that the difficulties put forward byMr. 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 vibratingsympathy of thought which had arisen between them, glorifying the winterdays in Rome, of the thousand signs in him of a deep, personal gratitudeand affection--

Vanished!--vanished! The soreness of heart she carried about withher, proudly concealed, had the gnawing constancy of physical pain. While he!--Nothing seemed to her more amazing than the lapses in meregentlemanliness that Manisty could allow himself. He was capable onoccasion of all that was most refined and tender in feeling. But once jarthat central egotism of his, and he could behave incredibly! Through thesmall actions and omissions of every day, he could express, if he chose, ahardness of soul before which the woman shuddered. 

Did he in truth mean her to understand, not only that she had been anintruder, and an unlucky one, upon his work and his intellectual life, butthat any dearer hopes she might have based upon their comradeship were tobe once for all abandoned? She stood there, lost in a sudden tumult ofpassionate pride and misery, which was crossed every now and then by astrange and bitter wonder. 

Each of us carries about with him a certain mental image ofhimself--typical, characteristic--as we suppose; draped at any rate to ourfancy; round which we group the incidents of life. Eleanor saw herselfalways as the proud woman; it is a guise in which we are none of us lothto masquerade. Haughtily dumb and patient during her married years; proudmorally, socially, intellectually; finding in this stiffening of the selfher only defence against the ugly realities of daily life. Proud too in herloneliness and grief--proud of her very grief, of her very capacity forsuffering, of all the delicate shades of thought and sorrow which furnishedthe matter of her secret life, lived without a sign beside the old fatherwhose coarser and commoner pride took such small account of hers!

And now--she seemed to herself to be already drinking humiliation, andforeseeing ever deeper draughts of it to come. She, who had never beggedfor anything, was in the mood to see her whole existence as a refusedpetition, a rejected gift. She had offered Edward Manisty her all ofsympathy and intelligence, and he was throwing it back lightly, inexorablyupon her hands. Her thin cheek burnt; but it was the truth. She annoyed andwearied him; and he had shaken her off; her, Eleanor Burgoyne! She did notknow herself. Her inmost sense of identity was shaken. 

She leant her head an instant against the frame of the open window, closingher tired eyes upon the great Campagna below her. A surge of rebelliouswill passed through her. Always submission, patience, silence, --till now!But there are moments when a woman must rouse herself, and fight--must notaccept, but make, her fate. 

Jealous! Was that last heat and ignominy of the soul to be hers too? Shewas to find it a threat and offence that he should spend some of theevenings that now went so heavily, talking with this girl, --this nicesimple girl, whom she had herself bade him cultivate, whom she had herselfbrought into notice, rubbing off her angles, --drilling her into beauty? Thevery notion was madness and absurdity. It degraded her in her own eyes. Itwas the measure of her own self-ignorance. She--resign him at the firstthreat of another claim! The passionate life of her own heart amazed andstunned her. 

The clock in the salon struck. She started, and went to straighten her veilat the glass. What would the afternoon bring her? Something it should bringher. The Nemi days of the winter were shrined in memory--each with itshalo. Let her put out her full strength again, and now, before it was toolate--before he had slipped too far away from her. 

The poor heart beat hotly against the lace of her dress. What did sheintend or hope for? She only knew that this might be one of her lastchances with him--that the days were running out--and the moment ofseparation approached. Her whole nature was athirst, desperately athirstfor she knew not what. Yet something told her that among these ups anddowns of daily temper and fortune there lay strewn for her the last chancesof 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 asfollows--

'Your letter arrived too late to alter arrangements. Coming to-morrow--twoor three nights--discuss plans. --ALICE. '

Eleanor let her hand drop, and the two ladies looked at each other indismay. 

'But you told her you couldn't receive her here?'

'Several times over. Edward will be in despair. How are we to have herhere with Miss Foster? Her behaviour the last two months has been tooextraordinary. '

Aunt Pattie fell back a languid little heap upon her pillows. Eleanorlooked almost equally disconcerted. 

'Have you told Edward?'

'No, ' said Aunt Pattie miserably, raising a hand to her aching head, asthough 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. Sometime 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 withher?'

'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 shallwe 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 youthrough. '

Eleanor stood a moment in the salon, thinking. 

Unlucky! Manisty's eccentric and unmanageable sister had been for manyyears the secret burden of his life and Aunt Pattie's. Eleanor had been awitness of the annoyance and depression with which he had learnt during thewinter that she was in Italy. She knew something of the efforts that hadbeen made to keep her away from the villa. --

He would be furiously helpless and miserable under theinfliction. --Somehow, her spirits rose. --

She went to the door of the salon, and heard the carriage drive up that wasto take them to Nemi. Across Manisty's room, she saw himself on the balconylounging and smoking till the ladies should appear. The blue lake with itsgreen shores sparkled beyond him. The day was brightening. Certainly--letthe bad news wait!

 * * * * *

As they drove along the Galleria di Sotto, Manisty seemed to bepreoccupied. The carriage had interrupted him in the midst of reading along letter which he still held crumpled in his hand. 

At last he said abruptly to Eleanor--'Benecke's last chance is up. He issummoned 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 wholestory. '

'Oh! it's tyranny of course. And the book's only a fraction of thetruth, --a little Darwinian yeast leavening a lump of theology. But they'requite 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 alsoa Professor. He published last year a rather Liberal book--very mildlyliberal--some evolution--some Biblical criticism--just a touch! And a gooddeal of protest against the way in which the Jesuits are ruining CatholicUniversity education in Germany. Lord! more than enough. They put his bookon the Index within a month; he has had a year's grace to submit in; andnow, if the submission is not made within a week or so, he will be firstsuspended, 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 underjust yet. '

He turned to her with his teasing laugh and was suddenly conscious of hernew elegance. Where was the 'Sunday school teacher'? Transformed!--in fiveweeks--into this vision that was sitting opposite to him? Really, womenwere too wonderful! His male sense felt a kind of scorn for the plasticityof 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 understandtheir own business. '

'What a business!' said Lucy, breathing quick. --'To rush on every littlebit 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 aCatholic. '

'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 mischievouslaugh 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 herveins; the slight and languid figure drew itself erect; her senses toldher, hurriedly, for the first time that the May sun, the rapidly fresheningair, and the quick movement of the carriage were all physically delightful. 

How fast, indeed, the spring was conquering the hills! As they passed overthe great viaduct at Aricia, the thick Chigi woods to the left masked thedeep ravine in torrents of lightest foamiest green; and over the vast plainto the right, stretching to Ardea, Lanuvium and the sea, the power of thereawakening earth, like a shuttle in the loom, was weaving day by day itsweb of colour and growth, the ever brightening pattern of crop, and grassand vine. The beggars tormented them on the approach to Genzano, as theytormented of old Horace and Mæcenas; and presently the long falling streetof the town, with its multitudes of short, wiry, brown-faced folk, itsclatter of children and mules, its barbers and wine shops, brought them insight again of the emerald-green Campagna, and the shiny hazes over thesea. In front rose the tower-topped hill of Monte Giove, marking the siteof Corioli; and just as they turned towards Nemi the Appian Way ran acrosstheir path. Overhead, a marvellous sky with scudding veils of white cloud. The blur and blight of the scirocco had vanished without rain, undera change of wind. An all-blessing, all-penetrating sun poured upon thestirring earth. Everywhere fragments and ruins--ghosts of the greatpast--yet engulfed, as it were, and engarlanded by the active and fertilepresent. 

And now they were to follow the high ridge above the deep-sunk lake, towardNemi on its farther side--Nemi with its Orsini tower, grim and tall, risingon its fortress rock, high over the lake and what was once the thick groveor 'Nemus' of the Goddess, mantling the proud white of her inviolatetemple. 

'Look!'--slid Eleanor, touching Lucy's hand. 'There's the niched wall--andthe platform of the temple. '

And Lucy, bending eager brows, saw across the lake a line of greatrecesses, overgrown and shadowy against the steep slopes or cliffs of thecrater, 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 blackvertical cleft. Eleanor pointed it out to Manisty. 

'Do you remember we never explored it? But the spring must bethere?--Egeria's spring?'

Manisty lazily said he didn't know. 

'Don't imagine you will be let off, ' said Eleanor, laughing. 'We havesettled every other point at Nemi. This is left for to-day. It will make ascramble after tea. '

'You will find it further than you think, ' said Manisty, measuring thedistance. 

'So it was somewhere on that terrace he died--poor priest!'--said Lucy, musing. 

Manisty, who was walking beside the carriage, turned towards her. Herlittle 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 thelake. Stretching between them and the lake were steep olive gardens andvineyards; above them light half-fledged woods climbed to the sky. In thevineyards the fresh red-brown earth shone amid the endless regiments ofvines, just breaking into leaf; daisies glittered under the olives; andbelow, on a mid-way crag, a great wild-cherry, sun-touched, flung itsboughs and blossoms, a dazzling pearly glory, over the dark blue hollow ofthe lake. 

And on the farther side, the high, scooped-out wall of the crater roserich and dark above the temple-site. How white--_white_--it must haveshone!--thought Lucy. Her imagination had been caught by the priest'sstory. 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 nolonger disliked him as she had done, no longer felt it impossible that heshould have written the earlier book which had been so dear to her. Was itthat she had seen him chastened and depressed of late--had realised thecomparative harmlessness of his vanity, the kindness and docility he couldshow to a friend? Ah no!--if he had been kind for one friend, he had beendifficult and ungrateful for another. The thinness of Eleanor's cheek, thehollowness of her blue eye accused him. But even here the girl's inner mindhad begun to doubt and demur. After all did she know much--or anything--oftheir real relation?

Certainly this afternoon he was a delightful companion. That phrase whichVanbrugh Neal had applied to him in Lucy's hearing, which had seemed to herso absurd, began after all to fit. He was _bon enfant_ both to Eleanor andto her on this golden afternoon. He remembered Eleanor's love for broom andbrought her bunches of it from the steep banks; he made affectionate mockof 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 strongand human, for all his provoking defects, and that element of theuncommunicated and unexplained which was always to be felt in him. Eleanorbegan to look happier and younger than she had looked for days. And Lucywondered why the long ascent to Nemi was so delightful; why the sciroccoseemed to have gone from the air, leaving so purpureal and divine a lighton mountain and lake and distance. 

 * * * * *

When they arrived at Nemi, Manisty as usual showed that he knew nothing ofthe practical arrangements of the day, which were always made for him byother people. 

'_What_ am I to do with these?' he said, throwing his hands in despairtowards the tea-baskets in the carriage. --'We can't drive beyond this--Andhow 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 handupon his arm, pointing to the crowd of peasant folk from the little townthat had already gathered round the carriage. 

'Get two of those boys to carry the baskets. We are to meet the others atthe 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 wasstraight and lithe and handsome as a young Bacchus, and bore the noble nameof Aristodemo. Then, followed by a horde of begging children which hadto be shaken off by degrees, they began the descent of the steep cliffon which Nemi stands. The path zigzagged downwards, and as they followedit, they came upon files of peasant women ascending, all bearing on theirkerchiefed 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 itshed along the path, the rich May light upon the fertile earth and itsspray of leaf and blossom, the sense of growth and ferment and pushing lifeeverywhere--these things made Lucy's spirits dance within her. She hungback with the two boys, shyly practising her Italian upon them, whileEleanor and Manisty walked ahead. 

But Manisty did not forget her. Half-way down the path, he turned back tolook at her, and saw that she was carrying a light waterproof, which auntPattie had forced upon her lest the scirocco should end in rain. He stoppedand 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 inthe 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 onand remembered by him was not a disagreeable experience; perhaps because itwas still such a new and surprising one. 

Presently they were on the level of the lake, and their boys guided themthrough a narrow and stony by-path, to the site of the temple, or as thepeasant calls it the 'Giardino del Lago. '

It is a flat oblong space, with a two-storied farm building--part of itshowing brickwork of the early Empire--standing upon it. To north and eastruns the niched wall in which, deep under accumulations of soil, LordSavile found the great Tiberius, and those lost portrait busts which hadbeen waiting there through the centuries till the pick and spade of anEnglishman should release them. As to the temple walls which the Englishlord uncovered, the trenches that he dug, and the sacrificial altar that helaid bare--the land, their best guardian, has taken them back into itself. The strawberries grow all over them; only strange billows and depressionsin the soil make the visitor pause and wonder. The earth seems to say tohim--'Here indeed are secrets and treasures--but not for you! I have beenrobbed enough. The dead are mine. Leave them in my breast. And you!--goyour ways in the sun!'

They made their way across the strawberry fields, looking for the friendswho were to join them--Reggie Brooklyn, Mr. Neal, and the two ladies. Therewas no sign of them whatever. Yet, according to time and trains, theyshould have been on the spot, waiting. 

'Annoying!' said Manisty, with his ready irritability. 'Reggie might reallyhave managed better. --Who's this fellow?'

It was the padrone or tenant of the Giardino, who came up and parleyed withthem. Yes, 'Vostra Eccellenza' might put down their baskets and make theirtea. He pointed to a bench behind the shed. The _forestieri_ came everyday; he turned away in indifference. 

Meanwhile the girls and women gathering among the strawberries, raisedthemselves 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 singingtogether, turned round upon him, 'chaffing' him with shrill voices andoutstretched necks, like a flock of young cackling geese, while he, holdinghimself erect, threw them back flinty words and glances, hitting at everystroke, striding past them with the port of a young king. Then they brokeinto a song which they could hardly sing for laughing--about a lover whohad been jilted by his mistress. Aristodemo turned a deaf ear, but themocking song, sung by the harsh Italian voices, seemed to fill the hollowof the lake and echoed from the steep side of the crater. The afternoonsun, striking from the ridge of Genzano, filled the rich tangled cup, andthrew its shafts into the hollows of the temple wall. Lucy standing stillunder the heat and looking round her, felt herself steeped and bathed inItaly. 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 muchsharper and full of meaning than any her small experience had yet known. 

She walked on to look at the niched wall, while Manisty and Eleanorparleyed with Aristodemo as to the guardianship of the tea. Presently sheheard 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 olivethat flung its branches over a mass of ruin, which must once have formedpart of an outer enclosure wall beyond the statued recesses. 

'Was he?' said Manisty, surprised into a smile. 'You know best. --You arevery kind to that nonsense. '

She hesitated. 

'Perhaps--perhaps you don't know why I liked it so particularly. Itreminded 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 mycountry! All sorts of people read--men and women who do the roughest workwith their hands, and never spend a cent on themselves they can help. UncleBen gave it me. There was a review of it in the "Springfield Republican"--Iguess they will have sent it you. But'--her voice took a shy note--'do youremember that piece about the wedding feast at Cana--where you imagined thepeople going home afterwards over the hill paths--how they talked, and whatthey felt?'

'I remember something of the sort, ' said Manisty--I wrote it atNazareth--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 shutmy eyes, I seemed to be walking with them. And so with your goat-herd. I'mcertain it was that tree!' she said, pointing to the tree, her bright smilebreaking. 'And the grove was here. --And the people came running down fromthe village on the cliff, '--she turned her hand towards Nemi. 

Manisty was flattered again, all the more because the girl had evidentlyno intention of flattery whatever, but was simply following the pleasureof her own thought. He strolled on beside her, poking into the niches, andtalking, as the whim took him, pouring out upon her indeed some of the manythoughts and fancies which had been generated in him by those winter visitsto 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 toherself in great flatness of spirit. 'How stupid of Reggie!'

Then as she lifted her eyes, they fell upon Manisty and Lucy, strollingalong the wall together, he talking, she turning her brilliant young facetowards him, her white dress shining in the sun. 

A thought--a perception--thrust itself like a lance-point through Eleanor'smind. --She gave an inward cry--a cry of misery. The lake seemed to swimbefore her. 

CHAPTER VIII

They made their tea under the shadow of the farm-building, which consistedof a loft above, and a large dark room on the ground floor, which wasfilled with the flat strawberry-baskets, full and ready for market. 

Lucy found the little festa delightful, though all that the ladies hadto do was to make an audience for Aristodemo and Manisty. The handsomedare-devil lad began to talk, drawn out by the Englishman, and lo! insteadof a mere peasant they had got hold of an artist and a connoisseur! Did heknow anything of the excavations and the ruins? Why, he knew everything! Hechattered to them, with astonishing knowledge and shrewdness, for half anhour. Complete composure, complete good-humour, complete good manners--hepossessed them all. Easy to see that he was the son of an old race, mouldedby long centuries of urbane and civilised living!

A little boastful, perhaps. He too had found the head of a statue, diggingin his father's orchard. Man or woman?--asked Mrs. Burgoyne. A woman. Andhandsome? The handsomest lady ever seen. And perfect? Quite perfect. Hadshe a nose, for instance? He shook his young head in scorn. Naturally shehad a nose! Did the ladies suppose he would have picked up a creaturewithout one?

Then he rose and beckoned smiling to Eleanor and Lucy. They followed himthrough the cool lower room, where the strawberries gleamed red through thedark, up the creaking stairs to the loft. And there on the ground was anold box and in the box, a few score of heads and other fragments--littleterracottas, such as the peasants turn up every winter as they plough ordig among the olives.. Delicate little hooded women, heads of Artemis withthe crown of Cybele, winged heads, or heads covered with the Phrygiancap, portrait-heads of girls or children, with their sharp profiles stillperfect, and the last dab of the clay under the thumb of the artist, asclear 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 littlethings quite silently, but with sparkling looks. 

'Would you like them?' said Manisty, who had followed them, and stood overher, 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 abargain. '

The _padrone_ indeed appeared at the moment. Manisty sent the ladiesdownstairs, 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. Thehand contained two fragments only, but of exquisite quality, one a fineArtemis head with the Cybele crown, the other merely the mask or shell of aface, from brow to chin, --a gem of the purest and loveliest Greek work. 

Eleanor took them with a critical delight. Her comments were the commentsof taste and knowledge. They were lightly given, without the smallestpedantry, but Manisty hardly answered them. He walked eagerly to LucyFoster, whose shy intense gratitude, covering an inward fear that he hadspent far, far too much money upon her, and that she had indecorouslyprovoked his bounty, was evidently attractive to him. He told her that hehad got them for a mere nothing, and they sat down on the bench behindthe house together, turning them over, he holding forth, and now and thendiscovering through her modest or eager replies, that she had been somehowremarkably well educated by that old Calvinist uncle of hers. The tinctureof 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 whichbecame her so well. After all perhaps her Puritan stiffness was only on thesurface. How much it had yielded already to Eleanor's lessons! He reallyfelt inclined to continue them on his own account; to test for himself thisfar famed pliancy of the American woman. 

Meanwhile Eleanor moved away, watching the path from Genzano which wounddownwards from the Sforza Cesarini villa to the 'Giardino, ' and was nowvisible, 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 thereare four people coming down the hill--two men and two ladies. I'm sureone's Reggie. '

'Well, for the practical man he hasn't distinguished himself, ' saidManisty, taking out another cigarette. 

'I can't see them now--they're hidden behind that bend. They'll be tenminutes 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. Thenwe shall have seen it all--done the last, last thing! Who knows--dearNemi!--if we shall ever see it again?'

Her tone was quite gay, yet, involuntarily, there was a touching note init. 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'svery hot. '

'Oh no, it's not far--and the sun's going down fast. You wouldn't beafraid? They'll be here directly, ' she said, turning to Lucy. 'I'm sure itwas they. '

'Don't mind me, please!' said Lucy. 'I shall be perfectly right. I'll boilthe 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 delicatestateliness in her attitude, her half-mourning dress of grey and black, her shadowy hat, the gesture of her hand, that spoke a hundred subtlethings--all those points of age and breeding, of social distinction andexperience, that marked her out from Lucy--from the girl's charmingimmaturity. 

Manisty rose ungraciously. As he followed his cousin along the narrow pathamong the strawberry beds his expression was not agreeable. Eleanor'sheart--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 preparedsome fresh tea, while Aristodemo and the other boy leant against the wallin the shade chattering to each other. 

The voices of Eleanor and Manisty had vanished out of hearing in the woodbehind the Giardino. But the voices from Genzano began to come nearer. Aquarter to six. --There would be only a short time for them to rest and havetheir tea in, before they must all start home for the villa, where MissManisty 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 talkingin the narrow overgrown lane leading from the lake to the ruins. 

How _very_ strange! The four persons approaching entered the Giardino stillnoisily laughing and talking--and Lucy knew none of them! The two men, ofwhom one certainly resembled Mr. Brooklyn in height and build, were quitestrangers to her; and she felt certain that the two ladies, who were stoutand elderly, had nothing to do either with Mrs. Elliott, Mr. Reggie'smarried sister, or with the Ambassador's daughter. 

She watched them with astonishment. They were English, tourists apparentlyfrom Frascati, to judge from their conversation. And they were in a greathurry. The walk had taken them longer than they expected, and they had onlya short time to stay. They looked carelessly at the niched wall, and theshed with the strawberry baskets, remarking that there was 'precious littleto see, now you'd done it. ' Then they walked past Lucy, throwing manycurious glances at the solitary English girl with the tea-things beforeher, the gentlemen raising their hats. And finally they hurried away, andall sounds of them were soon lost in the quiet of the May evening. 

Lucy was left, feeling a little forlorn and disconcerted. Presently shenoticed that all the women working on the Giardino land were going home. Aristodemo and his companion ran after some of the girls, and theirdiscordant shouts and laughs could be heard in the distance, mingled withthe 'Ave Maria' sung by groups of woman and girls who were mounting thezigzag path towards Nemi, their arms linked together. 

The evening stillness came flooding into the great hollow like a softresistless wave. Every now and then the voices of peasants going homerippled up from unseen paths, then sank again into the earth. On the highwindows of Nemi the sunset light from the Campagna struck and flamed, '_AveMaria--gratia plena. _' How softened now, how thinly, delicately far! Thesingers 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 twocompanions indeed could not be far away, and the boys no doubt would comeback for the baskets. But meanwhile she could see and hear no one. 

The sun disappeared behind the Genzano ridge, and it grew cold all ina moment. She felt the chill, together with a sudden consciousness offatigue. Was there fever in this hollow of the lake? Certainly thedwellings were all placed on the heights, save for the fisherman's cottagehalf-way to Genzano. She got up and began to move about, wishing for hercloak. But Mr. Manisty had carried it off, absently, on his arm. 

Then she packed up the tea-things. What had happened to the party fromRome?

Surely more than an hour had passed. Had it taken them longer to climb tothe spring's source than they supposed? How fast the light was failing, therich 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, andto make friends with the peasants. But after all the roads would not be soclosely patrolled by _carabinieri_ if all was quite as safe as in Vermontor Middlesex; and there were plenty of disquieting stories current amongthe English visitors, even among the people themselves. Was it not only amonth since a carriage containing some German royalties had been stoppedand robbed by masked peasants on the Rocca di Papa road? Had not an oldresident in Rome told her, only the day before, that when he walked aboutthese lake paths he always filled his pockets with cigars and divested themof money, in order that the charcoal-burners might love him without robbinghim? Had not friends of theirs going to Cori and Ninfa been followed bymounted police all the way?

These things weighed little with her as she wandered in broad daylightabout the roads near the villa. But now she was quite alone, the night wascoming, and the place seemed very desolate. 

But of course they would be back directly! Why not walk to meet them? Itwas 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 andsteadfast nature. 

She had marked the path they took, and she made her way to it. It provedto be very steep, dark, and stony under meeting trees. She climbed itlaboriously, calling at intervals. 

Presently--a sound of steps and hoofs. Looking up she could justdistinguish a couple of led mules with two big lads picking their way downthe rocky lane. There was no turning aside. She passed them with as muchdispatch as possible. 

They stopped, however, and stared at her, --the elegant lady in her whitedress all alone. Then they passed, and she could not but be conscious ofrelief, especially as she had neither money nor cigars. 

Suddenly there was a clatter of steps behind her, and she turned to see oneof 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 somethingmore insolent. She hurried on. Presently there was a silence; the stepsceased; she supposed he was tired of the pursuit, and had dropped back tothe point where his companion was waiting with the mules. 

But there was a sudden movement in the lane behind. She put up her handwith a little cry. Her cheek was struck, --again!--another stone struck herwrist. The blood flowed over her hand. She began to run, stumbling up thepath, wondering how she could defend herself if the two lads came back andattacked 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, anda 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 intoher throat. Why had her companions left her?--it was not kind!--till theywere sure that the people coming were their expected guests. Her cheekseemed to be merely grazed, but her wrist was deeply cut. She wrapped herhandkerchief tightly round it, but it soon began to drip again upon herpretty dress. Then she tore off some of the large young fig-leaves besideher, 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 hadexpected, and had lost count of time in a conversation beside Egeria'sspring--a conversation that brought them back to Lucy changed beings, ina changed relation. What was the meaning of Manisty's moody, embarrassedlook? and of that white and smiling composure that made a still frailerghost of Eleanor than before?

'Did you hear that call?' said Manisty, stopping. 

It was repeated, and they both recognised Lucy Foster's voice, coming fromsomewhere 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 tremulousgirl holding a swathed arm stiffly in front of her so that the blooddripping from it should not fall upon her dress. 

Manisty came up to her in utter consternation. 'What has happened? How areyou here? Where are the others?'

She answered dizzily, then said, faintly trying to smile, 'If you couldprovide me with--something to tie round it?'

'Eleanor!' Manisty's voice rang up the path. Then he searched his ownpockets in despair--remembering that he had wrapped his handkerchief roundEleanor's precious terracottas just before they started, that the littleparcel was on the top of the basket he had given to Miss Foster, and thatboth were probably waiting with the tea-things below. 

Eleanor came up. 

'Why did we leave her?' cried Manisty, turning vehemently upon hiscousin--'That was _not_ Reggie and his party! What a horrible mistake!She has been attacked by some of these peasant brutes. Just look at thisbleeding!'

Something in his voice roused a generous discomfort in Lucy even throughher faintness. 

'It is nothing, ' she said. 'How could you help it? It is so silly!--I amso strong--and yet any cut, or prick even, makes me feel faint. If only wecould make it stop--I should be all right. '

Eleanor stooped and looked at the wound, so far as the light wouldserve, touching the wrist with her ice-cold fingers. Manisty watched heranxiously. 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 willBenson say to me?'

Mrs. Burgoyne did not seem to hear. 

'We must have a sling, ' she was saying to herself, and she took off thelight 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 Icarried off her cloak! There it's been all the time! What a pretty sort ofcare to take of you!'

Eleanor meanwhile was turning her shawl into a sling in spite of Lucy'sremonstrances. Manisty made none. 

When the arm was safely supported, Lucy pulled herself together with agreat 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 thatsteep hill to Nemi? Eleanor! how can she possibly manage it?'

'Let her try, ' said Eleanor quietly. 'It is the best. Now let her take yourarm. '

Lucy looked up at Mrs. Burgoyne, smiling tremulously. 'Thank you!--thankyou! What a trouble I am!'

She put out her free hand, but Mrs. Burgoyne seemed to have moved away. Itwas taken by Manisty, who drew it within his arm. 

They descended slowly, and just as they were emerging from the heavy shadowof 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, gatheredin a group round the tea-baskets, laughing, and talking eagerly with eachother, or with Aristodemo, was the whole lost party--the two ladies and thetwo men. And beside the group, held by another peasant, was a white horsewith a side-saddle. 

Manisty called. The new-comers turned, looked, then shouted exultant. 

'Well!'--said Reggie, throwing up his arms at sight of Manisty, andskimming 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!--allthe old trains printed as usual, and a wretched flyleaf tucked in somewherethat 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 ofbringing 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 atthe Sforza Cesarini gate, and the man told us you were an hour behind yourtime. So I thought Eleanor would be dead-tired, and I went to that man--youremember?--we got a horse from before--'

But Manisty had hurried Lucy on without listening to a word; and sheherself was now too dizzy with fatigue and loss of blood to grasp what wasbeing said around her. 

Reggie fell back in despair on Mrs. Burgoyne. 

'Eleanor!--what have you been doing to yourselves! What a nightmare of anafternoon! How on earth are you going to walk back all this way? What'swrong with Miss Foster?'

'Some rough boys threw stones at her, and her arm is badly cut. Edward willtake her on to Genzano, find a doctor and then bring her home. --We'll go onfirst, and send back another carriage for them. You angel, Reggie, to thinkof that horse!'

'But I thought of it for you, Eleanor, ' said the young man, looking indistress at the delicate woman for whom he had so frank and constant anaffection. 'Miss Foster's as strong as Samson!--or ought to be. Whatfollies has she been up to?'

'_Please_, Reggie--hold your tongue! You shall talk as much nonsense as youplease when once we have started the poor child off. '

And Eleanor too ran forward. Manisty had just put together a rough mountingblock from some timber in the farm-building. Meanwhile the other two ladieshad been helpful and kind. Mrs. Elliott had wrapped a white Chudda shawlround Lucy's shivering frame. A flask containing some brandy had beenextracted from Mr. Neal's pocket, more handkerchiefs and a better slingfound for the arm. Finally Lucy, all her New England pride outraged by thefuss that was being made about her, must needs submit to be almost liftedon the horse by Manisty and Mr. Brooklyn. When she found herself in thesaddle, she looked round bewildered. 'But this must have been meant forMrs. Burgoyne! Oh how tired she will be!'

'Don't trouble yourself about me! I am as fresh as paint, ' said Eleanor'slaughing voice beside her. 

'Eleanor! will you take them all on ahead?' said Manisty impatiently; 'weshall have to lead her carefully to avoid rough places. '

Eleanor carried off the rest of the party. Manisty established himself atLucy's side. The man from Genzano led the horse. 

After a quarter of an hour's walking, mixed with the give and take ofexplanations on both sides as to the confusion of the afternoon, Eleanorpaused to recover breath an instant on a rising ground. Looking back, shesaw through the blue hazes of the evening the two distant figures--thewhite form on the horse, the protecting nearness of the man. 

She stifled a moan, drawn deep from founts of covetous and passionateagony. Then she turned and hurried up the stony path with an energy, auseless haste that evoked loud protests from Reggie Brooklyn. Eleanor didnot answer him. There was beating within her veins a violence that appalledherself. Whither was she going? What change had already passed on all thegentle tendernesses and humanities of her being?

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Lucy was reviving in the cool freshness of the evening air. Sheseemed to be travelling through a world of opal colour, arched by skiesof pale green, melting into rose above, and daffodil gold below. All abouther, blue and purple shadows were rising, like waves interfused withmoonlight, flooding over the land. Where did the lake end and the shorebegin? 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 thislonely path all was silence and woody fragrance; the honeysuckles threwbreaths across their path; tall orchises, white and stately, broke hereand there from the darkness of the banks. In spite of pain and weaknessher senses seemed to be flooded with beauty. A strange peace and docilityovercame her. 

'You are better?' said Manisty's voice beside her. The tones of it weregrave and musical; they expressed an enwrapping kindness, a 'humansoftness' that still further moved her. 

'So much better! The bleeding has almost stopped. I--I suppose it wouldhave been better, if I had waited for you?--if I had not ventured on thosepaths 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 littlefesta! And poor Mrs. Burgoyne!--forced to walk up this long, long way. 

'Yes--perhaps it would have been better'--said Manisty. 'One never quiteknows about this population. After all, for an Italian lady to walk aboutsome English country lanes alone, might not be quite safe--and one ruffianis 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 thereins fell from her stiff right hand, which seemed to be still tremblingwith cold. Instantly Manisty gathered them up, and replaced them in thechill fingers. As he did so he realised with a curious pleasure that thehand and wrist, though not small, were still beautiful, with a fine shapelystrength. 

Presently, as they mounted the steep ascent towards the Sforza Cesariniwoods, he made her rest half way. 

'How those stones must have jarred you!'--he said frowning, as he turnedthe 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 ridgeof the lake, over which the moon had now fully risen. The lake was halfshade, half light; the fleecy forests on the breast of Monte Cavo rosesoft as a cloud into the infinite blue of the night-heaven. Below, asilver shaft struck the fisherman's hut beside the shore, where, deepin the water's breast, lie the wrecked ships of Caligula, --the treasureships--whereof for seventy generations the peasants of Nemi have gonedreaming. 

As they passed the hut, --half an hour before--Manisty had drawn herattention, in the dim light, to the great beams from the side of the nearership, which had been recently recovered by the divers, and were lyingat the water's edge. And he had told her, --with a kindling eye--how hehimself, within the last few months, had seen fresh trophies recovered fromthe water, --a bronze Medusa above all, fiercely lovely, the work of a mostnoble 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, lookingdown upon the lake. 'There is not a shred of evidence. One can onlydream. 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 thiscountry-side. Then the young monster who built and furnished them wasmurdered on the Palatine. Can't you see the rush of an avenging mobdown this steep lane?--the havoc and the blows--the peasants hacking atthe statues and the bronzes--loading their ox-carts perhaps with theplunder--and finally letting in the lake upon the wreck! Well!--somehowlike that it must have happened. The lake swallowed them; and, in spite ofall the efforts of the Renaissance people, who sent down divers, the lakehas kept them, substantially, till now. Not a line about them in any knowndocument! History knows nothing. But the peasants handed down the storyfrom father to son. Not a fisherman on this lake, for eighteen hundredyears, but has tried to reach the ships. They all believed--they stillbelieve--that they hold incredible treasures. But the lake is jealous--theylie deep!'

Lucy bent forward, peering into the blue darkness of the lake, trying tosee with his eyes, to catch the same ghostly signals from the past. Theromance of the story and the moment, Manisty's low, rushing speech, thesparkle 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, Manistysuddenly felt the response of her temperament to his. It was delightful tobe there with her--delightful to be talking to her. 

'I was on the shore, ' he continued, 'watching the divers at work, on theday they drew up the Medusa. I helped the man who drew her up to clean theslime and mud from them, and the vixen glared at me all the time, as thoughshe thirsted to take vengeance upon us all. She had had time to think aboutit, --for she sank perhaps ten years after the Crucifixion, --while Marystill lived in the house of John!'

His voice dropped to the note of reverie, and a thrill passed throughLucy. He turned the horse's head towards Genzano, and they journeyed onin silence. She indeed was too weak for many words; but enwrapped as itwere by the influences around her, --of the place, the evening beauty, thepersonality of the man beside her, --she seemed to be passing through amany-coloured dream, of which the interest and the pleasure never ceased. 

Presently they passed a little wayside shrine. Within its penthouse eavean oil-lamp flickered before the frescoed Madonna and Child; the shelfin 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 thebit of road beneath their feet. 

'Do you see this travertine--these blocks? This is a bit of the old road tothe temple. I was with the exploring party when they carried up the Medusaand some other of their finds along here past the shrine. It was nearlydark--they did not want to be observed. But I was an old friend of the manin command, and he and I were walking together. The bearers of the heavybronze things got tired. They put down their load just here, and loungedaway. 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 thelight of the lamp before the shrine. You never saw so strange and wild athing!--the looks she threw at the Madonna and Child. "Ah! Madam, " I saidto her--"the world was yours when you went down--but now it's theirs! Tameyour 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 inthe dark upon the fierce head with the snakes--and watch her gazing at theChrist. '

Lucy shuddered and smiled. 

'I'm glad she wasn't yours!'

'Why? The peasants would soon have made a saint of her, and invented alegend to fit. The snakes, for them, would have been the instrumentsof martyrdom--turned into a martyr's crown. Italy and Catholicismabsorb--assimilate--everything. "_Santa Medusa!_"--I assure you, she wouldbe 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 workin. '

She turned to him, breathing quicker, the colour returning to her palecheek. 

'The Italy that has just sent seven thousand of her sons to butchery in awretched colony, because her hungry politicians must have glory and keepthemselves in office? You expect me to love that Italy?'

Within the kind new sweetness of his tone--a sweetness no man could usemore 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 forit, and I will overwhelm you. Do you suppose I don't know all about thepartisan 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 suddenemphasis:

'What a nation of revolutionists you are in America! What does it feellike, 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 saidprovokingly. 'The submission of the individual to the whole--that's whatyou know nothing of. '

'We shall know it when we want it! But it will be a free submission--givenwillingly. '

'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 fightdeparted. 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. 'Ionly meant it to amuse you, Hark!--did you hear that sound?'

They stopped. Above them, to the right, they saw through the dusk a smallfarm in a patch of vineyard. A dark figure suddenly hurled itself down asteep path towards them. Other figures followed it--seemed to wrestle withit; there was a confused wailing and crying--the piteous shrill lamentingof 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 stoodstill and checked his beast. Manisty ran towards the sounds and the dimstruggle on the slope above them. 

Such a cry! It rent and desolated the evening peace. It seemed to Lucy thevoice of an old woman, crossed by other voices--rough, chiding voices ofmen. Oh, were they ill-treating her? The girl said hurriedly to the manbeside her that she would dismount. 

'No, no, signorina, ' said the man, placidly, raising his hand. 'The signorwill be here directly. It happens often, often. '

And almost at the same moment Manisty was beside her again, and thegruesome sounds above were dying away. 

'Were you frightened?' he said, with anxiety. 'There was no need. Howstrange 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 thatwhat she had heard were the cries of a poor hysterical woman, a smallfarmer's wife, who had lost both her sons in the Abyssinian war, in thefrightful retreat of Adowa, and had never been in her right mind since thenews 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 shouldgive her back her sons--Nino, at least!--Nino, her youngest, and darling. It was impossible that they should both be dead--impossible! The HolyVirgin would never have suffered it. 

'Poor soul!--she tried to cling round my knees--wailing out the candles andprayers she had offered--shrieking something about the "Governo. " I helpedthe sons to carry her in. They were quite gentle to her. '

Lucy turned away her head; and they resumed their march. She governedherself with all her power; but her normal self-control was weakened, andthat 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 beganat once to talk of other things in a quite other vein. But underlying hischaracteristic whims and sallies she was presently conscious of a new andexquisite gentleness. It seemed to address itself both to her physicalfatigue, and to the painful impression of the incident which had justpassed. Her sudden tears--the tears of a tired child--and his delicatefeeling--there arose out of them, as out of their whole journey, arelation, a bond, of which both were conscious, to which she yieldedherself in a kind of vague and timid pleasure. 

For Manisty--as she sat there, high above him, yet leaning a littletowards him--there was something in the general freshness and purity ofher presence, both physical and moral, that began most singularly to stealupon his emotions. Certain barriers seemed to be falling, certain secretsympathies emerging, drawn from regions far below their differences of ageand race, of national and intellectual habit. How was it she had liked hisPalestine book so much? He almost felt as though in some mysterious wayhe 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 beenwith them at the villa?--and in a fortnight their party was to breakup. How profitably indeed he had used his time with her! How civil--howkind--how discerning he had shown himself!

Yet soreness of this kind was soon lost in the surge of this new andunexpected impulse, which brought his youth exultantly back upon him. A beautiful woman rode beside him, through the Italian evening. Withimpatience, with an inward and passionate repudiation of all other bondsand claims, he threw himself into that mingled process--at once exploringand revealing--which makes the thrill of all the higher relations betweenmen and women, and ends invariably either in love--or tragedy. 

 * * * * *

They found a carriage waiting for them near the Sforza-Cesarini gate, andin it Mrs. Elliott, Reggie Brooklyn's kind sister. Lucy was taken to adoctor, and the hurt was dressed. By nine o'clock she was once more underthe villa-roof. Miss Manisty received her with lamentations and enquiries, that the tottering Lucy was too weary even to hear aright. Amid what seemedto her a babel of tongues and lights and kind concern, she was taken to bedand sleep. 

Mrs. Burgoyne did not attend her. She waited in Manisty's library, and whenManisty 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 consultedme. The telegram gave no address--merely said that she would come to-morrowfor 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 mostcharming, most musical voice. 'There was no address. You could not havestopped her. '

'I would have managed somehow, '--said Manisty striking his hand on thetable beside him in his annoyance and impatience. 

Eleanor did not defend herself. She tried to soothe him, to promise him asusual that the dreaded visit should be made easy to him. But he paid littleheed. He sat moodily brooding in his chair; and when Eleanor's persuasionsceased, he broke out--

'That poor child!--After to-day's experiences, --to have Alice let looseupon her!--I would have given anything--anything!--that it should not havehappened. '

'Miss Foster?' said Eleanor lightly--'oh! she will bear up. '

'There it is!'--said Manisty, in a sudden fury. 'We have all beenmisjudging her in the most extraordinary way! She is the most sensitive, tender-natured creature--I would not put an ounce more strain upon her forthe world. '

His aunt called him, and he went stormily away. Eleanor's smile as shestood 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, andthat was hard work. Aunt Pattie thought her rather shaken still. '

The speakers were Manisty and Mrs. Burgoyne. Eleanor was sitting in thedeep 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 theCampagna, melting into the hot shimmer of the Mediterranean. A new volumeof French memoirs, whereof not a page had yet been cut, was lying upon herknee. 

Manisty, who had come out to consult with her, leant against the treebeside 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 MissFoster. She mustn't walk with her, or sit with her, or be allowed to worryher in any way. I should be beside myself with alarm if Alice were to takea 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 toFlorence. She told me yesterday that the Porters have friends there whomshe could join. '

Manisty fidgeted. 

'Well, I hardly think that's necessary. It's a great pity she should missVallombrosa. I hoped I might settle her and Aunt Pattie there by about themiddle 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, thebeginning of June?'

'That was when I thought the book was coming out before the end of themonth. 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 ifit isn't June, it must be October. So there's no hurry. '

The little cold laugh with which Eleanor had spoken her last wordssubsided. 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--sometimesso desperately well. '

'I can't help it. I am made like that. When a man begins to criticise mywork, I first hate him--then I'm all of his opinion--only more so. '

'I know, ' said Eleanor impatiently. 'It's this dreadful modernhumility--the abominable power we all have of seeing the other side. But anauthor is no good till he has thrown his critics out of window. '

'Poor Neal!' said Manisty, with his broad sudden smile, 'he would fallhard. However, to return to Miss Foster. There's no need to drive her awayif 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 clearedaway. He was his most charming, most handsome self. A shiver ran throughEleanor. Her thought flew to yesterday--compared the kind radiance of theface beside her, its look of brotherly confidence and appeal, with thelook of yesterday, the hard evasiveness with which he had met all herpoor woman's attempts to renew the old intimacy, reknit the old bond. Shethought of the solitary, sleepless misery of the night she had just passedthrough. And here they were, sitting in cousinly talk, as though nothingelse were between them but this polite anxiety for Miss Foster's peace ofmind! What was behind that apparently frank brow--those sparkling grey-blueeyes? Manisty could always be a mystery when he chose, even to those whoknew him best. 

She drew a long inward breath, feeling the old inexorable compulsion thatlies upon the decent woman, who can only play the game as the man choosesto set it. 

'I don't know what I can do--' she said slowly. 'You think Alice is nobetter?'

Manisty shook his head. He looked at her sharply and doubtfully, as thoughmeasuring her--and then said, lowering his voice:

'I believe--I know I can trust you with this--I have some reason to supposethat there was an attempt at suicide at Venice. Her maid prevented it, andgave me the hint. I am in communication with the maid--though Alice has noidea 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'tprotect 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--andsend her away. I am not afraid for ourselves, you included, Eleanor! Shewould do us no harm. A short annoyance--and it would be over. But MissFoster 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 thanherself. There have been all sorts of difficulties in hotels. She will beabsolutely silent with older people--or with you and me, for instance--butif she can captivate any quite young creature, she will pour herself out toher, follow her, write to her, tease her. --Poor, poor Alice!'

Manisty's voice had become almost a groan. His look betrayed a true andmanly feeling. 

'One must always remember, ' he resumed, 'that she has still the power toattract a stranger. Her mind is in ruins--but they are the ruins of whatwas 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 herof enemies and persecutors, of persons who wish her death, who open herletters, and dog her footsteps--till the girl can't sleep at nights, andher own nerve begins to fail her. There was a case of this at Florence lastyear. Dalgetty, that's the maid, had to carry Alice off by main force. Theparents of the girl threatened to set the doctors in motion--to get Alicesent to an asylum. '

'But surely, surely, ' cried Mrs. Burgoyne, 'that would be the rightcourse!'

Manisty shook his head. 

'Impossible!' he said with energy. 'Don't imagine that my lawyers and Ihaven't looked into everything. Unless the disease has made much progresssince I last saw her, Alice will always baffle any attempts to put her inrestraint. She is queer--eccentric--melancholy; she envelopes the peopleshe 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 alwaysfalls short. ' He paused; then added with cautious emphasis: 'I don't speakwithout book. It has been tried. '

'But the attempt at Venice?'

'No good. The maid's letter convinced me of two things--first, that she hadattempted 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 atVenice--probably connected with the attempt we know of. The second someweeks ago at Padua. I believe the man to be a reputable person, though nodoubt not insensible to the fact that Alice has some money. You know who heis?--a French artist she came across in Venice. He is melancholy and lonelylike herself. I believe he is genuinely attached to her. But after the lastscene at Padua she told Dalgetty that she would never make him miserable bymarrying 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 forher going quickly back to Venice--or Switzerland--where she often spendsthe summer. So long as she and Miss Foster are under one roof, I shall nothave a moment free from anxiety. '

Eleanor sank back in her chair. She was silent; but her eye betrayed thebitter animation of the thoughts passing behind them, thoughts evoked notso 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 oneelse, 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 sonatural to her to love and help him!

'Well, of course I shall do what you tell me! I generally do--don't I? Whatare your commands?'

He brought his head nearer to hers, his brilliant eyes bent upon herintently:

'Never let her be alone with Miss Foster! Watch her. If you see any sign ofpersecution--if you can't check it--let me know at once. I shall keep Alicein 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 theavenue. She walked slowly and with a languid grace, trailing her whiteskirts. The shy rusticity, the frank robustness of her earlier aspect werenow either gone, or temporarily merged in something more exquisite andmore appealing. Her youth too had never been so apparent. She had been toostrong too self-reliant. The touch of physical delicacy seemed to havebrought back the child. 

Then, turning back to her companion, Eleanor saw the sudden softness inManisty'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 meof?'

Eleanor shook her head. 

'Of that little head--little face rather--that I gave you at Nemi. Don'tyou 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 atease with us--you see?--there's the purity of line just the same--butsubtilised--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 notspeak--look--smile--like that to _me_, ' thought Eleanor with passionaterelief. 

Then as they approached, she rose, and with kind solicitude forced Lucy totake 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 happenedto me, ' she said, half wistful, half smiling; 'I never stayed in bed tobreakfast in my life before. At Greyridge, they'd think I had gone out ofmy mind. '

Eleanor inquired if it was an invariable sign of lunacy in America to takeyour breakfast in bed. Lucy couldn't say. All she knew was that nobody evertook 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 thatbrought the red back to her cheeks, --'if they were to spoil me at home, asyou 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, shesaw them all the time, though she never once looked back--saw the eagerinquiries of the man, the modest responsiveness of the girl. She wasleaving them to themselves--at the bidding of her own pride--and they hadthe May morning before them. According to a telegram just received, AliceManisty was not expected till after lunch. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Manisty was talking of his sister to Lucy, With coolness, and asmuch 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, sheand I were great friends. We were brought up in an old Yorkshire housetogether, and a queer pair we were. I was never sent to school, and I gotthe better of most of my tutors. Alice was unmanageable too, and we spentmost of our time rambling and reading as we pleased. Both of us dreamedawake 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 gotless like other people every day. There was a sort of garden house in thepark, --a lonely, overgrown kind of place. We put our books there, and usedpractically to live there for weeks together. That was just after I cameinto the place, before I went abroad. Alice was sixteen. I can see her nowsitting in the doorway of the little house, hour after hour, staring intothe woods like a somnambulist, one arm behind her head. One day I saidto her: "Alice, what are you thinking of?" "Myself!" she said. So then Ilaughed at her, and teased her. And she answered quite quietly, "I know itis a pity--but I can't help it. "

Lucy's eyes were wide with wonder. 'But you ought to have given hersomething to do--or to learn: couldn't she have gone to school, or foundsome friends?'

'Oh! I dare say I ought to have done a thousand things, ' said Manistyimpatiently. 'I was never a model brother, or a model anything! I grewup for myself and by myself, and I supposed Alice would do the same. Youdisapprove?'

He turned his sharp, compelling eyes upon her, so that Lucy flinched alittle. 'I shouldn't dare, ' she said laughing. 'I don't know enough aboutit. But it's plain, isn't it, that girls of sixteen shouldn't sit ondoorsteps 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. Aliceand I had no mother--no one but ourselves. Of course all our relations andfriends disapproved of us. But that somehow has never made much differenceto either of us. Does it make much difference to you? Do you mind if peoplepraise or blame you? What does it matter what anybody thinks? Who can knowanything about you but yourself?--Eh?'

He poured out his questions in a hurry, one tumbling over the other. And hehad already begun to bite the inevitable stalk of grass. Lucy as usual wasconscious both of intimidation and attraction--she felt him at once absurdand 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_! Idon't want to be approved--outside my literary work any way--I want to behappy. It never enters my head to judge other people--why should they judgeme?'

'But--but'--Then she laughed out, remembering his book, and his politicalescapade, 'Aren't you _always_ judging other people?'

'Fighting them--yes! That's another matter. But I don't give myselfsuperior airs. I don't judge--I just love--and hate. '

Her attention followed the bronzed expressive face, so bold in outline, sodelicate 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--Ihate slowly and by degrees. If anybody offends me, for instance, at first Ihardly feel it, --it doesn't seem to matter at all. Then it grows in my mindgradually, it becomes a weight--a burning fire--and drives everything elseout. I hate the men, for instance, that I hated last year in England, muchworse now than I did then!'

She bit her lip, but could not help the broadening smile, to which his ownresponded. 

'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'tit--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 shecopied 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. Youruncle 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 heavenI had never joined it. But when I began to think that this particularMinistry was taking English society to perdition, it was as well--wasn'tit?--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 Iwill confess that I generally incline to hate my own side, --and to love myadversaries. English Liberals moreover hold the ridiculous opinion that theworld is to be governed by intelligence. I couldn't have believed it ofany sane men. When I discovered it, I left them. My foreign experience hadgiven the lie to all that. And when I left them, the temptation to throw aparadox 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 herdiffidence. 

'Perhaps! English political life runs so smooth, that to throw in a stoneand 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'tbelieve, ' she said suddenly, in a deep, low voice. 

He looked at her for a moment in a smiling silence. His lips were readyto launch a reckless sentence or two; but they refrained. Her attitudemeanwhile betrayed an unconscious dread--like a child that fears a blow. 

'You charming saint!'--he thought; surprised at his own feeling ofpleasure. Pleasure in what?--in the fact that however she might judge hisopinions, she was clearly interested in the holder of them?

'What does one's own point of view matter?' he said gently. 'I believe whatI can, --and as long as I can--sometimes for a whole twenty-four hours! Thena big doubt comes along, and sends me floundering. But that has nothingto do with it. The case is quite simple. The world can't get on withoutmorals; and Catholicism, Anglicanism too--the religions of authority inshort--are the great guardians of morals. They are the binding forces--theforces making for solidarity and continuity. Your cocksure, peeringProtestant is the dissolvent--the force making for ruin. What's hisprivate judgment to me, or mine to him? But for the sake of it, he'll makeeverything mud and puddle! Of course you may say to me--it is perfectlyopen to you to say'--he looked away from her, half-forgetting her, addressing with animation and pugnacity an imaginary opponent--'whatdo morals matter?--how do you know that the present moral judgmentsof the world represent any ultimate truth? Ah! well'--he shrugged hisshoulders--'I can't follow you there. Black may be really white--and whiteblack; 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 methe only force that can guarantee them, --Catholicism, more or less:--anddogma, --and ritual, --and superstition, --and all the foolish ineffablethings that bind mankind together, and send them to "face the music" inthis world and the next!'

She sat silent, with twitching lips, excited, yet passionately scornfuland antagonistic. Thoughts of her home, of that Puritan piety amid whichshe had been brought up, flashed thick and fast through her mind. Suddenlyshe covered her face with her hands, to hide a fit of laughter that hadovertaken 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 villageat home. What you said of Protestants seemed to me, all at once, so odd--soridiculous!'

'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 toher village, her uncle, her friends. She resisted a little, for the brusqueassurance of his tone still sounded oddly in her American ear. But he wasnot easy to resist; and when she had yielded she soon discovered that totalk to him was a no less breathless and absorbing business than to listento him. He pounced on the new, the characteristic, the local; he drew outof 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, sovoracious, one might almost say, were his own perceptions. 

Especially did he make her tell him of the New England winter; of the longpauses of its snow-bound life; its whirling winds and drifts; its snapping, crackling frosts; the lonely farms, and the deep sleigh-tracks amid thewhite wilderness, that still in the winter silence bind these homesteads toeach other and the nation; the strange gleams of moonrise and sunset on thecold hills; the strong dark armies of the pines; the grace of the strippedbirches. 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 spiritualvisions and madnesses, were entwined with her own young memories anddeepest affections. 

Figure after figure, story after story, did he draw from her, --warm fromthe hidden fire of her own strenuous, loving life. Once or twice shespoke of her mother--like one drawing a veil for an instant from a holyof holies. He felt and saw the burning of a sacred fire; then the veildropped, nor would it lift again for any word of his. And every nowand 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 anature!'

The artist--the poet--the lover of things significant and moving, --allthese were stirred in him as he listened to her, as he watched her youngand 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 yourold New England saints and dreamers are not your last word in America. Theytell me your ancestral Protestantisms are fast breaking down. Your churchesare turning into concert and lecture rooms. Catholicism is growing amongyou, --science gaining on the quack-medicines! But there--there--I'll notprate. 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 toit, --you felt!'

She made no reply. Far within she was conscious of a kind of tremor. Thepersonality beside her seemed to be laying an intimate, encroaching handupon her own, and her maidenliness shrank before it. 

She threw herself hastily upon other subjects. Presently, he found to hissurprise 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 inhis manner, though she could not have defined what. Her mind, indeed, wasfull of vague and generous misgivings on the subject of Mrs. Burgoyne. First she had been angry with Mr. Manisty for what had seemed to herneglect and ingratitude. Now she was somehow dissatisfied with herself too. 

'She worked too hard, ' said Manisty gravely. 'It is a good thing thepressure has been taken off. Have you found out yet, Miss Foster, what aremarkable 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 herhistory?'

'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 anacquaintance, that she had no right to the secrets of this friendship, andManisty no right to speak of them. 

But Manisty took no notice. With half-shut eyes, like a man looking intothe past, he began to describe his cousin; first as a girl in her father'shome; then in her married life, silent, unhappy, gentle; afterwards inthe dumb years of her irreparable grief; and finally in this last phaseof intellectual and spiritual energy, which had been such an amazement tohimself, which had first revealed to him indeed the true Eleanor. 

He spoke slowly, with a singular and scrupulous choice of words; buildingup the image of Mrs. Burgoyne's life and mind with an insight and adelicacy which presently held his listener spell-bound. Several times Lucyfelt herself flooded with hot colour. 

'Does he guess so much about--about us all?' she asked herself with asecret excitement. 

Suddenly Manisty said, with an entire change of tone, springing to his feetas he did so:

'In short, Miss Foster--my cousin Eleanor is one of the ablest and dearestof women--and she and I have been completely wasting each other's time thiswinter!'

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 haveworn her out--and my book is in a mess. The best thing I could do for usboth--was to cut it short. '

Lucy was uncomfortably silent. 

'There's no use in talking about it, ' Manisty went on, impatiently, witha shake of his great shoulders; 'I am not meant to work in partnership. Aword of blame depresses me; and I am made a fool by praise. It was all amistake. If only Eleanor could understand--that it's my own fault--and Iknow 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 wilfulpersonality 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 ofmy admiration, my gratitude! Tell her that I know very well that I am notworth her help. Her inspiration would have led any other man to success. Itonly failed because I was I. I hate to seem to discourage and disavow whatI once accepted so eagerly. --But a man must find out his own mistakes--andthrash his own blunders. She was too kind to thrash them--so I haveappointed Neal to the office. Do you understand?'

She rose, full of wavering approvals and disapprovals, seized by him, --andfeeling with Mrs. Burgoyne. 

'I understand only a very little, ' she said, lifting her clear eyes tohis; 'except that I never saw anyone I--I cared for so much, in so short atime--as Mrs. Burgoyne. '

'Ah! care for her!' he said, in another voice, with another aspect. 'Go oncaring for her! She needs it. '

They walked on together towards the villa, for Alfredo was on the balconysignalling 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 mysister. She is not a happy person--but you are not to be sorry for her. Youcan't understand her; and I beg you will not try. You are, please, to leaveher 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 elderlymaid. Lucy, before she escaped into the garden, was aware of a verytall woman, possessing a harshly handsome face, black eyes, and a thinlong-limbed frame. These black eyes, uneasily bright, searched the salon, as she entered it, only to fasten, with a kind of grip, in which therewas no joy, upon her brother. Lucy saw her kiss him with a coldperfunctoriness, bowed herself, as her name was nervously pronouncedby Miss Manisty, and then withdrew. Mrs. Burgoyne was in Rome for theafternoon. 

But at dinner they all met, and Lucy could satisfy some of the curiositythat burnt in her very feminine mind. Alice Manisty was dressed in blacklace and satin, and carried herself with stateliness. Her hair, black likeher brother's, though with a fine line of grey here and there, was ofenormous abundance, and she wore it heavily coiled round her head in a modewhich gave particular relief to the fire and restlessness of the eyes whichflashed beneath it. Beside her, Eleanor Burgoyne, though she too was rathertall than short, suffered a curious eclipse. The plaintive distinction thatmade the charm of Eleanor's expression and movements seemed for the momentto mean and say nothing, beside the tragic splendour of Alice Manisty. 

The dinner was not agreeable. Manisty was clearly ill at ease, and seethingwith inward annoyance; Miss Manisty had the air of a frightened mouse;Alice Manisty talked not at all, and ate nothing except some poachedeggs that she had apparently ordered for herself before dinner; andEleanor--chattering of her afternoon in Rome--had to carry through thebusiness as best she could, with occasional help from Lucy. 

From the first it was unpleasantly evident to Manisty that his sister tooknotice of Miss Foster. Almost her only words at table were addressed to thegirl sitting opposite to her; and her roving eyes returned again and againto Lucy's fresh young face and quiet brow. 

After dinner Manisty followed the ladies into the salon, and asked hisaunt's leave to smoke his cigarette with them. 

Lucy wondered what had passed between him and his sister before dinner. Hewas polite to her; and yet she fancied that their relations were alreadystrained. 

Presently, as Lucy was busy with some embroidery on one of the setteesagainst the wall of the salon, she was conscious of Alice Manisty'sapproach. The new-comer sat down beside her, bent over her work, askedher a few low, deep-voiced questions. Those strange eyes fastened uponher, --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 calledto 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 thatnight. 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 pagemust be turned for her by Lucy, and Lucy only. 

Meanwhile Manisty sat beside his sister smoking, throwing first the leftleg over the right, then the right leg over the left, and making attemptsat conversation with her, that Eleanor positively must not see, lest musicand decorum both break down in a wreck of nervous laughter. 

Alice Manisty scarcely responded; she sat motionless, her wild black headbent like that of a Mænad at watch, her gaze fixed, her long thin handsgrasping 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 badegood-night to Lucy, he said in her ear: 'You said you wished to see theLateran Museum. My aunt will send Benson with you to-morrow. '

His tone did not ask whether she wished for the arrangement, but simplyimposed it. 

Then, as Eleanor approached him, he raised his shoulders with a gesturethat only she saw, and led her a few steps apart in the dimly lightedante-room, where the candles were placed. 

'She wants the most impossible things, my dear lady, ' he said in low-voiceddespair--'things I can no more do than fly over the moon!'

'Edward!'--said his sister from the open door of the salon--'I should likesome further conversation with you before I go to bed. '

Manisty with the worst grace in the world saw his aunt and Eleanor to theirrooms, and then went back to surrender himself to Alice. He was a man whotook family relations hardly, impatient of the slightest bond that was notof his own choosing. Yet it was Eleanor's judgment that, considering histemperament, he had not been a bad brother to this wild sister. He hadspent both heart and thought upon her case; and at the root of his relationto 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 thedoors fitted badly. Lucy's sleep was haunted for long by a distant sound ofvoices, generally low and restrained, but at moments rising and sharpeningas though their owners forgot the hour and the night. In the morning itseemed to her that she had been last conscious of a burst of weeping, fardistant--then of a sudden silence ... 

 * * * * *

The following day, Lucy in Benson's charge paid her duty to the Sophoclesof the Lateran Museum, and, armed with certain books lent her by Manisty, went wandering among the art and inscriptions of Christian Rome. She camehome, inexplicably tired, through a glorious Campagna, splashed withpoppies, embroidered with marigold and vetch; she climbed the Alban slopesfrom the heat below, and rejoiced in the keener air of the hills, and thefreshness of the _ponente_, as she drove from the station to the villa. 

Mrs. Burgoyne was leaning over the balcony looking out for her. Lucy ranup to her, astonished at her own eagerness of foot, at the breath of homewhich 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 theygreeted. '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 putinto 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 iscrossed, she is terrible. '

At dinner Lucy did her best to lighten the atmosphere, being indeed mosttruly sorry for her poor friends and their dilemma. But her pleasantgirlish 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 talkedof Rome, exclusively to Lucy and with Lucy, showing in her talk a greatdeal of knowledge and a great deal of fine taste, mingled with occasionalviolence and extravagance. Her eyes indeed were wilder than ever. Theyshone with a miserable intensity, that became a positive glare once ortwice, when Manisty addressed her. Her whole aspect breathed a tragicdetermination, crossed with an anger she was hardly able to restrain. Lucynoticed that she never spoke to or answered her brother if she could helpit. 

After dinner Lucy found herself the object of various embarrassingovertures on the part of the new-comer. But on each occasion Manistyinterposed at first adroitly, then roughly. On the last occasion AliceManisty sprang to her feet, went to the side table where the candleswere placed, disappeared and did not return. Manisty, his aunt, and Mrs. Burgoyne, drew together in a corner of the salon discussing the events ofthe day in low anxious voices. Lucy thought herself in the way, and went tobed. 

 * * * * *

After some hours of sleep, Lucy awoke, conscious of movement somewhere nearher. With the advent of the hot weather she had been moved to a room on theeastern side of the villa, in one of two small wings jutting out from thefaçade. She had locked her door, but the side window of her room, whichoverlooked the balcony towards the lake, was open, and slight sounds camefrom the balcony. Springing up she crept softly towards the window. Thewooden shutters had been drawn forward, but both they and the casementswere ajar. 

Through the chink she saw a strange sight. On the step leading from thehouse to the terrace of the balcony sat Alice Manisty. Her head wasthrown back against the wall of the villa, and her hands were clasped uponher knee. Her marvellous hair fell round her shoulders, and a strangeillumination, in which a first gleam of dawn mingled with the moonlight, struck upon the white face and white hands emerging from the darkness ofher hair and of her loose black dress. 

Was she asleep? Lucy, holding back so as not to be seen, peered with heldbreath. No!--the large eyes were wide open, though it seemed to Lucy thatthey saw nothing. Minute after minute passed. The figure on the terracesat motionless. There were two statues on either side of her, a pair ofbattered round-limbed nymphs, glorified by the moonlight into a grace andpoetry not theirs by day. They seemed to be looking down upon the woman attheir feet in a soft bewilderment--wondering at a creature so little likethemselves; while from the terrace came up the scent of the garden, heavywith roses and bedrenched with dew. 

Suddenly it seemed to Lucy as though that white face, those intolerableeyes, awoke--turned towards herself, penetrated her room, pursued her. Thefigure moved, and there was a low sound of words. Her window was in truthinaccessible from the terrace; but in a panic fear, Lucy threw herselfon the casement and the shutters, closed them and drew the bolts; asnoiselessly as: she could, still not without some noise. Then hurrying toher bed, she threw herself upon it, panting--in a terror she could neitherexplain nor compose. 

CHAPTER X

'My dear lady--there's nothing to be done with her whatever. She will notyield one inch--and I cannot. But one thing at last is clear to me. Themischief has made progress--I fear, great progress. '

Manisty had drawn his cousin into the garden, and they were pacing theavenue. 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 preciselywhat Manisty supposed. The sister had come to Marinata in order to persuadeher brother, as one of the trustees of her property, to co-operate withher in bestowing some of her money on the French artist, Monsieur OctaveVacherot, to whom, as she calmly avowed, her affections were indissolublyattached, though she did not ever intend to marry him, nor indeed tosee much of him in the future. 'I shall never do him the disservice ofbecoming his wife'--she announced, with her melancholy eyes full upon herbrother--'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 sheproposed. Alice replied that if money were finally settled upon him hewould accept it; whereas his pride did not allow him to receive perpetualsmall sums at her hands. 'But if I settle a definite sum upon him, he willtake 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 difficultto restrain himself when M. Octave Vacherot's views as to his own valuewere thus explained to him. Nevertheless he seemed to have shown on thewhole a creditable patience, to have argued with his sister, to have evenoffered her money of his own, for the temporary supply of M. Vacherot'snecessities. But all to no avail; and in the end it had come of courseto his flatly refusing any help of his to such a scheme, and without itthe scheme fell. For their father had been perfectly well aware of hisdaughter's eccentricities, and had placed her portion, by his will, in thehands of two trustees, of whom her brother was one, without whose consentshe could not touch the capital. 

'It always seemed to her a monstrous arrangement, ' said Manisty, 'and I cansee now it galls her to the quick to have to apply to me, in this way. Idon't wonder--but I can't help it. The duty's there--worse luck!--and I'vegot to face it, for my father's sake. Besides, if I were to consent, theother fellow--an old cousin of ours--would never dream of doing it. Sowhat's the good? All the same, it makes me desperately anxious, to see theeffect that this opposition of mine produces upon her. '

'I saw yesterday that she must have been crying in the night'--saidEleanor. 

Her words evoked some emotion in Manisty. 

'She cried in my presence, and I believe she cried most of the nightafterwards, '--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 shewon'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'scase. How critically, sharply perceptive he was--or could be--with regardapparently to everybody in the world--save one! Often--as they talked--herheart stirred in this way, far out of sight, like a fluttering and woundedthing. 

'It is the strangest madness'--said Manisty presently--'Many people wouldsay 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 otherself was a brother!--not the least like me--who constantly told her what todo, and what not to do. She calls him quite calmly "my brother John"--"myheavenly brother. " She says that he often does strange things, things thatshe 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 firsttime she perceived him as separate from herself was one day in Venice, whena friend came for her to the hotel. She went out with the friend, or seemedto go out with her--and then suddenly she perceived that she was lyingon her bed, and that the other Alice--had been John! He looks just likeherself--but for the eyes. The weirdness of her look as she tells thesethings! But she expresses herself often with an extraordinary poetry. Ienvy her the words, and the phrases!--It seemed to me once or twice, thatshe had all sorts of things I wished to have. If one could only be a littlemad--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 manypoints of physical likeness to his sister, sent an uncomfortable thrillthrough Eleanor. Nevertheless, as she knew well, at the very bottom ofManisty's being, there lay a remarkable fund of ordinary capacity, aninvincible sanity in short, which had always so far rescued him in the longrun from that element which was extravagance in him, and madness in hissister. 

And certainly nothing could have been more reasonable, strong and kind, than his further talk about his sister. He confided to his cousin that hiswhole opinion of Alice's state had changed; that certain symptoms for whichhe had been warned to be on the watch had in his judgment appeared; that hehad accordingly written to a specialist in Rome, asking him to come and seeAlice, without warning, on the following day; and that he hoped to be ableto persuade her without too much conflict to accept medical watching andtreatment 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 themost anxious things is this night-wandering, which has taken possession ofher. Did you hear her last night?'

'Last night?'--said Eleanor, startled. 

'I had been warned by Dalgetty, ' said Manisty. 'And between three and fourI 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 onthe step of the glass passage--was Alice--looking as though she were turnedto marble--and staring at Miss Foster's room! To my infinite relief I sawthat Miss Foster's shutters and windows were fast closed. But I felt Icould not leave Alice there. I made a little noise in the library to warnher, and then I came out upon her. She showed no surprise--nor did I. Iasked 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 tothe salon balcony. The sight was marvellous; and first, it gave herpleasure--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 hadthwarted her. Yet I was able to persuade her to go back to her room. Ipromised that we would have more talk to-day. And when she had safely shuther own door--you know that tiled ante-room, that leads to her room?--Ifound the key of it, and locked it safely from outside. That's one accessto her. The other is through the room in which Dalgetty was sleeping. I'dhave given a good deal to warn Dalgetty, but I dared not risk it. She hadnot heard Alice go out by the ante-room, but she told me the other day thesmallest sound in her own room woke her. So I felt tolerably safe, and Iwent 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 asound of fate. It seemed now as if through every conversation she foresawit--that all talk led up to it. 

'She looks unlike herself still, this morning--don't you think?' saidManisty, in disquiet. 

'Very possibly she got some chill at Nemi--some slight poison--which willpass off. '

'Well, now'--he said, after a pause--'how shall we get through the day? Ishall have another scene with Alice, I suppose. I don't see how it is tobe avoided. Meanwhile--will you keep Miss Foster here?'--he pointed to thegarden--'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 Alicehas already marked Miss Foster. She has asked me many questions about her. She feels her innocence and freshness like a magnet, drawing out her ownsorrows and grievances. My poor Alice--what a wreck! Could I have donemore?--could I?'

He walked on absently, his hands behind his back, his face workingpainfully. 

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 oldeffusion, but still with a cousinly kindness. And his mercurial nature soonpassed into another mood--a mood of hopefulness that the doctor would seteverything right, that Alice would consent to place herself under propercare, 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 eachother. --Eleanor!--what a prop, what a help you are!'

She shrank into herself. It was true indeed that she had passed througha good many disagreeable hours since Alice Manisty arrived, on her ownaccount; for she had been left in charge several times; and she had asecret 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 itaside. 

 * * * * *

Manisty wrestled with his sister again that morning, while the other threeladies, all of them silent and perturbed, worked and read in the garden. Lucy debated with herself whether she should describe what she had seenthe 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 curiousslackness and shrinking from exertion--even the exertion of talking. AsEleanor had divined, she had caught a slight chill at Nemi, and the effectsof it were malarious, in the Italian way. She was conscious of a littleshiveriness and languor, and of a wish to lie or sit quite still. But AuntPattie 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 muchdiscomposed. Alice Manisty shut herself up in her room, and Manistysummoned Eleanor to walk up and down a distant path with him. 

When luncheon came Alice Manisty did not appear. Dalgetty brought a messageexcusing her, to which Manisty listened in silence. 

Aunt Pattie slipped out to see that the visitor had everything sherequired. But she returned almost instantly, her little parchment facequivering 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 himselfto 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 returningthere?'

Lucy fetched her hat. There was only one short stretch of sun-beaten pathto 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 thesea-wind from the west. Manisty carried her books, and arranged a chair forher. Then he looked round to see if any one was near. Yes. Two gardenerswere 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 donot 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. 'MayI 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 courtesyand kindness which had now wholly driven from her mind the memory of hisfirst manner to her; then to ponder, with a growing fascination which herown state of slight fever and the sultry heat of the day seemed to make itimpossible for her to throw off, on Alice Manisty, on the incident of thenight 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 meaningeccentricity and temper. But surely they were gravely anxious--andeverything was most strange and mysterious. The memory of the white staringface under the moonlight appalled her. She tried not to think of it; but ithaunted her. 

Her nerves were not in their normal state; and as she sat there in thecool, dark, vague, paralysing fears swept across her, of which she wasashamed, 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 Imust go. '

But at the thought of going, the tears came into her eyes. At most, therewas little more than a fortnight before the party broke up, and she wentwith 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 enteredinto her reading of these things--a constant heat of antagonism and ofprotest--seemed to have gone out of her. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Aunt Pattie, Eleanor and Manisty held conclave in Aunt Pattie'ssitting-room, which was a little room at the south-western corner of theapartment. It opened out of the salon, and overlooked the Campagna. 

On the north-eastern side, Dalgetty, Alice Manisty's maid, sat sewing in apassage-room, which commanded the entrance to the glass passage--her owndoor--the door of the ante-room that Manisty had spoken of to Eleanor, andclose beside her a third door--which was half open--communicating withManisty's library. The glass passage, or conservatory, led directly to thestaircase and the garden, past the French windows of the library. 

Dalgetty was a person of middle age, a strongly made Scotchwoman witha high forehead and fashionable rolls of sandy hair. Her face was thinand freckled, and one might have questioned whether its expression wasshrewd, or self-important. She was clearly thinking of other matters thanneedlework. Her eyes travelled constantly to one or other of the doors insight; and her lips had the pinched tension that shows preoccupation. 

Her mind indeed harboured a good many disagreeable thoughts. In the firstplace she was pondering the qualities of a certain drug lately recommendedas a sedative to her mistress. It seemed to Dalgetty that its effect hadnot been good, but evil; or rather that it acted capriciously, exciting asoften as it soothed. Yet Miss Alice would take it. On coming to her roomafter her interview with her brother, she had fallen first into a long fitof weeping, and then, after much restless pacing to and fro, she had puther hands to her head in a kind of despair, and had bidden Dalgetty giveher 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 andwild that the maid's heart had quaked within her. Nevertheless she hadtried to keep the new medicine away from her mistress. But Miss Alice hadshown such uncontrollable anger on being crossed, that there was nothingfor it but to yield. And as all was quiet in her room, Dalgetty hoped thatthis time the medicine would prove to be a friend, and not a foe, and thatthe poor lady would wake up calmer and less distraught. 

She was certainly worse--much worse. The maid guessed at Mr. Manisty'sopinion; she divined the approach of some important step. Very likely shewould soon be separated from her mistress; and the thought depressed her. Not only because she had an affection for her poor charge; but also becauseshe was a rather lazy and self-indulgent woman. Miss Alice had been verytrying certainly; but she was not exacting in the way of late hours andneedlework; she had plenty of money, and she liked moving about. All thesequalities suited the tastes of the maid, who knew that she would not easilyobtain 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. Hewas an old man with beautiful blue eyes, and he seemed to Dalgetty to havea nervous timid air. 

Alfredo had gone to ask Mr. Manisty whether he could receive thisgentleman--and meanwhile the stranger stood there twisting his long bonyhands, 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 camethrough the library, and stood in the doorway of the passage room where shesat. 

'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 haveheard nothing this half-hour. '

Manisty looked relieved, repeated his injunctions to be watchful, and wentback 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 glasspassage to the balcony and the lake. It was hot, and she was tired of hersewing. The balcony however was in deep shade, and a breath of cool aircame up from the lake. Dalgetty could not resist it. She glanced at hermistress's door and listened a moment. All silence. 

She put down her work and slipped through the glass passage on to the broadstone balcony. 

There her ears were suddenly greeted with a sound of riotous shouting andsinging 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 ashe might have spoken to a child--'_Festa!_'

And Dalgetty began to see a number of carts adorned with green boughs andfilled with singing people, coming along the road. Each cart had a band ofgirls dressed alike--red, white, orange, blue, and so forth. 

Alfredo endeavoured to explain that these were Romans who after visitingthe church of the 'Madonna del Divino Amore' in the plain were now bound toan evening of merriment at Albano. According to him it was not so much acase of 'divino amore' as of 'amore di vino, ' and he was very anxious thatthe English maid should understand his pun. She laughed--pretended--showedoff her few words of Italian. She thought Alfredo a funny, handsome littleman, 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 hastilycrossing the glass passage, she returned to her post. All was just as shehad left it. She listened at Miss Alice's door. Not a sound was to beheard; and she resumed her sewing. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Manisty and Eleanor were busy with Father Benecke. The poorpriest had come full of a painful emotion, which broke its bounds as soonas he had Manisty's hand in his. 

'You got my letter?' he said. 'That told you my hopes were dead--that thesands for me were running out?--Ah! my kind friend--there is worse to tellyou!'

He stood clinging unconsciously to Manisty's hand, his eyes fixed upon theEnglishman's face. 

'I had submitted. The pressure upon me broke me down. I had given way. Theybrought me a message from the Holy Father which wrung my heart. Next weekthey were to publish the official withdrawal--"_librum reprobavit, et selaudabiliter subjecit_"--you know the formula? But meanwhile they askedmore of me. His Eminence entreated of me a private letter that he mightsend it to the Holy Father. So I made a condition. I would write, --but theymust promise, on their part, that nothing should be published beyond theformal submission, --that my letter should be for his eyes alone, and forthe Pope. They promised, --oh! not in writing--I have nothing written!--so Iwrote. 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 _OsservatoreRomano_! To-morrow!--I came to tell you--I withdraw it. I withdraw mysubmission!'

He drew himself up, his blue eyes shining. Yet they were swollen withfatigue and sleeplessness, and over the whole man a blighting breath of ageand 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, turnedto leave the room. The priest perceived it. 

'Don't leave us, madame, on my account. I have no secrets, and I know thatyou are acquainted with some at least of my poor history. But perhaps I amintruding; I am in your way?'

He looked round him in bewilderment. It was evident to Eleanor that hehad come to Manisty in a condition almost as unconscious of outwardsurroundings as that of the sleep-walker. And she and Manisty, on theirside, as they stood looking at him, lost the impression of the bodily manin the overwhelming impression of a wounded spirit, struggling with mortalhurt. 

'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 ofcoffee. He took it with an unsteady hand and put it down beside himuntouched. Then he looked at Manisty and began in detail the story of allthat had happened to him since the letter in which he had communicated tohis English friend the certainty of his condemnation. 

Nothing could have been more touching than his absorption in his owncase; his entire unconsciousness of anything in Manisty's mind that couldconflict with it. Eleanor turning from his tragic simplicity to Manisty'sill-concealed worry and impatience, pitied both. That poor Father Beneckeshould have brought his grief to Manisty, on this afternoon of allafternoons!

It had been impossible to refuse to see him. He had come a pilgrimage fromRome and could not be turned away. But she knew well that Manisty's ear waslistening all the time for every sound in the direction of his sister'sroom; his anxieties indeed betrayed themselves in every restless movementas he sat with averted head--listening. 

Presently he got up, and with a hurried 'Excuse me an instant'--he left theroom. 

Father Benecke ceased to speak, his lips trembling. To find himself alonewith Mrs. Burgoyne embarrassed him. He sat, folding his soutane upon hisknee, answering in monosyllables to the questions that she put him. Buther 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 naturaleloquence returning to him. He was a South German, but he spoke a fineliterary English, of which the very stumbles and occasional naïvetés hada peculiar charm; like the faults which reveal a pure spirit even moreplainly 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. Itwas the soldier falling by the wall. But my letter must necessarily bemisunderstood--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 wasdistressed--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--Ihave brought it you--the _Osservatore Romano_. It is insolent--brutal--butnot to me! No, it is all honey to me! But to the truth--to ourideas. --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, andhanded 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 youcounted the cost? You know my point of view! It's one episode, for me, in aworld-wide struggle. Intellectually I am all with you--strategically, allwith them. They can't give way! The smallest breach lets in the flood. Andthen, chaos!'

'But the flood is truth!' said the old man, gazing at Manisty. There was aspot of red on each wasted cheek. 

Manisty shrugged his shoulders, then dropped his eyes upon the ground, andsat pondering awhile in a moody silence. Eleanor looked at him in someastonishment. It was as though for the first time his habitual paradox hurthim in the wielding--or rather as though he shrank from using what was aconception of the intellect upon the flesh and blood before him. She hadnever yet seen him visited by a like compunction. 

It was curious indeed to see that Father Benecke himself was not affectedby Manisty's attitude. From the beginning he had always instinctivelyappealed from the pamphleteer to the man. Manisty had been frank, brutaleven. But notwithstanding, the sensitive yet strong intelligence of thepriest had gone straight for some core of thought in the Englishmanthat it seemed only he divined. And it was clear that his own utterselflessness--his poetic and passionate detachment from all the objectsof sense and ambition--made him a marvel to Manisty's more turbid andambiguous nature. There had been a mystical attraction between them fromthe first; so that Manisty, even when he was most pugnacious, had yet afilial air and way towards the old man. 

Eleanor too had often felt the spell. Yet to-day there were both in herselfand Manisty hidden forces of fever and unrest which made the pure idealism, the intellectual tragedy of the priest almost unbearable. Neither--fordifferent and hidden reasons--could respond; and it was an infinite reliefto 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 ifthere is anything I can do. '

Eleanor said some parting words of sympathy. The priest bowed to her with agrave courtesy in reply. 

'It will be as God wills, ' he said gently; and then went his way in a sadabstraction. 

Eleanor was left a moment alone. She put her hands over her heart, andpressed them there. 'He suffers from such high things!'--she said toherself in a sudden passion of misery--'and I?'

 * * * * *

Manisty came hurrying back from the staircase, and crossed the libraryto the passage-room beyond. When he saw Dalgetty there, still peacefullysewing, 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 herit's the best sleep Miss Alice has had this many a day. After all, thatstuff 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 ofimmediate and violent outbreak which had possessed Manisty since themorning subsided; and he drew in the _ponente_ with delight. 

Suddenly, however, as they turned into the avenue adorned by the batteredbust of Domitian, Manisty's hand went up to his eyes. He stopped; he gave acry. 

'Good God!'--he said--'She is there!'

And halfway down the shadowy space, Eleanor saw two figures, one white, theother 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 chairwhere 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 bythe over-arching trees. And kneeling beside her, holding both her helplesswrists, 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 sightof her brother, she slowly let fall the hands she held--she slowly rose toher feet. Her tall emaciated form held itself defiantly erect; her eyesflashed hatred. 

'Alice!'--said Manisty, approaching her--'I have something important to sayto you. I have reconsidered our conversation of this morning, and I came totell you so. Come back with me to the library--and let us go into mattersagain. '

He spoke with gentleness, controlling her with a kind look. She shiveredand 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 willbe no time to-night. '

She broke into some passionate reproach, speaking in a thick low voicealmost inaudible. 

He answered it, and she replied. It was a quick dialogue, soothing on hisside, wild on hers. Lucy, who had dragged herself from her attitude ofmortal languor, sat with both hands grasping her chair, staring at thebrother and sister. Eleanor had eyes for none but Manisty. Never had sheseen 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 againsther 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 tellingme of her enemies--her unhappiness--how all her letters are opened--howeverybody hates her--especially Mr. Manisty. She was followed atVenice by people who wished to kill her. One night, she says, shegot into her gondola, in a dark canal, and found there a man with adagger who attacked her. She only just escaped. There were many otherthings, --so--so--horrible!'--said Lucy, covering her eyes. But the nextmoment she raised them. 'Surely, ' she said imploringly, 'surely she isinsane?'

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 woulddie of it! I tried to shake her off just now, several times; but it wasimpossible. '

She tried to control herself, to complain no more, but she trembledfrom head to foot. It was evident that she was under some overmasteringimpression, some overthrow of her own will-power which had unnerved anddisorganised her. Eleanor comforted her as best she could. 

'Dalgetty and Edward will take care of her to-night, '--she said. 'Andto-morrow, she will be sent to some special care. How she escaped from herroom this afternoon I cannot imagine. We were all three on the watch. '

Lucy said nothing. She clung to Eleanor's hand, while long shudderingbreaths, gradually subsiding, passed through her; like the slow departureof some invading force. 

CHAPTER XI

After Manisty had carried off his sister, Eleanor and Lucy sat together inthe garden, talking sometimes, but more often silent, till the sun began todrop towards Ostia and the Mediterranean. 

'You must come in, ' said Eleanor, laying her hand on the girl's. 'The chillis beginning. '

Lucy rose, conscious again of the slight giddiness of fever, and theywalked 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 youthrough this--and I am just nothing but a worry!'

Eleanor smiled. 

'You distract our thoughts, ' she said. 'Nothing could have made this visitof Alice's other than a trial. '

She spoke kindly, but with that subtle lack of response to Lucy's sympathywhich had seemed to spring first into existence on the day of Nemi. Lucyhad never felt at ease with her since then, and her heart, in truth, wasa little sore. She only knew that something intangible and dividing hadarisen between them; and that she felt herself once more the awkward, ignorant girl beside this delicate and high-bred woman, on whose confidenceand friendship she had of course no claim whatever. Already she wasconscious of a certain touch of shame when she thought of her new dressesand of Mrs. Burgoyne's share in them. Had she been after all the meretroublesome intruder? Her swimming head and languid spirits left her theprey of these misgivings. 

Aunt Pattie met them at the head of the long flight of stone stairs whichled 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 andAlice are in the library. '

So they made a round--every room almost in the apartment communicating withevery 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 MissManisty had lit as soon as she set eyes upon her; while the two otherladies murmured to each other in the salon. 

The rich wild light from the Campagna flooded the room; the day sankrapidly and a strange hush crept through the apartment. The womenworking among the olives below had gone home; there were no sounds fromthe Marinata road; and the crackling of the fire alone broke upon thestillness--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 laughout 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 themto him to look at the day she came. I daresay they're quite mad, but he'sreading and discussing them as though they were the most important things, and it pleases her, --poor, poor Alice! First, you know, he quieted her verymuch 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!' saidEleanor, and Miss Manisty, lifting her hands, assented with all the energyher small person could throw into the gesture. 

 * * * * *

Lucy, in the course of dressing for dinner, decided that to sit through ameal was beyond her powers, and that she would be least in the way if shewent to bed. So she sent a message to Miss Manisty, and was soon lying atease, with the window opposite her bed opened wide to Monte Cavo and themoonlit lake. The window on her left hand, which looked on the balcony, she herself had closed and fastened with all possible care. And she hadsatisfied herself that her key was in her door. As soon as Miss Manisty andEleanor 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 hadtaken 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 fromEleanor. Her family pride, as secret as it was intense, could hardly endurethis revelation of the family trouble and difficulty to a comparativestranger, much as she liked the stranger. Nevertheless her compunctionson the subject showed visibly. No cares and attentions could be too muchfor the girl in her charge, who had suffered annoyance at the hands of aManisty, while her own natural protectors were far away. 

'Benson, my dear, will come and look after you the last thing, ' said theold lady, not without a certain stateliness. 'You will lock your door--andI hope you will have a very good night. '

Half an hour later came Mrs. Burgoyne. Lucy's candle was out. A wickfloating on oil gave a faint light in one corner of the room. Across theopen 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 ofEleanor's eyes, the sharp slightness of her form, the dim wreath of hair. 

'You may be quite happy, ' said Eleanor bending over her, and speakingalmost in a whisper. 'She is much quieter. They have given her a strongersleeping draught and locked all the doors--except the door into Dalgetty'sroom. 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 quitestrong 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! inme! You are sure there is nothing else we can do for you?' She spoke in alight, 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 firstthing for news of you. You know she sleeps just beyond you, and you haveonly to cross the dining room to find me. Good-night. Sleep well. '

As Eleanor closed the door behind her, Lucy was conscious of a peculiarsinking of heart. Mrs. Burgoyne had once made all the advances in theirfriendship. Lucy thought of two or three kisses that formerly had greetedher cheek, to which she had been too shy and startled to respond. Now itseemed to her difficult to imagine that Mrs. Burgoyne had ever caressedher, had ever shown herself so sweet and gay and friendly as in those firstweeks when all Lucy's pleasure at the villa depended upon her. What waswrong?--what had she done?

She lay drooping, her hot face pressed upon her hands, pondering the lastfew weeks, thoughts and images passing through her brain with a rapidityand 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 toher 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 adaptedherself to Mr. Manisty's indifference and neglect, as she might haveadapted herself to any other condition of life at the villa. She had madeno efforts. It had seemed to her mere good manners to assume that he didnot want the trouble of her acquaintance, and be done with it. To hernatural American feeling indeed, as the girl of the party, it was strangeand disconcerting that her host should not make much of her. But she hadsoon 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 uponmemory. The semi-darkness of her room was broken by images, brilliant ortormenting--Mr. Manisty's mocking look in the Piazza of St. Peter's--hisunkindness to his cousin--his sweetness to his friend--the aspect, nowpetulant, even childish, and now gracious and commanding beyond any othershe had ever known, which he had worn at Nemi. His face, upturned besideher, as she and her horse climbed the steep path; the extraordinarysignificance, fulness, warmth of the nature behind it; the gradualunveiling of the man's personality, most human, faulty, self-willed, yetperpetually interesting and challenging, whether to the love or hate of thebystander:--these feelings or judgments about her host pulsed through thegirl's mind with an energy that she was powerless to arrest. They did notmake her happy, but they seemed to quicken and intensify all the acts ofthinking and living. 

At last, however, she succeeded in recapturing herself, in beating backthe thoughts which, like troops over-rash on a doubtful field, appearedto be carrying her into the ambushes and strongholds of an enemy. Shewas impatient and scornful of them. For, crossing all these memories ofthings, new or exciting, there was a constant sense of something untoward, something infinitely tragic, accompanying them, developing beside them. Inthis feverish silence it became a nightmare presence filling the room. 

What was the truth about Mr. Manisty and his cousin? Lucy searched her owninnocent mind and all its new awakening perceptions in vain. The intimacyof the friendship, as she had first seen it; the tone used by Mr. Manistythat afternoon in speaking of Mrs. Burgoyne; the hundred small signs of adeep distress in her, of a new detachment in him--Lucy wandered in darknessas she thought of them, and yet with vague pangs and jarring vibrations ofthe 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 thebalcony? No!--it was the loud talking of a group of men on the roadoutside. She shook all over, unable to restrain herself. 'What would UncleBen think of me?' she said to herself in despair. For Uncle Ben loved calmand self-control in women, and had often praised her for not being flightyand foolish, as he in his bachelor solitude conceived most other youngwomen to be. 

She looked down at her bandaged wrist. The wound still ached and burnedfrom the pressure of that wild grip which she had not been able to ward offfrom it. Lucy herself had the strength of healthy youth, but she had felther strength as nothing in Alice Manisty's hands. And the tyranny of thoseblack eyes!--so like her brother's, without the human placable spark--andthe horror of those fierce possessing miseries that lived in them!

Perhaps after all Uncle Ben would not have thought her so cowardly! As shesat up in bed, her hands round her knees, a pitiful home-sickness invadedher. A May scent of roses coming from the wall below the open windowrecalled to her the spring scents at home--not these strong Italian scents, but thin northern perfumes of lilac and lavender, of pine-needles and freshgrass. 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 thegrassy hillsides folded one upon another--and the gleam of a lake amongthem--and on the furthest verge of the kind familiar scene, the blue andshrouded heads of mountain peaks. She dropped her head on her knees, andcould hear the lowing of cattle and the clucking of hens; she saw themeeting-house roof among the trees, and groups scattered through the laneson the way to the prayer meeting, the older women in their stuff dressesand 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. 'MissManisty said, Miss, I was to see you had your key handy. It's there allright--but it is the door that's wrong. Never saw such flimsy things as thedoors in all this place. '

And Benson examined the two flaps of the door, filled with that frankcontempt for the foreigner's powers and intelligence which makes theEnglish race so beloved of Europe. 

'Why, the floor-bolts'll scarcely hold, neither of them; and the lock'sthat loose, it's a disgrace. But I shouldn't think the people that own thisplace had spent a shilling on it since I was born. When you go to lay holdon things they're just tumbling to bits. '

'Oh! never mind, Benson, ' said Lucy--shrinking. 'I'm sure it'll be allright. Thank you--and good-night. '

She and Benson avoided looking at each other; and the maid was far toohighly trained to betray any knowledge she was not asked for. But whenshe had taken her departure Lucy slipped out of bed, turned the key, andtightened the bolts herself. It was true that their sockets in the brickfloor were almost worn away; and the lock-case seemed scarcely to holdupon the rotten wood. The wood-work, indeed, throughout the whole villawas not only old and worm-eaten, but it had been originally of the rudestdescription, meant for summer uses, and a villeggiatura existence in whichprivacy was of small account. The Malestrini who had reared the villa abovethe Campagna in the late seventeenth century had no money to waste on thesuperfluities of doors that fitted and windows that shut; he had spentall he had, and more, on the sprawling _putti_ and fruit wreaths of theceilings, and the arabesques of the walls. And now doors, windows, andshutters alike, shrunken and scorched and blistered by the heat of twohundred summers, were dropping into ruin. 

The handling of this rotten lock and its rickety accompaniments suddenlybrought back a panic fear on Lucy. What if Alice Manisty and the wind, which was already rising, should burst in upon her together? She lookeddown upon her night-gown and her bare feet. Well, at least she would not betaken quite unawares! She opened her cupboard and brought from it a whitewrapper of a thin woollen stuff which she put on. She thrust her feet intoher slippers, and so stood a moment listening, her long hair droppingabout her. Nothing! She lay down, and drew a shawl over her. 'Iwon't--won't--sleep, ' she said to herself. 

And the last sound she was conscious of was the cry of the little downyowl--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 blackand troubled depths of sleep. She opened her eyes. Someone was bending overher. She felt an ineffable horror, but not the smallest astonishment. Herdreams had prophesied; and she saw what she foreknew. 

In the wavering light she perceived a stooping form, and again she noticeda 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 areunhappy. My brother is beginning to love you--you might love him. But thereis some one between you--and there always will be. There is no hope foryou--unless I show you the way out. '

'Miss Manisty!--you oughtn't to be here, ' said Lucy, raising herself higherin bed and trying to speak with absolute self-command. 'Won't you go backto bed--won't you let me take you?'

And she made a movement. Instantly a hand was put out. It seized her armfirst gently, then irresistibly. 

'Don't, don't do that, ' said the voice. 'It makes me angry--and--thathurts. '

Alice Manisty raised her other hand to her head, with a strange piteousgesture. Lucy was struck with the movement of the hand. It was shut oversomething that it concealed. 

'I don't want to make you angry, ' she said, trying to speak gently and keepdown the physical tumult of the heart; 'but it is not good for you to be uplike 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 sleepsometimes--but I don't rest. And it used all to be so happy once--whetherI was awake or asleep. I was extraordinarily happy, all the winter, atVenice. One day Octave and I had a quarrel. He said I was mad--he seemed tobe sorry for me--he held my arms and I saw him crying. But it was quite amistake--I wasn't unhappy then. My brother John was always with me, and hetold me the most wonderful things--secrets that no one else knows. Octavecould never see him--and it was so strange--I saw him so plain. And mymother and father were there too--there was nothing between me and any deadperson. I could see them and speak to them whenever I wished. People speakof 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--onlyyou are not like them. You remember this world still--you know you haveto go back to it. One night John took me--we seemed to go through theclouds--through little waves of white fire--and I saw a city of light, fullof spirits--the most beautiful people, men and women--with their soulsshowing like flames through their frail bodies. They were quite kind--theysmiled and talked to me. But I cried bitterly--because I knew I couldn'tstay with them--in their dear strange world--I must come back--back to allI hated--all that strangled and hindered me. '

The voice paused a moment. Through Lucy's mind certain incredible wordswhich it had spoken echoed and re-echoed. Consciousness did not masterthem; but they made a murmur within it through which other sounds hardlypenetrated. Yet she struggled with herself--she remembered that onlyclearness of brain could save her. 

She raised herself higher on her pillows that she might bring herself moreon 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 pityme. --"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 toanother; one place to another. I could see in a living person the soul ofanother dead long ago. And everything spoke to me--the movement of leaveson a tree--the eyes of an animal--all kinds of numbers and arrangementsthat come across one in the day. Other people noticed nothing. To me it wasall alive--everything was alive. Sometimes I was so happy, so ecstatic, I could hardly breathe. The people who pitied me seemed to me dull andcrawling beings. If they had only known! But now--'

A long breath came from the darkness--a breath of pain. And again thefigure raised its hand to its head. 

'Now--somehow, it is all different. When John comes, he is cold andunkind--he won't open to me the old sights. He shows me things insteadthat shake me with misery--that kill me. My brain is darkening--its powersare dying out. That means that I must let this life go--I must pass intoanother. Some other soul must give me room. Do you understand?'

Closer came the form. Lucy perceived the white face and the dimly burningeyes, she felt herself suffocating, but she dared make no sudden move forfear of that closed hand and what it held. 

'No--I don't understand, ' she said faintly; 'but I am sure--no good cancome to you--from another's harm. '

'What harm would it be? You are beginning to love--and your love will nevermake you happy. My brother is like me. He is not mad--but he has a beingapart. 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. Howcould you complete his life? What have you that he wants? His mind now isfull of you--his senses, his feeling are touched--but in three weeks hewould weary of and despise you. Besides--you know--you know well--that isnot all. There is another woman--whose life you must trample on--and youare 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 changefrom one form of being to another. Give up your life, then--as I will giveup mine. We will escape together. I can guide you--I know the way. We shallfind endless joy--endless power! I shall be with Octave then, as and when Iplease--and you with Edward. Come!'

The face bent nearer, and the iron hold closed again stealthily on thegirl's wrist. Lucy lay with her own face turned away and her eyes shut. Shescarcely breathed. A word of prayer passed through her mind--an image ofher 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 thewindow, and flung back the muslin curtains. Lucy could see her now quiteplainly in the moonlight--the haggard energy of look and movement, the wilddishevelled hair. 

'I knew the end was come--this afternoon, ' said the hurrying voice. 'When Icame out to you, as I walked along the terrace--the sun went out! I saw itturn black above the Campagna--all in a moment--and I said to myself, "Whatwill the world do without the sun?--how will it live?" And now--do yousee?'--she raised her arm, and Lucy saw it for an instant as a black baragainst the window, caught the terrible dignity of gesture, --'there is notone moon--but many! Look at them! How they hurry through the clouds--oneafter the other! Do you understand what that means? Perhaps not--for yoursight is not like mine. But I know. It means that the earth has left itsorbit--that we are wandering--wandering in space--like a dismasted vessel!We are tossed this way and that, sometimes nearer to the stars--andsometimes further away. That is why they are first smaller--and thenlarger. But the crash must come at last--death for the world--death for usall--'

Her hands fell to her side, the left hand always tightly closed--her headdrooped; her voice, which had been till now hoarse and parched as thoughit came from a throat burnt with fever, took a deep dirge-like note. Noiselessly Lucy raised herself--she measured the distance between herselfand the door--between the mad woman and the door. Oh God!--was the doorlocked? Her eyes strained through the darkness. How deep her sleep musthave been that she had heard no sound of its yielding! Her hand wasready to throw off the shawl that covered her, when she was startledby a laugh--a laugh vile and cruel that seemed to come from a newpresence--another being. Alice Manisty rapidly came back to her, stoodbetween her bed and the wall, and Lucy felt instinctively that some hideouschange had passed. 

'Dalgetty thought that all was safe, so did Edward. And indeed the lockswere safe--the only doors that hold in all the villa--I tried _yours_ inthe afternoon while Manisty and the priest were talking! But mine held. SoI had to deal with Dalgetty. ' She stooped, and whispered:--'I got it inVenice one day--the chemist near the Rialto. She might have found it--butshe never did--she is very stupid. I did her no harm--I think. But if itkills 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 herselfaside in time--she sprang up--she rushed--she tore at the door--pullingat it with a frantic strength. It yielded with a crash, for the lockwas 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 fledon. She had perhaps ten seconds start, since the bed had been betweenher enemy and the door. But if any other door interposed between her andsuccour, all was over!--for she heard a horrible cry behind her, and knewthat she was pursued. On she dashed, across the landing at the head of thestairs. 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 fromthe library--a chair overturned--a cry--a door flung open. Manisty stood inthe light. 

He bounded to her side. His strength released hers. The upper part of thedoor was glass, and that dark gasping form on the other side of it wasvisible 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 thechair that Manisty had just quitted, --and with a long shudder that relaxedall her young limbs, her senses left her. 

Meanwhile the whole apartment was alarmed. The first to arrive upon thescene was the strong housemaid, who found Alice Manisty stretched uponthe floor of the glass passage, and her brother kneeling beside her, hisclothes and hands torn in the struggle with her delirious violence. Alfredoappeared immediately afterwards; and then Manisty was conscious of theflash 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 hissister 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 happenedto Dalgetty. '

He took for granted that Lucy had taken refuge with her, and Eleanor stayedto ask no questions, but fled on to Dalgetty's room. As she opened thedoor the fumes of chloroform assailed her, and there on the bed lay theunfortunate maid, just beginning to moan herself back to consciousness frombeneath the chloroformed handkerchief that had reduced her to impotence. 

Her state demanded every care. While Manisty and the housemaid Andreinaconveyed Alice Manisty, now in a state of helpless exhaustion, to her room, and secured her there, Alfredo ran for the Marinata doctor. Eleanor andAunt Pattie forced brandy through the maid's teeth, and did what they couldto bring back warmth and circulation. 

They were still busy with their task when the elderly Italian arrived whowas 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, andhe threw himself into his work without more questions than were absolutelynecessary. In the midst of their efforts Manisty reappeared, panting. 

'Ought he not to see Miss Foster too?' he said anxiously to EleanorBurgoyne. 

Eleanor looked at him in astonishment. 

A smothered exclamation broke from him. He rushed away, back to the librarywhich he had seen Lucy enter. 

The cool clear light was mounting. It penetrated the wooden shutters ofthe library and mingled with the dying light of the lamp which had servedhim to read with through the night, beside which, in spite of his utmostefforts, he had fallen asleep at the approach of dawn. There, in thedream-like illumination, he saw Lucy lying within his deep arm-chair. Herface was turned away from him and hidden against the cushion; her blackhair 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 andhelplessness were lovely; she was noble in her defeat; her very abandonmentbreathed youth and purity; the man's wildly surging thoughts sank abashed. 

But words escaped him--words giving irrevocable shape to feeling. For hesaw that she could not hear. 

'Lucy!--Lucy--dear, beautiful Lucy!'

He hung over her in an ardent silence, his eyes breathing a respect thatwas the very soul of passion, his hand not daring to touch even a fold ofher dress. Meanwhile the door leading to the little passage-room openednoiselessly. Eleanor Burgoyne entered. Manisty was not aware of it. He bentabove Lucy in a tender absorption speaking to her as he might have spokento a child, calling to her, comforting and rousing her. His deep voice hadan enchanter's sweetness; and gradually it wooed her back to life. She didnot 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. Manistystarted back and looked round him. 

'Eleanor!--is that you?'

In the barred and ghostly light Eleanor came slowly forward. She lookedfirst 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 herroom. She escaped by a marvel. When I wrestled with Alice, I found this inher 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, atits sharpness and its curved point. 

Eleanor too shuddered. She laid her hand on Lucy's shoulder, while Manistywithdrew into the shadows of the room. 

Lucy raised herself by a great effort. Her first half-conscious impulse wasto throw herself into the arms of the woman standing by her. Then as sheperceived 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 toher feet. 

A sudden gleam of natural feeling lit up the frozen whiteness of Eleanor'sface. She threw her arm round Lucy's waist, guiding her. And so, closelyentwined, the two passed from Manisty's sight. 

CHAPTER XII

The sun had already deserted the eastern side of the villa when, on themorning following these events, Lucy woke from a fitful sleep to findBenson standing beside her. Benson had slept in her room since the dawn;and, thanks to exhaustion and the natural powers of youth, Lucy came backto consciousness, weak but refreshed, almost free from fever and in fullpossession of herself. Nevertheless, as she raised herself in bed to drinkthe tea that Benson offered her--as she caught a glimpse through the openwindow 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 intoanother room of life. The young soul at such times trembles before apower unknown, yet tyrannously felt. All in a moment without our knowledgeor co-operation something has happened. Life will never be again as itwas last week. 'How?--or why?' the soul cries. 'I knew nothing--willednothing. ' And then dimly, through the dark of its own tumult, the veiledDestiny 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 youare. They're expecting the doctor from Rome directly. '

The maid looked at her curiously. All that the household knew was thatMiss Alice Manisty had escaped from her room in the night, after pinioningDalgetty's arms and throwing a chloroformed handkerchief over her face. Miss Foster, it seemed, had been aroused and alarmed, and Mr. Manistycoming 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 theshutters and looped the curtains, the girl watched the summer light conquerthe 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 beenhelping him with the arrangements. I am sure it'll be a blessing when thepoor 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, thathe had been ordering a carriage, and that it was supposed two nurses werecoming with the doctor. Then she enquired whether she might carry good newsof Lucy to Miss Manisty and the master. 

Lucy hurriedly begged they might be told that she was quite well, andnobody was to take the smallest trouble about her any more. Benson threw asceptical look at the girl's blanched cheek, shook her head a little, anddeparted. 

A few minutes afterwards there was a light tap at the door and EleanorBurgoyne 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. 'Ishould 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 thenresumed--'If you should hear anything disagreeable don't be alarmed. Therewill be a doctor and nurses. But she is quite quiet this morning--quitebroken--poor soul! My cousins are going into Rome with her. The home whereshe will be placed is on Monte Mario. Edward wishes to assure himself thatit is all suitable and well managed. And Aunt Pattie will go with him. '

Through the girl's mind flashed the thought--'Then _we_ shall bealone together all day, '--and her heart sank. She dared not look intoMrs. Burgoyne's tired eyes. The memory of words spoken to her in thedarkness--of that expression she had surprised on Mrs. Burgoyne's face asshe woke from her swoon in the library, suddenly renewed the nightmare inwhich she had been living. Once more she felt herself walking among snaresand shadows, with a trembling pulse. 

Yet the feeling which rose to sight was nothing more than a stronger formof that remorseful tenderness which had been slowly invading her duringmany 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 myway 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, andneither of them Mr. Manisty. 

She took a book from her table and tried not to listen. But she could notdistract her mind from the whole scene which she imagined must be goingon, --the consultation of the doctors, the attitude of the brother. 

How had Mr. Manisty dealt with his sister the night before? What weaponwas in Alice Manisty's hand? Lucy remembered no more after that moment atthe 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 toldher. Ah!--he had surely been kind, though strong. Her eyes filled. Shethought of the new light in which he had appeared to her during theseterrible days with his sister; the curb put on his irritable, exactingtemper; his care of Alice, his chivalry towards herself. In another mansuch conduct would have been a matter of course. In Manisty it touched andcaptured, because it could not have been reckoned on. She had done himinjustice, and--unknowing--he had revenged himself. 

The first carriage apparently drove away; and after an interval anotherreplaced it. Nearly an hour passed:--then sudden sounds of trampling feetand 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 hiddenherself, could see freely through the wooden strips of the shutter. 

Ah!--sad procession! Manisty came first through the passage, the sidesof which were open to the balcony. His sister was on his arm, veiled andin black. She moved feebly, sometimes hesitating and pausing, and Lucydistinguished the wild eyes, glancing from side to side. But Manisty benthis fine head to her; his left hand secured hers upon his arm; he spoketo her gently and cheerfully. Behind walked Aunt Pattie, very small andnervously pale, followed by a nurse. Then two men--Lucy recognised one asthe Marinata doctor--and another nurse; then Alfredo, with luggage. 

They passed rapidly out of her sight. But the front door was immediatelybelow the balcony, and her ear could more or less follow the departure. Andthere was Mrs. Burgoyne, leaning over the balcony. Mr. Manisty spoke to herfrom below. Lucy fancied she caught her own name, and drew back indignantwith herself for listening. 

Then a sound of wheels--the opening of the iron gate--the driving up ofanother carriage--some shouting between Alfredo and Andreina--and it wasall over. The villa was at peace again. 

Lucy drew herself to her full height, in a fierce rigidity ofself-contempt. What was she still listening for--still hungering for? Whatseemed to have gone suddenly out of heaven and earth, with the cessation ofone voice?

She fell on her knees beside her bed. It was natural to her to pray, tothrow herself on a sustaining and strengthening power. Such prayer in sucha nature is not the specific asking of a definite boon. It is rather awordless aspiration towards a Will not our own--a passionate longing, inthe old phrase, to be 'right with God, ' whatever happens, and through allthe 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 sittingnear the western window with her sketching things about her. Some westernclouds had come up from the sea to veil the scorching heat with which theday had opened. Eleanor had thrown the sun-shutters hack, and was finishingand 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 ather work. 'What hobby do you fly to?'

'I mend the house-linen, and I tie down the jam, ' said Lucy, laughing. 'Youhave heard me play--so you know I don't do that well! And I can't draw ahay-stack. '

'You play very well, ' said Eleanor embarrassed, as they moved towards thedining-room. 

'Just well enough to send Uncle Ben to sleep when he's tired! I learnt itfor 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 blacktransparent dress, toyed with her food, eat nothing, and complained of thewaits between the courses. 

Lucy reminded her that there were fifty steps between the kitchen and theirapartment. Eleanor did not seem to hear her; she had apparently forgottenher own remark, and was staring absently before her. When she spoke nextit was about London, and the June season. She had promised to take a youngcousin, just 'come out, ' to some balls. Her talk about her plans wascareless and languid, but it showed the woman naturally at home in thefashionable world, with connections in half the great families, and accessto 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 nothingof it to-day, and Lucy felt that she could never venture to remind her. 

From Eleanor's disjointed talk, also, there flowed another subtleimpression. Lucy realised what kinship means to the English wealthy andwell-born class--what a freemasonry it establishes, what opportunities itconfers. The Manistys and Eleanor Burgoyne were part of a great clan withinnumerable memories and traditions. They said nothing of them; they merelytook 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 Englishassumption in her new acquaintances would have been enough, six weeksbefore, 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 harassedand crippled. She sat with downcast eyes, constrainedly listening andsometimes replying. No--it was very true. Mr. Manisty was not of her world. He had relations, friendships, affairs, infinitely remote from hers--noneof which could mean anything to her. Whereas his cousin's links withhim were the natural inevitable links of blood and class. He might beunsatisfactory 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 hadestablished itself between them. Lucy was silent; Eleanor restless. 

Alfredo brought the coffee. Mrs. Burgoyne looked at her watch as heretired. 

'Half past one, ' she said in a reflective voice. 'By now they have made allarrangements. '

'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 herroom. '

Then Eleanor's eyes dwelt broodingly on Lucy. She had never yet questionedthe 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 knewnothing of Manisty's discovery of the weapon in Alice's hand. While she washelping the girl to bed, Lucy, in her dazed and shivering submission, wastrue to her natural soberness and reserve. Instead of exaggerating, she hadminimised what had happened. Miss Alice Manisty had come to her room, --hadbehaved strangely, --and Lucy, running to summon assistance, had roused Mr. Manisty in the library. No doubt she might have managed better, both thenand in the afternoon. And so, with a resolute repression of all excitedtalk, she had turned her blanched face from the light, and set herself togo to sleep, as the only means of inducing Mrs. Burgoyne also to leave herand rest. 

Eleanor's present question, however, set the girl's self-controlfluttering, so sharply did it recall the horror of the night. She curbedherself visibly before replying. 

'Yes, --I was frightened. But I don't think she could have hurt me. I shouldhave 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 hetold me to go to you. And I tried to. But I only just managed to get tothat 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 sawyou. '

Eleanor's thought drew certain inferences. But they gave her littlecomfort. She turned away abruptly, complaining of the heat, and went to thepiano. 

Lucy sat listening, with a book on her knee. Everything seemed to havegrown strangely unreal in this hot silence of the villa--the high roomwith its painted walls--the marvellous prospect outside, just visible insections through the half-closed shutters--herself and her companion. Mrs. Burgoyne played snatches of Brahms and Chopin; but her fingers stumbledmore than usual. Her attention seemed to wander. 

Inevitably the girl's memory went back to the wild things which AliceManisty had said to her. In vain she rebuked herself. The fancies of amad-woman were best forgotten, --so common-sense told her. But over theunrest of her own heart, over the electrical tension and dumb hostilitythat had somehow arisen between her and Eleanor Burgoyne, common-sensehad small power. She could only say to herself with growing steadiness ofpurpose that it would be best for her not to go to Vallombrosa, but to makearrangements 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 ofEleanor's sketches, which was lying on the table. Most of them she had seenbefore, 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. Herewas the niched wall of the Nemi temple; the arched recesses overgrown withilex and fig and bramble; in front the strawberry pickers stooping totheir work. Here, an impressionist study of the lake at evening, with thewooded height of Genzano breaking the sunset; here a sketch from memory ofAristodemo teasing the girls. Below this drawing, lay another drawing offigures. Lucy drew it out, and looked at it in bewilderment. 

At the foot of it was written--'The Slayer and the Slain. ' Her thoughtsrushed back to her first evening at the villa--to the legend of the priest. The sketch indeed contained two figures--one erect and triumphant, theother crouching on the ground. The prostrate figure was wrapped in a cloakwhich 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 classicaldress 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, thendropped them to the drawing again, in a sudden horror of recognition. Andthe piteous figure on the ground, with the delicate woman's hand?--Lucycaught her breath. It was as though the blow at her heart, which Manistyhad averted the night before, had fallen. 

Then she became aware that Eleanor had turned round upon her seat at thepiano, and was watching her. 

'I was looking at this strange drawing, ' she said. Her face had turned asudden 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, supportingherself 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 flutteringbreath. 'A vision came to me so--of you--and me. '

Lucy started. Then she put her arms on the table and dropped her face intoher arms. Her voice became a low and thrilling murmur that just reachedEleanor's ears. 

'I wish--oh! how I wish--that I had never come here!'

Eleanor wavered a moment, then she said with gentleness, even withsweetness:

'You have nothing to blame yourself for. Nor has anyone. That pictureaccuses no one. It draws the future--which no one can stop or change--butyou. '

'In the first place, ' said Lucy, still hiding her eyes and the bitter tearsthat dimmed them--'what does it mean? Why am I the slayer?--and--and--youthe 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 takefrom me--the last thing left to me on this earth! I have had one chance ofhappiness, and only one, in all my life, till now. My boy is dead--he hasbeen dead eight years. And at last I had found another chance--and afterseven 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 aretoo good--too loyal. That's why I am talking like this. One could only dareit with some one whose heart one knew. Oh! I have had such gusts of feelingtowards you--such mean, poor feeling. And then, as I sat playing there, Isaid to myself, "I'll tell her! She will find that drawing, and--I'll tellher! She has a great, true nature--she'll understand. Why shouldn't one tryto 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 whichinterrupted her. Then she moved a little nearer to Lucy. 

'You see, ' she said, appealing, --'you were very sweet and tender to me oneday. It's very easy to pretend to mourn with other people--because onethinks one ought--or because it makes one liked. I am always pretending inthat 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 themselvesupon you--taking advantage--trusting to you. You pitied mo because I hadlost my boy. But you didn't know--you couldn't guess how bare my life hasbeen always--but for him. And then--this winter--' her voice changed andbroke--'the sun rose again for me. I have been hungry and starving foryears, and it seemed as though I--even I!--might still feast and besatisfied. 

'It would not have taken much to satisfy me. I am not young, like you--Idon't ask much. Just to be his friend, his secretary, his companion--intime--perhaps--his wife--when he began to feel the need of home, andpeace--and to realise that no one else was so dear or so familiar to himas 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 intoeach other's lives--I ministering to him and he growing accustomed tothe atmosphere I could surround him with, and the sympathy I could givehim--till the habit had grown so deep into heart and flesh that it couldnot be wrenched away. His hand would have dropped into mine, almost withouthis willing or knowing it.... And I should have made him happy. I couldhave lessened his faults--stimulated his powers. That was my dream allthese later months--and every week it seemed to grow more reasonable, morepossible. Then you came--'

She dropped into a chair beside Lucy, resting her delicate hands on theback of it. In the mingled abandonment and energy of her attitude, therewas the power that belongs to all elemental human emotion, made franklyvisible and active. All her plaintive clinging charm had disappeared. Itwas the fierceness of the dove--the egotism of the weak. Every line andnerve of the fragile form betrayed the exasperation of suffering and atension of the will, unnatural and irresistible. Lucy bowed to the storm. She lay with her eyes hidden, conscious only of this accusing voice closeto her, --and of the song of two nightingales without, rivalling each otheramong the chestnut trees above the lower road. Eleanor resumed after amomentary pause--a momentary closing of the tired eyes, as though in searchof calm and recollection. 

'You came. He took no notice of you. He was rude and careless--hecomplained that our work would be interrupted. It teased him that youshould be here--and that you represented something so different from histhoughts and theories. That is like him. He has no real tolerance. He wantsto fight, to overbear, to crush, directly he feels opposition. Among womenespecially, he is accustomed to be the centre--to be the master always. And you resisted--silently. That provoked and attracted him. Then came thedifficulties with the book--and Mr. Neal's visit. He has the strangestsuperstitions. It was ill-luck, and I was mixed up with it. He began tocool 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 passedaway 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 sonatural. Yet somehow I never really feared--after the first evening I feltquite at ease. I found myself drawn to like--to love--you. And what couldyou and he have in common? Then on the Nemi day I dared to reproach him--toappeal to the old times--to show him the depth of my own wound--to make himexplain himself. Oh! but all those words are far, far too strong for whatI did? Who could ever suppose it to their advantage to make a scene withhim--to weary or disgust him? It was only a word--a phrase or two here andthere. But he understood, --and he gave me my answer. Oh! what humiliationswe 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 twoslow tears that had forced their way. Lucy's eyes had been drawn to herfrom 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, thata flash of light came to me. I suppose I had seen it before. I know Ihad been unhappy long before! But as long as one can hide things fromoneself--it seems to make them not true, --as though one's own will stillcontrolled them. But that day--after our walk--when we came back and foundyou on the hill-side! How was it your fault? Yet I could almost havebelieved that you had invented the boys and the stone! Certainly he sparedme nothing. He had eyes and ears only for you. After he brought you homeall his thoughts were for you. Nobody else's fatigues and discomfortsmattered anything. And it was the same with Alice. His only terrorswere for you. When he heard that she was coming, he had no alarms forAunt Pattie or for me. But you must be shielded--you must be saved fromeverything repulsive or shocking. He sat up last night to protect you--andeven in his sleep--he heard you. '

Her voice dropped. Eleanor sat staring before her into the golden shadowsof the room, afraid of what she had said, instinctively waiting for itseffect on Lucy. 

And Lucy crouched no longer. She had drawn herself erect. 

'Mrs. Burgoyne, is it kind--is it _bearable_--that you should say thesethings to me? I have not deserved them! No! no!--I have _not_. What righthave 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, andyet 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 ofpoverty--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 theprotest of her young modesty seem a mere trifling and impertinence. Eleanorhad slid to her knees. Her face had grown tremulous and sweet. A strangedignity quivered in the smile that transformed her mouth as she caught thegirl's reluctant hands and drew them against her breast. 

'Is it forbidden to cry out when grief--and loss--go beyond a certainpoint? No!--I think not. I couldn't struggle with you--or plot againstyou--or hate you. Those things are not in my power. I was not made so. Butwhat forbids mo to come to you and say?--"I have suffered terribly. I had adreary home. I married, ignorantly, a man who made me miserable. But whenmy boy came, that made up for all. I never grumbled. I never envied otherpeople 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 inSwitzerland, there was only one thing that made it endurable. I overheardthe Swiss doctor say to my maid--he was a kind old man and very sorry forme--that my own health was so fragile that I shouldn't live long to pinefor the child. But oh!--what we can bear and not die! I came back to myfather, and for eight years I never slept without crying--without the ghostof the boy's head against my breast. Again and again I used to wake up inan ecstasy, feeling it there--feeling the curls across my mouth. "' A deepsob choked her. Lucy, in a madness of pity, struggled to release herselfthat she might throw her arms round the kneeling figure. But Eleanor'sgrasp only tightened. She hurried on. 

'But last year, I began to hope. Everybody thought badly of me; the doctorsspoke very strongly; and even Papa made no objection when Aunt Pattie askedme to come to Rome. I came to Rome in a strange state--as one looks atthings 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--exceptfor the child--that had ever come my way. I know--oh! I don't deceivemyself--I know it was not the same to Edward as to me. But I don't askmuch. I knew he had given the best of his heart to other women--longago--long before this. But the old loves were all dead, and I couldalmost be thankful for them. They had kept him for me, I thought, --tamedand exhausted him, so that I--so colourless and weak compared to thoseothers!--might just slip into his heart and find the way open--that hemight just take me in, and be glad, for sheer weariness. '

She dropped Lucy's hands, and rising, she locked her own, and began to walkto and fro in the great room; her head thrown back, her senses turned as itwere 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 withMiss 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 haddone. '

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 onher check, but she was thinking, and quite calm. 

'I believe, ' she said at last, in a voice that was almost steady--'thatall your fears are quite, quite vain. Mr. Manisty feels for me nothingbut a little kindness--he could feel nothing else. It will all comeback to you--and it was not I that took it away. But--whatever you tellme--whatever you ask, I will do. '

With a catching breath Eleanor turned and threw her arm round the girl'sneck. 

'Stay, ' she breathed--'stay for a few days. Let there be no shock--nothingto challenge him. Then slip away--don't let him know where--and there isone woman in the world who will hold you in her inmost heart, who will prayfor you with her secretest, sacredest prayers, as long as you live!'

The two fell into each other's embrace. Lucy, with the maternal tendernessthat should have been Eleanor's, pressed her lips on the hot brow thatlay upon her breast, murmuring words of promise, of consolation, ofself-reproach, feeling her whole being passing out to Eleanor's in a greattide 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 politicaland domestic difficulties, culminating in the mutiny of his Neapolitancook--had been able to carry out his whim. A luncheon had been arranged forthe young American girl who had taken his fancy. At the head of his housefor the time being was his married daughter, Lady Mary, who had come fromIndia for the winter to look after her babies and her father. When shewas told to write the notes for this luncheon, she lifted her eyebrows ingood-humoured astonishment. 

'My dear, ' said the Ambassador, 'we have been doing our duty for sixmonths--and I find it pall!'

He had been entertaining Royalties and Cabinet Ministers in heavysuccession, and his daughter understood. There was an element ofinsubordination 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 ofeverything. '

Lady Mary did her best. She invited an Italian Marchesa whom she had heardher father describe as 'the ablest woman in Rome, ' while she herself knewher as one of the most graceful and popular; a young Lombard landownerformerly in the Navy, now much connected with the Court, whose blue eyesmoreover were among the famous things of the day; a Danish professor andsavant who was also a rich man, collector of flints and torques, and othermatters of importance to primitive man; an artist or two; an AmericanMonsignore blessed with some Irish wit and much influence; Reggie Brooklyn, of course, and his sister; Madame Variani, who would prevent Mr. Manistyfrom talking too much nonsense; and a dull English Admiral and his wife, official guests, whom the Ambassador admitted at the last moment with agroan, as still representing the cold tyranny of duty invading his snatchof pleasure. 

'And Mr. Bellasis, papa?' said Lady Mary, pausing, pen in hand, likeFortitude 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 waitedfor the ladies to appear. Miss Manisty, who was already suffering from theheat, was not going. The fact did not improve Manisty's temper. Three is nocompany--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. Itwould be a sickening waste of time. Nothing now had any attraction for him, nothing seemed to him desirable or important, but that conversation withLucy Foster which he was bent on securing, and she apparently was bent onrefusing him. 

His mind was full of the sense of injury. During all the day before, whilehe had been making the arrangements for his unhappy sister--during thejourneys backward and forward to Rome--a delicious image had filled allthe background of his thoughts, the image of the white Lucy, helpless andlovely, lying unconscious in his chair. 

In the evening he could hardly command his eagerness sufficiently to helphis tired little aunt up the steps of the station, and put her safely inher 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 thepath below, weak and shaken, yet ready to lift those pure, tender eyes ofhers to his in a shy gratitude?

He had found no one on the balcony, and the evening of that trying day hadbeen one of baffling disappointment. Eleanor was in her room, apparentlytired out by the adventures of the night before; and although Miss Fosterappeared at dinner she had withdrawn immediately afterwards, and there hadbeen 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 verytiring day--'

Bah!--he could not have believed that a girl could speak so formally, sotrivially to a man who within twenty-four hours had saved her from theattack of a madwoman. For that was what it came to--plainly. Did sheknow what had happened? Had her swoon blotted it all out? If so, was hejustified in revealing it. There was an uneasy feeling that it would bemore chivalrous towards her, and kinder towards his sister, if he left theveil drawn, seeing that she seemed to wish it so--if he said no more abouther fright, her danger, her faint. But Manisty was not accustomed to lethimself be governed by the scruples of men more precise or more timid. Hewished passionately to force a conversation with her more intimate, morepersonal than any one had yet allowed him; to break down at a stroke mostif not all of the barriers that separate acquaintance from--

From what? He stood, cigarette in hand, staring blindly at the garden, lostin an intense questioning of himself. 

Suddenly he found himself back again, as it were, among the feelings andsensations of Lucy Foster's first Sunday at the villa; his repugnancetowards any notion of marriage; his wonder that anybody should suppose thathe had any immediate purpose of marrying Eleanor Burgoyne; the mood, halflazy, half scornful, in which he had watched Lucy, in her prim Sundaydress, walking along the avenue. 

What had attracted him to this girl so different from himself, sounacquainted with his world?

There was her beauty of course. But he had passed the period when merebeauty is enough. He was extremely captious and difficult to please wherethe ordinary pretty woman was concerned. Her arts left him now quiteunmoved. Of self-conscious vanity and love of effect he had himself enoughand to spare. He could not mend himself; but he was often weary of his ownweaknesses, and detested them in other people. If Lucy Foster had beenmerely a beauty, aware of her own value, and bent upon making him aware ofit also, he would probably have been as careless of her now in the eighthweek of their acquaintance as he had been in the first. 

But it was a beauty so innocent, so interfused with suggestion, with anenchanting 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 transformingwhat might otherwise have been a cold seemliness into a soft and delicatemajesty. 

In short, there was a mystery in Lucy, for all her simplicity;--a mysteryof feeling, which piqued and held the fastidious taste of Manisty. It wasthis 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 ofhers. Rather she was clearly and always conscious of weakness, ignorance, inexperience. And it was this lingering childishness, compared with therarity, the strength, the tenderness of the nature just emerging fromthe sheath of first youth, that made her at this moment so exquisitelyattractive 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 atime as though they despised it, there were in him deep stores of thingsinherited and conventional which re-emerged at the fitting moment. Manistydisliked and had thrown aside the rôle of country gentleman; because, intruth, he had not money enough to play it magnificently, and he had sethimself against marriage; because no woman had yet appeared to make theprobable boredoms of it worth while. 

But now, as he walked up and down the balcony, plunged in meditation, hebegan to think with a new tolerance of the English _cadre_ and the Englishlife. 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 thehouse--young, graceful, noble--moving about below them. And even--for thefirst 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 strangecomplacency. 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 roveas they please. But Lucy Foster had given them little warrant. To all hergrowing spell upon him, there was added indeed the charm of difficultyforeseen, and delighted in. He was perfectly aware that he puzzled andattracted 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 farhe had any hold over the senses or the heart of Lucy Foster. He thoughtof her eager praise of his Palestine letters--of the Nemi tale. She wasfranker, more enthusiastic than an English girl would have been--and at thesame time more remote, infinitely more incalculable!

His mind filled with a delicious mingling of desire and doubt. He foresawthe sweet approach of new emotions, --of spells to make 'the colours freshenon this threadbare world. ' All his life he had been an epicurean, in searchof pleasures beyond the ken of the crowd. It was pleasure of this kind thatbeckoned to him now, --in the wooing, the conquering, the developing ofLucy. 

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 uponhim. He knew that he had given her pain at Nemi. He had been a brute, anungrateful brute! Women like Eleanor have very exalted and sensitive idealsof friendship. He understood that he had pulled down Eleanor's ideal, thathe had wounded her sorely. What did she expect of him? Not any of thethings which the ignorant or vulgar bystander expected of him--that hewas certain. But still her claim had wearied him; and he had brushed itaside. His sulkiness about the book had been odious, indefensible. Andyet--perhaps from another point of view--it had not been a bad thing foreither of them. It had broken through habits which had become, surely, anembarrassment to both. 

But now, let him make amends; select fresh ground; and from it rebuildtheir friendship. His mind ran forward hazily to some bold confidence orother, some dramatic appeal to Eleanor for sympathy and help. 

The affection between her and Miss Foster seemed to be growing closer. Hethought of it uncomfortably, and with vague plannings of counter-strokes. It did not suit him--nay, it presented itself somehow as an obstacle in hispath. For he had a half remorseful, half humorous feeling that Eleanor knewhim too well. 

 * * * * *

'Ah! my dear lady, ' said the Ambassador--'how few things in this world onedoes to please oneself! This is one of them. '

Lucy flushed with a young and natural pleasure. She was on the Ambassador'sleft, and he had just laid his wrinkled hand for an instant on hers, with acharming and paternal freedom. 

'Have you enjoyed yourself?--Have you lost your heart to Italy?' said herhost, stooping to her. He was amused to see the transformation in her, thepretty dress, the developed beauty. 

'I have been in fairy-land, ' said Lucy, shyly, opening her blue eyes uponhim. '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. Nevermind--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 thatquiver of youth and enjoyment he had felt in her before, and there weresome very dark lines under the beautiful eyes. What was wrong? Had she metthe man--the appointed one?

He began to talk to her with a kindness that was at once simple andstately. 

'We must all have our ups and downs, ' he said to her presently. 'Let mejust 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 theirblanched lashes. Lucy dropped her fork and looked back at him with smilingexpectancy. 

'_Learn Persian!_' said the old man in an urgent whisper--'and get thedictionary by heart!'

Lucy still looked--wondering. 

'I finished it this morning, ' said the Ambassador, in her ear. 'To-morrow Ishall begin it again. My daughter hates the sight of the thing. She says Iover-tire myself, and that when old people have done their work they shouldtake a nap. But I know that if it weren't for my dictionary, I shouldhave given up long ago. When too many tiresome people dine here in theevening--or when they worry me from home--I take a column. But generallyhalf a column's enough--good tough Persian roots, and no nonsense. Oh! ofcourse I can read Hafiz and Omar Khayyam, and all that kind of thing. Butthat's the whipped cream. That don't count. What one wants is somethingto set one's teeth in. Latin verse will do. Last year I put half TommyMoore into hendecasyllables. But my youngest boy who's at Oxford, said hewouldn't be responsible for them--so I had to desist. And I suppose themathematicians have always something handy. But, one way or another, onemust learn one's dictionary. It comes next to cultivating one's garden. NowMr. Manisty--how is he provided in that way?'

His sudden question took Lucy by surprise, and the quick rise of colour inthe 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'tdo what you like with the dictionary. You must take it or leave it. That'swhat makes it so reposeful. Now if I were asked, I could soon find somePersian roots for Mr. Manisty--to be taken every day!'

Lucy glanced across the table. Her eyes fell, and she said in the low fullvoice 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 thosewould serve. '

He paused a moment, then said seriously, under the cover of a loud buzz oftalk, 'He's wasting his time, dear lady--there's no doubt of that. '

Lucy still looked down, but her attitude changed imperceptibly. 'Thesubject interests her!' thought the old man. 'It's a thousand pities, ' heresumed, with the caution, masked by the ease, of the diplomat, 'he cameout here in a fit of pique. He saw false--and as far as I can hear, thebook's a mistake. Yet it was not a bad subject. Italy _is_ just now anobject lesson and a warning. But our friend there could not have takenit more perversely. He has chosen to attack not the violence of theChurch--but the weakness of the State. And meanwhile--if I may be allowedto say so--his own position is something of an offence. Religion is too biga pawn for any man's personal game. Don't you agree? Often I feel inclinedto apply to him the saying about Benjamin Constant and liberty--"Grandhomme devant la religion--_s'il y croyait!_" I compare with him a poor oldpersecuted priest I know--Manisty knows too. --Ah! well, I hear the book isvery brilliant--and venomous to a degree. It will be read of course. He hasthe power to be read. But it is a blunder--if not a crime. And meanwhilehe is throwing away all his chances. I knew his father. I don't like tosee him beating the air. If you have any influence with him'--the old mansmiled--'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 withoutanother 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 dearfellow, I've asked all the beautiful women I know to marry me, and theywon'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 heartof a stone. '

Madame Variani looked down upon him unmoved. She and the charming lad werefast 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 onewhite hand above the hubbub, while he hollowed the other round his deafear. 'This is a most interesting discussion. '

'But it is known to all that Englishmen don't get married any more!' criedMadame Variani. 'I read in an English novel the other day that it isspoiling your English society, that the charming girls wait and wait--andnobody 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 thisphenomenon, 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 waveof the hand towards Reggie Brooklyn. 'That's what I am told. I ask anEnglish lady, who knows both France and England--and she tells me--youryoung men get now such good cooking at their clubs, and at the messes oftheir regiments--and their sports amuse them so well, and cost so muchmoney--they don't want any wives!--they are not interested any more in thegirls. That is the difference between them and the Frenchman. The Frenchmanis still interested in the ladies. After dinner the Frenchman wants to goand sit with the ladies--the Englishman, no! That is why the French arestill agreeable. '

The small black eyes of the speaker sparkled, but otherwise she lookedround with challenging serenity on the English and Americans around her. Madame Variani--stout, clever, middle-aged, and disinterested--had aposition of her own in Rome. She was the correspondent of a leading Frenchpaper; she had many English friends; and she and the Marchesa Fazzoleni, atthe Ambassador's right hand, had just been doing wonders for the relief ofthe Italian sick and wounded after the miserable campaign of Adowa. 

'Oh! I hide my diminished head!' said the old Ambassador, taking his whitelocks in both hands. 'All I know is, I have sent twenty wedding presentsalready this year--and that the state of my banking account is whollyinconsistent with these theories. '

'Ah! you are exceptional, ' said the lady. 'Only this morning I get anaccount of an English gentleman of my acquaintance. He is nearly forty--hepossesses a large estate--his mother and sisters are on their knees tohim to marry--it will all go to a cousin, and the cousin has forged--orsomething. And he--not he! He don't care what happens to the estate. He hasonly got the one life, he says--and he won't spoil it. And of course itdoes 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 EleanorBurgoyne, and in the distance Manisty's black head and absent smile. Thegirl's young mind was captured by a sudden ghastly sense of the humanrealities underlying the gay aspects and talk of the luncheon-table. Itseemed 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 askmuch. '

She dreaded to let herself think. It seemed to her that Mrs. Burgoyne'ssuffering must reveal itself to all the world, and the girl had moments ofhot shame, as though for herself. To her eyes, the change in aspect andexpression, visible through all the elegance and care of dress, was alreadyterrible. 

Oh! why had she come to Rome? What had changed the world so? Some woundedwrithing thing seemed to be struggling in her own breast--while she washolding 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 breakit to Aunt Pattie that she could not go to Vallombrosa, and must hurry backto England. The girl's pure conscience was tortured already by the thoughtof the excuses she would have to invent. And not a word, till Mr. Manistywas safely started on his way to that function at the Vatican which he wasalready 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 strengthof parties in the recent Roman municipal elections with the AmericanMonsignore, talking with all his usual vehemence. Nevertheless, through itall, it seemed to her, that she was watched, that in some continuous andsubtle 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. AliceManisty's talk in that wild night haunted her ear. Her hand, cold andtremulous, shook on her knee. Even the voice of the Ambassador startledher. 

After luncheon the Ambassador's guests fell into groups on the large shadylawn of the Embassy garden. 

The Ambassador introduced Lucy to the blue-eyed Lombard, Fioravanti, whilehe, pricked with a rueful sense of duty, devoted himself for a time to thewife of the English Admiral who had been Lady Mary's neighbour at luncheon. The Ambassador examined her through his half-closed eyes, as he meeklyoffered to escort her indoors to see his pictures. She was an elegant andfashionable woman with very white and regular false teeth. Her looks wereconventional 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 towear in the garden. 

Meanwhile the gallant and be-whiskered Admiral would have liked to secureManisty's attention. To get hold of a politician, or something near apolitician, and explain to them a new method of fusing metals in which hebelieved, 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. Eleanoraddressed some question to him, but he scarcely answered her. He seemed tobe 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 himselfindignantly. 'And how depressed Eleanor looks! Some fresh worry Isuppose--and all his fault. Now look at that!'

For another group--Lucy, her new acquaintance the Count, and MadameVariani--had crossed the path of the first. And Manisty had left Eleanor'sside to approach Miss Foster. All trace of abstraction was gone. He lookedill at ease, and yet excited; his eyes were fixed upon the girl. He stoopedtowards her, speaking in a low voice. 

'There's something up'--thought Brooklyn. 'And if that girl's any hand init 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 perceivedthen that Eleanor was miserably unhappy. No doubt Manisty was disappointingand tormenting her. What else could she expect?

But really--that she should be forsaken and neglected for this chit of agirl--this interloping American--it was too much! Reggie's wrath glowedwithin him. 

Meanwhile Manisty addressed Lucy. 

'I have something I very much wish to say to you. There is a seat by thefountain, 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 walkedimpetuously away; only to be captured however by the Danish Professor, Doctor Jensen, who took no account of bad manners in an Englishman, holdingthem as natural as daylight. The flaxen-haired savant therefore was soonhappily engaged in pouring out upon his impatient companion the whole ofthe latest _Boletino_ of the Accademia. 

Meanwhile Lucy, seeing nothing, it is to be feared, of the beauty of theEmbassy garden, followed her two companions and soon found herself sittingwith them on a stone seat beneath a spreading ilex. In front was a tangledmass of roses; beyond, an old bit of wall with Roman foundations; and inthe hot blue sky above the wall, between two black cypresses, a slenderbrown Campanile--furthest of all a glimpse of Sabine mountains. The air washeavy with the scent of the roses, with the heat that announced the comingJune, with that indefinable meaning and magic, which is Rome. 

Lucy drooped and was silent. The young Count Fioravanti however was not theperson 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 hiscane, displaying to the fullest advantage those china-blue eyes, underthe blackest of curls, which made him so popular in Rome. His irregularand most animated face was full of talent and wilfulness. He liked MadameVariani, and thought the American girl handsome. But it mattered verylittle 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 lookfollowed 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 hishead. 

'Oh! he won't finish it. It's a folly! And I know, for I made him read someof it to me and my sister. No; it is a strange case--is Manisty's. MostEnglishmen 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 thenhe must cut and carve the world to it. But the world is tough--_et ça nemarche pas_! We can't go to ruin to please him. Italy is not falling topieces--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 theKing and Queen for a little bit--but next year, you will see, the Houseof Savoy will be there all the same. And he thinks that our priests willdestroy us. Nothing of the sort. We can manage our priests!'

Madame Variani made a gesture of dissent. Her heavy, handsome face wasturned upon him rather sleepily, as though the heat oppressed her. But herslight frown betrayed, to anyone who knew her, alert attention. 

'We can, I say!' cried the Count, striking his knee. 'Besides, the battleis not ranged as Manisty sees it. There are priests, and priests. Up inmy part of the world the older priests are all right. We landowners whogo with the monarchy can get on with them perfectly. Our old Bishop is adear: 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 ofmischief against the Government. But the Government will win!--Italy willwin! Manisty first of all takes the thing too tragically. He doesn't seethe farce in it. We do. We Italians understand each other. Why, the Vaticanraves and scolds--and all the while, as the Prefect of Police told me onlythe other day, there is a whole code of signals ready between the policeheadquarters and a certain window of the Vatican; so that directly theywant help against the populace they can call us in. And after that functionthe other day--where I saw you, Mademoiselle'--he bowed to Lucy--'one ofthe first things the Vatican did was to send their thanks to the Governmentfor having protected and policed them so well. No; Manisty is in theclouds. ' He laughed good-humouredly. 'We are half acting all the time. TheClericals must have their politics, like other people--only they call itreligion. '

'But your poor starved peasants--and your corruption--and your war?' saidLucy. 

She spoke with energy, frowning a little as though something had nettledher. 'She is like a beautiful nun, ' thought the young man, looking withadmiration at the austere yet charming face. 

'Oh! we shall pull through, ' he said, coolly. 'The war was anabomination--a misery. But we shall learn from it. It will no more ruin usthan a winter storm can ruin the seed in the ground. Manisty is like allthe other clever foreigners who write dirges about us--they don't feel thelife-blood pulsing through the veins as we landowners do. ' He flung out hisclasped hand in a dramatic gesture. 'Come and live with us for a summer onone of our big farms near Mantua--and you shall see. My land brings me justdouble 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 stoodsmiling, cigarette in hand, a tall woman, still young--though she was themother of five robust children. Her closely-fitting black dress somehowresembled a riding-habit; her grey gauntletted gloves drawn to the elbow, her Amazon's hat with its plume, the alertness and grace of the wholeattitude, the brilliancy of her clear black eye--all these carried withthem the same suggestions of open-air life, of health of body and mind--ofa joyous, noble, and powerful personality. 

'Look well at her, ' the Ambassador had said to Lucy as they stepped intothe 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 wouldtake twenty women to do. She has all the practical sense of the north; andall the subtlety of the south. She is one of the people who make me feelthat Italy and England have somehow mysterious affinities that will workthemselves out in history. It seems to me that I could understand all herthoughts--and she mine--if it were worth her while. She is a modern of themoderns; and yet there is in her some of the oldest stuff in the world. Shebelongs, it is true, to a nation in the making--but that nation, in itsearlier forms, has already carried the whole weight of European history!'

And Lucy, looking up to the warm, kind face, felt vaguely comforted andcalmed 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 herboys, who was studying for an examination, out for exercise. 'Oh! theseexaminations--they are _horrors_!' she said, throwing up her hands. 'No--these poor boys!--and they have no games like the English boys. Butyou were speaking about the war--about our poor Italy?'

She paused. She laid her hand on Lucy's shoulder and looked down into thegirl's face. Her eyes became for a moment veiled and misty, as thoughghosts 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 picturesqueEnglish, 'that what Italy has done in forty years is colossal!--not to bebelieved! You have taken a hundred years--you!--to make a nation, and youhave had a big civil war. Forty years--not quite!--since Cavour died. Andall that time Italy has been like that cauldron--you remember?--into whichthey threw the members of that old man who was to become young. There hasbeen a bubbling, and a fermenting! And the scum has come up--and up. And itcomes up still--and the brewing goes on. But in the end the young strongnation will step forth. Now Mr. Manisty--oh! I like Mr. Manisty verywell!--but he sees only the ugly gases and the tumult of the cauldron. Hehas 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 fishto fry. _Sans cela_--!'

He bent forward, staring at Lucy in a boyish absent-mindedness which was nodiscourtesy, 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 touchof southern passion not far off. 

'No; his Italian friends don't mind, ' said Madame Variani. 'But his Englishfriends should look after him. Everybody should be angry wid som-thin--itis 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 isout, it will look absurd. He says we have become atheists, because we don'tlet the priests have it all their own way. Bah! we understand these gentrybetter than he does. Why! my father was all for the advance on Rome--he wasa member of the first Government after 1870--he wouldn't give way to theClericals an inch in what he thought was for the good of the country. Buthe was the most religious man I ever knew. He never missed any of the oldobservances in which he had been brought up. He taught us the same. EverySunday after Mass he read the Gospel for the day to us in Italian, andexplained it. And when he was dying he sent for his old parish priest--whoused to denounce him from the pulpit and loved him all the same! "And don'tmake any secret of it!" he said to me. "Bring him in openly--let all theworld 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 andsleepy cat basking in the sun--

'It is the same with all you Anglo-Saxons. The North will never understandthe South--never! You can't understand our _à peu près_. You thinkCatholicism is a tyranny--and we must either let the priests oppress us, orthrow everything overboard. But it is nothing of the kind. We take what wewant of it, and leave the rest. But you!--if you come over to us, that isanother matter! You have to swallow it all. You must begin even with Adamand Eve!'

'Ah! but what I can't understand, ' said Fioravanti, 'is how Mrs. Burgoyneallowed it. She ought to have given the book another direction--and shecould. She is an extremely clever woman! She knows that caricature is notargument. '

'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 inappeal. Instinctively the younger woman, far from home and conscious of ahidden agony of feeling, threw herself upon the exquisite maternity thatbreathed from the elder. 'Oh! if I could tell you!--if you could adviseme!' was the girl's unspoken cry. 

'She looks terribly ill--to me, ' said the Marchesa, gravely. 'And thewinter 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 floodof misery within made movement the only relief. Some instinct of her owncame to the aid of the Marchesa's words, helped them to sting all the moredeeply. She felt herself a kind of murderer. 

Suddenly as she issued blindly from the tangle of the rose-garden she cameupon 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 mostcharming and distinguished of companions. 

Lucy approached her impetuously. 

Oh! how white and stricken an aspect--through what a dark eclipse of painthe eyes looked out!

'Ought we not to be going?' Lucy whispered in her ear. 'I am sure you aretired. '

Eleanor rose. She took the girl's hand in a clinging grasp, while sheturned smiling to her neighbour the Dane:

'We must be moving to the Villa Borghese--some friends will be meeting usthere. Our train does not go for a long, long while. '

'Does any Roman train ever go?' said Doctor Jensen, stroking hisstraw-coloured beard. 'But why leave us, Madame? Is not one garden as goodas another? What spell can we invent to chain you here?'

He bowed low, smiling fatuously, with his hand on his heart. He was one ofthe most learned men in the world. But about that he cared nothing. Theone reputation he desired was that of a 'sad dog'--a terrible man with theladies. 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 closedher eyes against the sun, and Lucy thought she heard a gasp of fatigue. Butshe spoke lightly. 

'Dear, foolish, old man! he was telling me how he had gone back to theHermitage Library at St. Petersburg the other day to read, after thirtyyears. And there in a book that had not been taken down since he had usedit last he found a leaf of paper and some pencil words scribbled on it byhim 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. Lucyinstinctively caught her by the arm, and Eleanor lent heavily upon her. 

'Dear Mrs. Burgoyne--you are not well, ' cried the girl, terrified. 'Let usgo 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 handacross her eyes. 'No, no, I am well, ' she said, hurriedly. 'It is thesun--and I could not eat at luncheon. The Ambassador's new cook did nottempt me. And besides'--she suddenly threw a look at Lucy before which Lucyshrank--'I am out of love with myself. There is one hour yesterday which Iwish to cancel--to take back. I give up everything--everything. '

They were advancing across a wide lawn. The Ambassador and Mrs. Swetenhamwere coming to meet them. The Ambassador, weary of his companion, waslooking with pleasure at the two approaching figures, at the sweep ofEleanor's white dress upon the grass, and the frame made by her black laceparasol 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, ' shesaid fiercely. Then, in another voice: 'But please, please let me take careof 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 withthe American Monsignore, was now approaching them. 'Let him take you out ofthe sun at once--you look as though it were too much for you. '

Manisty, however, came up slowly, in talk with his companion. The frowningimpatience of his aspect attracted the attention of the group round theAmbassador. 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 itappeared 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 beenmasked 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 himyesterday. He has gone into the country, but he gave me no address. Hewished to be undisturbed. '

'A wise resolve'--said the Monsignore, holding out his hand. 'YourExcellency must excuse me. I have an audience of his Holiness at threeo'clock. '

He made his farewells to the ladies with Irish effusion, and departed. TheAmbassador looked curiously at Manisty. Then he fell back with Lucy. 

'It will be a column to-night, ' he said with depression. 'Why didn'tyou stand by me? I showed Mrs. Swetenham my pictures--my beauties--myewe-lambs--that I have been gathering for twenty years--that the NationalGallery shall have, when I'm gone, if it behaves itself. And she asked meif they were originals, and took my Luini for a Raphael! Yes! it will bea column, ' said the Ambassador pensively. Then, with a brisk change, helooked up and took the hand that Lucy offered him. 

'Good-bye--good-bye! You won't forget my prescription?--nor me?' said theold man, smiling and patting her hand kindly. 'And remember!'--he benttowards her, dropping his voice with an air in which authority andsweetness mingled--'send Mr. Manisty home!'

He felt the sudden start in the girl's hand before he dropped it. Then heturned 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 walkedtowards 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--'ifMrs. Burgoyne ought to go?'

'We must go somewhere, I suppose, ' he said, stalking on before her. 'Wecan't sit in the street. '

CHAPTER XIV

The party returning to Marinata had two hours to spend in the gallery andgarden of the Villa Borghese. Of the pictures and statues of the palace, ofthe green undulations, the stone pines, the _tempietti_ of the garden, Lucyafterwards had no recollection. All that she remembered was flight on herpart, pursuit on Manisty's, and finally a man triumphant and a girl broughtto bay. 

It was in a shady corner of the vast garden, where hedges of some fragrantyellow shrub shut in the basin of a fountain, surrounded by a ring oflanguid 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 toovertake 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 youhave constantly refused all yesterday evening--all to-day--to give me theopportunity 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 agoyou were attacked, --in danger--under my roof, in my care. As your host, youowe 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 doneto protect you--of expressing my infinite sorrow and regret. I can onlyimagine that you resent our negligence too deeply even to speak of it--thatyou 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 kindword for me, or a kind look, since this happened. Please sit down, MissFoster'--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, throwinghim a timid smile. 'I of course have nothing to forgive anybody--far, farthe contrary. I know that you took all possible pains that no harm shouldhappen to me. And through you--no harm did happen to me. '

She turned away her head, speaking with difficulty. To both that momentof frenzied struggle at the dining-room door was almost too horrible forremembrance. And through both minds there swept once more the thrill of hercall 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, hestared silently into the cool green water. 

'There, ' said Lucy tremulously, 'you don't want to speak of it. And thatwas my feeling. Why should we speak of it any more? It must be such ahorrible grief to you. And I can't do anything to help you and MissManisty. It would be so different if I could. '

'You can, --you must--let me tell you what I had done for your safety thatnight, ' he said firmly, interrupting her. 'I had made such arrangementswith Dalgetty--who is a strong woman physically--I had so imprisoned mypoor sister, that I could not imagine any harm coming to you or any otherof our party. When my aunt said to me that night before she went to bedthat 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 notanxious, --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 chloroformshe had hidden away. '

Lucy fidgetted in distress. 

'Please--please--don't talk as though anyone were to blame--as though therewere anything to make excuses for--'. 

'How should there not be? You were disturbed--attacked--frightened. Youmight--'

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, andyielded. In very simple words, faltering yet restrained, she told the wholestory. Manisty followed every word with breathless attention. 

'My God!' he said, when she paused, 'my God!' And he hid his eyes with hishand 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, shekept her poor hand closed on something. '

'Her poor hand!'--the little phrase seemed to Manisty extraordinarilytouching. There was a moment's pause--then he broke out:

'Upon my word, this has been a fine ending to the whole business. MissFoster, when you came out to stay with us, you imagined, I suppose, thatyou were coming to stay with friends? You didn't know much of us; but afterthe kindness my aunt and I had experienced from your friends and kinsfolkin Boston--to put it in the crudest way--you might have expected at leastthat we should welcome you warmly--do all we could for you--take youeverywhere--show you everything?'

Lucy coloured--then laughed. 

'I don't know in the least what you mean, Mr. Manisty! I knew you would bekind 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, eitherthat 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 thescene you have been my chief anxiety. But before that, I treated you, MissFoster, with a discourtesy, a forgetfulness, that you can't, that yououghtn't to forget; I made no plans for your amusement; I gave you none ofmy time. On your first visit to Rome, I let you mope away day after dayin that stifling garden, without taking a single thought for you. I evengrudged 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 mycare--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 yougive me another chance?'

He stood over her, his broad chest heaving with an agitation that, do whatshe would, communicated itself to her. She could not help it. She put outher 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. Andas 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 myown. You have a fortnight more with us--isn't it so?' Lucy started andlooked 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 getround the heat. I have many opportunities here--friends who have the keysof things not generally seen. Trust yourself to me. Take me for a guide, aprofessor, a courier! At last I will give you a good time!'

He smiled upon her eagerly, impetuously. It was like him, this planfor mending all past errors in a moment, for a summary and energeticrepentance. She could hardly help laughing; yet far within her heart made aleap towards him--beaten back at once by its own sad knowledge. 

She turned away from him--away from his handsome face, and that touch inhim of the 'imperishable child, ' which moved and pleased her so. Playingwith 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 thatshe could not see his expression, as he took in with covetous delight hermaidenly 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, friendlyair. 

Manisty drew himself suddenly erect. After a pause, he said in anothervoice: 'I thought I had explained to you before that the book and I hadreached 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, andwas 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 beenrumours in Rome--in which even perhaps my aunt has believed. They areunjust--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 whatto say, torn as she was between her Puritan dread of falsehood, her naturalwoman's terror of betraying Eleanor, and her burning consciousness of theman 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 sitdown on the curving marble bench beside her. 

'I think you must listen to me, ' he said, with a quiet and manly force thatbecame 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 areserious matters, not trifles that don't count, as they are with us. She hasbeen all sweetness and kindness to me, and I suppose that she, like a goodmany other people, has found me an unsatisfactory and disappointing personto 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. Shewill pick up when she gets to England. --But now suppose we grant all myenormities. Then please tell me what I am to do? How am I to appeaseEleanor?--and either transform the book, to satisfy Neal, --or else bury itdecently? Beastly thing!--as if it were worth one tithe of the trouble ithas cost her and me. Yet there are some uncommon good things in it too!' hesaid, with a change of tone. 

'Well, if you did bury it, ' said Lucy, half laughing, yet trying topluck up courage to obey the Ambassador, --'what would you do? Go back toEngland?--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 timeslately. I don't mind. He is one of the privileged. So the Ambassador thinksI should go home?'

He threw one arm over the back of the seat, and threw her a brillianthectoring look which led her on. 

'Don't people in England think so too?'

'Yes--some of them, ' he said considering. 'I have been bombarded withletters lately as to politics, and the situation, and a possible newconstituency. A candid friend says to me this morning, "Hang theItalians!--what do you know about them, --and what do they matter? Englishpeople can only be frightened by their own bogies. Come home, for God'ssake! There's a glorious fight coming, and if you're not in it, you'll be aprecious fool. "'

'I daren't be as candid as that!' said Lucy, her face quivering withsuppressed fun. 

Their eyes met in a common flash of laughter. Then Manisty fell heavilyback against the seat. 

'What have I got to go home for?' he said abruptly, his countenancedarkening. 

Lucy's aspect changed too, instantly. She waited. 

Manisty's lower jaw dropped a little. A sombre bitterness veiled the eyesfixed 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 childrensaw nothing of him, and had not much reason to love him. My mother diedthere--of an illness it is appalling to think of. No, no--not Alice'sillness!--not that. And now, Alice, --I should see her ghost at everycorner!'

Lucy watched him with fascination. Every note of the singular voice, everymovement of the picturesque ungainly form, already spoke to her, poorchild, with a significance that bit these passing moments into memory, asan etcher's acid bites upon his plate. 

'Oh! she will recover!' she said, softly, leaning towards himunconsciously. 

'No!--she will never recover, --never! And if she did, she and I have longceased to be companions and friends. No, Miss Foster, there is nothingto call me home, --except politics. I may set up a lodging in London, ofcourse. But as for playing the country squire--' He laughed, and shruggedhis shoulders. 'No, --I shall let the place as soon as I can. Anyway, Ishall 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 Mayair. 

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, gatheringup her parasol and gloves. 

'We really must find the others, Mr. Manisty. They will wonder what hasbecome of us. '

She rose as she spoke. Manisty drew a long breath as he still satobserving her. Her light, cool dignity showed him that he was either notunderstood--or too well understood. In either case he was checked. Hetook back his move; not without a secret pleasure that she was not tooyielding--too much of the _ingénue_!

'We shall soon discover them, ' he said carelessly, relighting hiscigarette. 'By the way, I saw what company you were in after lunch! Youdidn't hear any good of the book or me--there!'

'I liked them all, ' she said with spirit. 'They love their country, andthey 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 gardenyou don't know. '

Her eye was bright, a little hostile. She moved resolutely forward, andManisty followed her. Both were conscious of a hidden amazement. But aminute, since he had spoken that word, looked that look? How strange athing is human life! He would not let himself think, --talked of he hardlyknew what. 

'They love their country, you say? Well, I grant you that particular grouphas pure hands, and isn't plundering their country's vitals like therest--as far as I know. A set of amiable dreamers, however, they appear tome; fiddling at small reforms, while the foundations are sinking from underthem. However, you liked them, --that's enough. Now then, when and how shallwe begin our campaign? Where will you go?--what will you see? The crypt ofSt. Peter's?--that wants a Cardinal's order. The Villa Albani?--closed tothe public since the Government laid hands on the Borghese pictures, --butit shall open to you. The great function at the Austrian Embassy next weekwith all the Cardinals? Give me your orders, --it will be hard if I can'tcompass them!'

But she was silent, and he saw that she still hurried, that her looksought the distance, that her cheek was flushed. Why? What new thing hadhe 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--atthe 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 haveno 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, asit 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 Manistycould 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 anyrate, 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-groundand the Campagna, which Lucy had occupied for a short time on her firstarrival. 

It was about half an hour since Eleanor had heard Manisty's cab arrive, andhis voice in the library giving his orders to Alfredo. She and Lucy Fosterand Aunt Pattie had already dispersed to their rooms. It was strange thathe should have dined in town. It had been expressly arranged on their wayto Rome that he should bring them back. 

Eleanor was sitting in a low chair beside a table that carried a paraffinlamp. At her back was the window, which was open save for the sun-shutteroutside, and the curtains, both of which had been drawn close. A manuscriptdiary lay on Eleanor's lap, and she was listlessly turning it over, witheyes that saw nothing, and hands that hardly knew what they touched. Herhead, with its aureole of loosened hair, was thrown back against the chair, and the crude lamplight revealed each sharpened feature with a mercilessplainness. She was a woman no longer young--ill--and alone. 

By the help of the entries before her she had been living the winter overagain. 

How near and vivid it was, --how incredibly, tangibly near!--and yet as deadas the Cæsars on the Palatine. 

For instance:--

'November 22. To-day we worked well. Three hours this morning--nearly threethis afternoon. The survey of the financial history since 1870 is nearlyfinished. I could not have held out so long, but for his eagerness, for myhead ached, and last night it seemed to me that Rome was all bells, andthat the clocks never ceased striking. 

'But how his eagerness carries one through, and his frank and generousrecognition 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 pageor section into shape. Even in this handling of finance, you feel the flamethat makes life with him so exciting. It is absurd to say, as his enemiesdo, that he has no steadiness of purpose. I have seen him go through themost tremendous drudgery the last few weeks, --and then throw it all intoshape with the most astonishing ease and rapidity. And he is delightful towork with. He weighs all I say. But no false politeness! If he doesn't likeit, he frowns and bites his lip, and tears me to pieces. But very often Iprevail, and no one can yield with a better grace. People here talk of hisvanity. 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, andsome Liberal Catholics. Manisty was attacked on all sides. At first he wassilent and rather sulky--it is not always easy to draw him. Then he firedup, --and it was wonderful how he met them all in an Italian almost as quickas their own. I think they were amazed: certainly I was. 

'Of course I sometimes wish that it were conviction with him and notpolicy. My heart aches, hungers sometimes--for another note. If insteadof this praise from outside, this cool praise of religion as the greatpoliceman of the world, if only his voice, his dear voice, spoke for onemoment the language of faith!--all barren tension and grief and doubt wouldbe gone then for me, at a breath. But it never, never does. And I remindmyself--painfully--that his argument holds whether the arguer believeor no. "Somehow or other you must get conduct out of the masses orsociety goes to pieces. But you can only do this through religion. Whatfolly, then, for nations like Italy and France to quarrel with the onlyorganisation which can ever get conduct out of the ignorant!--in the waythey understand!"--It is all so true. I know it by heart--there is noanswering it. But if instead he once said to me--"Eleanor, there is aGod!--and it is He that has brought us together in this life and work, --Hethat will comfort you, and open new ways for me"--Ah then--then!--

 * * * * *

'Christmas Day. We went last night to the midnight mass at Santa MariaMaggiore. Edward is always incalculable at these functions; sometimes boredto death, sometimes all enthusiasm and sympathy. Last night the crowdjarred him, and I wished we had not come. But as we walked home through themoonlit streets, full of people hurrying in and out of the churches, ofthe pifferari with their cloaks and pipes--black and white nuns--brownmonks--lines of scarlet seminarists, and the like, he suddenly broke outwith the prayer of the First Christmas Mass--I must give it in English, forI have forgotten the Latin:

'"_O God, who didst cause this most holy Night to be illumined by therising of the true Light, we beseech Thee that we who know on earth thesecret shining of His splendour may win in Heaven His eternal joys_. "

'We were passing through Monte Cavallo, beside the Two Divine Horsemen whosaved Rome of old. The light shone on the fountains--it seemed as if thetwo godlike figures were just about to leap, in fierce young strength, upontheir horses. 

'Edward stopped to look at them. 

'"And we say that the world lives by Science! Fools! when has it lived byanything else than Dreams--at Athens, at Rome, or Jerusalem?"

'We stayed by the fountains talking. And as we moved away, I said: "Howstrange at my age to be enjoying Christmas for the first time!" And helooked at me as though I had given him pleasure, and said with his mostdelightful smile--"Who else should enjoy life if not you--kind, kindEleanor?"

'When I got home, and to my room, I opened my windows wide. Our apartmentis 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 towerradiantly clear. And at last it seemed to me that I was not a rebel and anoutlaw--that beauty and I were reconciled. 

'Such peace in the night! It opened and took me in. Oh! my little, littleson!--I have had such strange visions of you all these last days. Thathorror of the whirling river--and the tiny body--tossed and torn. Oh! myGod! 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 dimmajestic forms--wrapped close and warm. Sometimes the face that bends overhim is that of some great Giotto angel--sometimes, so dim and faint! thepure Mother herself--sometimes the Hands that fold him in are marred. Is itthe associations of Rome--the images with which this work with Edward fillsmy mind? Perhaps. 

'But at least I am strangely comforted--some kind hand seems to be drawingthe smart from the deep deep wound. Little golden-head! you lie soft andsafe, but often you seem to me to turn your dear eyes--the baby-eyes thatstill know all--to look out over the bar of heaven--to search for me--tobid me be at peace, _at last_. 

'February 20. How delicious is the first breath of the spring! The almondtrees are pink in the Campagna. The snow on the Sabine peaks is going. ThePiazza 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 longingof 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 deargirl who has often been my little companion this winter--kissed me as shewas going up to take off her dress. And I threw my arms round her with sucha rush of joy. Other women have felt all these things ten years earlierperhaps than I. But they are not less heavenly when they come late--into aheart seared with grief. 

'March 26. It is my birthday. From the window looking on the Piazza, I havejust seen Edward bargaining with the flower woman. Those lilacs and pinksare for me--I know it! Already he has given me the little engraved emeraldI wear at my watch-chain. A little genius with a torch is cut upon it. Hesaid 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 ispositively disagreeable to him. So Mathilda will have to devise somethingelse. 

'April 5. He is away at Florence, and I am working at some difficult pointsfor him--about some suppressed monasteries. I have asked Count B--, whoknows all about such things, to help me, and am working very hard. He comesback in four days. 

'April 9. He came back to-day. Such a gay and happy evening. When he sawwhat 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 AuntPattie will look after her. I think the book should be out in June. Ofcourse there are some doubtful things. But it must, it will have a greateffect. --How wonderfully well I have been lately! The doctor last weeklooked at me in astonishment. He thought that the Shadow and I were to besoon acquainted, when he saw me first!

'I hope that Edward will get as much inspiration from the hills as fromRome. Every little change makes me anxious. Why should we change? Dearbeloved, golden Rome!--even to be going fourteen miles away from yousomehow 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 thisforlorn, this intolerable day. Had Manisty ever yet forgotten her socompletely--abandoned her so utterly? She had simply dropped out of histhoughts. She had become as much of a stranger to him again, as on herfirst arrival at Rome. Nay, more! For when two people are first broughtinto a true contact, there is the secret delightful sense on either side ofpossibilities, of the unexplored. But when the possibilities are all known, and all exhausted?

What had happened between him and Lucy Foster? Of course she understoodthat he had deliberately contrived their interview. But as Lucy and shecame home together they had said almost nothing to each other. She hada vision of their two silent figures in the railway-carriage side byside, --her hand in Lucy's. And Lucy--so sad and white herself!--with thefurrowed brow that betrayed the inner stress of thought. 

Had the crisis arrived?--and had she refused him? Eleanor had not dared toask. 

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. Inthis creature so soft, so loving, so compact of feeling and of tears, therehad gradually arisen an intensity of personal claim, a hardness, almosta ferocity of determination, which was stiffening and transforming thewhole soul. She could waver still--as she had wavered in that despairing, anguished moment with Lucy in the Embassy garden. But the wavering wouldsoon be over. A jealousy so overpowering that nothing could make itselfheard against it was closing upon her like a demoniacal possession. Was itthe last effort of self-preservation?--the last protest of the living thingagainst 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 hisbreast--and the thought maddened her. She was conscious of a certain terrorof 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 rackingherself for days past. But if so it could be only a passing fancy. It madeit only the more a duty to protect her from Manisty. Manisty--the soul ofcaprice and wilfulness--could never make a woman like Lucy happy. He wouldtire of her and neglect her. And what would be left for Lucy--Lucy theupright, simple, profound--but heartbreak?

Eleanor paused absently in front of the glass, and then looked at herselfwith a start of horror. That face--to fight with Lucy's!

On the dressing-table there were still lying the two terra-cotta heads fromNemi, the Artemis, and the Greek fragment with the clear brow and noblyparted hair, in which Manisty had seen and pointed out the likeness toLucy. Eleanor recalled his words in the garden--his smiling, absorbed lookas the girl approached. 

Yes!--it was like her. There was the same sweetness in strength, the sameadorable roundness and youth. 

And that was the beauty that Eleanor had herself developed and made doublyvisible--as a man may free a diamond from the clay. 

A mad impulse swept through her--that touch of kinship with the criminaland 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 thecurtains and pushed open the sun-shutters outside. 

The night burst in upon her, the starry night hanging above the immensityof the Campagna, and the sea. There was still a faint glow in the westernheaven. On the plain were a few scattered lights, fires lit, perhaps, bywandering herdsmen against malaria. On the far edge of the land to thesouth-west, a revolving light flashed its message to the Mediterranean andthe passing ships. Otherwise, not a sign of life. Below, a vast abyss ofshadow swallowed up the olive-garden, the road, and the lower slopes of thehills. 

Eleanor felt herself leaning out above the world, alone with her agonyand the balmy peace which mocked it. She lifted her arm, and, stretchingforward, she flung the little face violently into the gulf beneath. Thevilla rose high above the olive-ground, and the olive-ground itself sankrapidly towards the road. The fragment had far to fall. It seemed toEleanor that in the deep stillness she heard a sound like the striking ofa stone among thick branches. Her mind followed with a wild triumph thebreaking of the terra-cotta, --the shivering of the delicate features--theirburial in the stony earth. 

With a long breath she tottered from the window and sank into her chair. Ahorrible feeling of illness overtook her, and she found herself gasping forbreath. 'If I could only reach that medicine on my table!' she thought. Butshe 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 sankon 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 measuredthe medicine. It was a strong heart-stimulant, and it did its work. Butwhile 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 wasalmost as white as Eleanor. Her eyes showed traces of tears. Her foreheadwas 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 aplan 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 againsther cheek. She could not understand why Eleanor looked, at her with thishorror and wildness, --how it was that she came to be up, by this openwindow, in this state of illness and collapse. But the discovery onlyserved an antecedent process--a struggle from darkness to light--which hadbrought her to Eleanor's room. 

She bent forward and said some words in Eleanor's ear. 

Gradually Eleanor understood and responded. She raised herself piteouslyin her chair. The two women sat together, hand locked in hand, their facesnear to each other, the murmur of their voices flowing on brokenly, fornearly an hour. 

Once Lucy rose to get a guide book that lay on Eleanor's table. And onanother occasion, she opened a drawer by Eleanor's direction, took outa leather pocket-book and counted some Italian notes that it contained. Finally she insisted on Eleanor's going to bed, and on helping her toundress. 

Eleanor had just sunk into her pillows, when a noise from the librarystartled them. Eleanor looked up with strained eyes. 

'It must be Mr. Manisty, ' said Lucy hurriedly. 'He was out when I camethrough 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 nowtill he is gone. '

They waited--Eleanor staring into the darkness of the room--till there hadbeen much opening and shutting of doors, and all was quiet again. 

Then the two women clung to each other in a strange and pitifulembrace--offered with passion on Lucy's side, accepted with a miserableshame on Eleanor's--and Lucy slipped away. 

'He was out?--in the garden?' said Eleanor to herself bewildered. And withthose 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 inits 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 moremanly and more noble temper than had been his for years. 

What was in his way? His conduct towards his cousin? He divined what seemedto him the scruple in the girl's sensitive and tender mind. He could onlymeet it by truth and generosity--by throwing himself on Eleanor's mercy. _She_ knew what their relations had been--she would not refuse him thisboon of life and death--the explanation of them to Lucy. 

Unless! There came a moment when his restless walk was tormented with theprickly rise of a whole new swarm of fears. He recalled that moment inthe library after the struggle with Alice, when Lucy was just awakeningfrom unconsciousness--when Eleanor came in upon them. Had she heard? Heremembered that the possibility of it had crossed his mind. Was she intruth working against him--avenging his neglect--establishing a fatalinfluence over Lucy?

His soul cried out in fierce and cruel protest. Here at last was the greatpassion of his life. Come what would, Eleanor should not be allowed tostrangle 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 amongthe olives. The old villa rose above him, dark and fortress-like. That wasno longer her room--that western corner? No--he had good cause to rememberthat she had been moved, to the eastern side, beyond his library, beyondthe 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 thebright lamplight a figure appeared. It stooped forward. Eleanor! Somethingfell close beside him. He heard the breaking of a branch from one of theolives. 

In his astonishment, he stood motionless, watching the window. It remainedopen for a while. Then again some one appeared--not the same figure asat first. A thrill of delight and trouble ran through him. He sent hissalutation, 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, therewas 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 groundwith his knife. Presently he brought up a handful of stones and earth, andlaid them on a bit of ruined wall close by. Stooping over them with hisdim, sputtering lights, he presently discovered some terra-cotta fragments. His eye, practised in such things, detected them at once. They were thefragments of a head, which had measured about three inches from brow tochin. 

The head, or rather the face, which he had given Eleanor at Nemi! Theparting of the hair above the brow was intact--so was the beautiful curveof the cheek. 

He knew it--and the likeness to Lucy. He remembered his words to Eleanor inthe garden. Holding the pieces in his hand, he went slowly back towards theterrace. 

Thrown out?--flung out into the night--by Eleanor? But why? He thought--andthought. A black sense of entanglement and fate grew upon him in thedarkness, 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 newbornpassion--with the resolute planning of a man who feels himself obscurelythreatened, and realises that his chief menace lies, not in the power ofany 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 clay 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 sulkyand silent. On the box, beside the driver of the lean brown horses, was abright-eyed, neatly-dressed youth who was going with the ladies to TorreAmiata. 

They had just left the hill-town of Orvieto, had descended rapidly intothe valley lying to the south-west of its crested heights, and were nowmounting again on the further side. As they climbed higher and higher Lucy, whose attention had been for a time entirely absorbed by the wearinessof the frail woman beside her, began to realise that they were passingthrough a scene of extraordinary beauty. Her eyes, which had been drawn andanxious, 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 themarvellous town which the traveller who has seen Palestine likens toJerusalem, so steep and high and straight is the crest of warm brownand orange precipice on which it stands, so deep the valleys round it, so strange and complete the fusion between the city and the rock, soconspicuous the place of the great cathedral, which is Orvieto, as theTemple was Zion. 

It was the sixth of June, and the day had been very hot. The road was deepin thick white dust. The fig-trees and vines above the growing crops werealmost at a full leafiness; scarlet poppies grew thick among the corn; andat the dusty edges of the road, wild roses of a colour singularly vivid anddeep, the blue flowers of love-in-a-mist, and some spikes of wine-colouredgladiolus struck strangely on a northern eye. 

Then as the road turned back again--behold! a great valley, opening outwestward, beyond Orvieto, --the valley of the Paglia; a valley with woodedhills on either side, of a bluish-green colour, chequered with hill-townsand slim campaniles and winding roads; and binding it all in one, the loopsand reaches of a full brown river. Heat everywhere!--on the blinding wallsof the buildings, on the young green of the vineyards, on the yellowingcorn, on the beautiful ragged children running barefoot and bareheadedbeside the carriage, on the peasants working among the vines, on thedrooping heads of the horses, on the brick-red face of the driver. 

'If Madame had only stayed at Orvieto!' murmured Marie the maid, lookingback 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 atthe villa. '

Marie shook her much be-curled head. Because it had taken them three monthsto make the Marinata villa decently habitable, was that any reason fortempting 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 thewhole party, and she was conscious of a tender and anxious responsibility. Already they had been delayed a whole week in Orvieto by Eleanor'sprostrate state. She had not been dangerously ill; but it had been clearlyimpossible to leave doctor and chemist behind and plunge into the wilds. Sothey had hidden themselves in a little Italian inn in a back street, andthe days had passed somehow. 

 * * * * *

Surely this hot evening and their shabby carriage and the dusty unfamiliarroad were all dream-stuff--an illusion from which she was to wake directlyand find herself once more in her room at Marinata, looking out on MonteCavo?

Yet as this passed across Lucy's mind, she felt again upon her face thecool morning wind, as she and Eleanor fled down the Marinata hill in theearly sunlight, between six and seven o'clock, --through the streets ofAlbano, already full and busy, --along the edge of that strange green craterof Aricia, looking up to Pio Nono's great viaduct, and so to Cecchina, therailway station in the plain. 

An escape!--nothing else; planned the night before when Lucy's strongcommonsense had told her that the only chance for her own peace andEleanor's was to go at once, to stop any further development of thesituation, and avoid any fresh scene with Mr. Manisty. 

She thought of the details--the message left for Aunt Pattie that theyhad gone into Rome to shop before the heat; then the telegram 'Urgente, 'despatched to the villa after they were sure that Mr. Manisty musthave safely left it for that important field day of his clerical andUltramontane friends in Rome, in which he was pledged to take part; thenthe arrival of the startled and bewildered Aunt Pattie at the small hotelwhere they were in hiding--her conferences--first with Eleanor, then withLucy. 

Strange little lady, Aunt Pattie! How much had she guessed? What had passedbetween her and Mrs. Burgoyne? When at last she and Lucy stood togetherhand in hand, the girl's sensitive spirit had divined in her a certainstiffening, a certain diminution of that constant kindness which she hadalways shown her guest. Did Aunt Pattie blame her? Had she cherished herown views and secret hopes for her nephew and Mrs. Burgoyne? Did she feelthat Lucy had in some way unwarrantably and ambitiously interfered withthem?

At any rate, Lucy had divined the unspoken inference 'You must have givenhim encouragement!' and behind it--perhaps?--the secret ineradicable prideof 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'sencounter with Aunt Pattie. 

But she had not shown it. And at the end of it Aunt Pattie had kissedher ruefully with tears--'It's _very_ good of you! You'll take care ofEleanor!'

Lucy could hear her own answer--'Indeed, indeed, I will!'--and AuntPattie'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 lefther--beside the hotel window, looking into the narrow side street. Whywas it 'very good of her'?--and why, nevertheless, was this dislocationof all their plans felt to be somehow her fault and responsibility?--evenby herself? There was a sudden helpless inclination to laugh over thetopsy-turviness of it all. 

And then her heart had fluttered in her breast, stabbed by the memory ofEleanor's cry the night before. 'It is of no use to say that you knownothing--that he has said nothing. _I_ know. If you stay, he will give youno peace--his will is indomitable. But if you go, he will guess my part init. I shall not have the physical strength to conceal it--and he can bea hard man when he is resisted! What am I to do? I would go home atonce--but--I might die on the way. Why not?'

And then--in painful gasps--the physical situation had been revealed toher--the return of old symptoms and the reappearance of arrested disease. The fear of the physical organism alternating with the despair of thelonely and abandoned soul, --never could Lucy forget the horror of thathour's talk, outwardly so quiet, as she sat holding Eleanor's hands inhers, and the floodgates of personality and of grief were opened beforeher. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile the patient, sweating horses climbed and climbed. Soon they wereat 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 hugeflocks of sheep, of white, black, and brown goats wandered with raggedshepherds over acres of burnt and thirsty pasture. Here and there werepatches of arable land and groups of tilling peasants in the wide untidyexpanse; once or twice too an _osteria_, with its bush or its wine-stainedtables 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 ofwide sun-beaten fields. 'Ecco! la fattoria, ' said the driver, pointing toit. And once a strange group of underground dwellings, their chimneys levelwith the surrounding land, whence wild swarms of troglodyte children rushedup 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 theywere in deep tufa lanes; like English lanes, save for their walls andcanopies of gold; sometimes they journeyed through wide barren stretches, where only broom held the soil against all comers, spreading in sheetsof gold beneath the dazzling sky. Large hawks circled overhead; in therare woods the nightingales were loud and merry; and goldfinches wereeverywhere. A hot, lonely, thirsty land--the heart of Italy--where therocks are honeycombed with the tombs of that mysterious Etruscan race, theMelchisedek of the nations, coming no one knows whence, 'without fatherand without mother'--a land which has to the west of it the fever-strickenMaremma and the heights of the Amiata range, and to the south the forestcountry of Viterbo. 

Eleanor looked out upon the road and the fields with eyes that faintlyremembered, and a heart held now, as always, in the grip of that _tempofelice_ which was dead. 

It was she who had proposed this journey. Once in late November she andAunt Pattie and Manisty had spent two or three days at Orvieto withsome Italian friends. They had made the journey back to Rome, partly by_vetturino_, driving from Orvieto to Bolsena and Viterbo, and spending anight on the way at a place of remote and enchanting beauty which had lefta deep mark on Eleanor's imagination. They owed the experience to theirItalian friends, acquaintances of the great proprietor whose agent gavethe whole party hospitality for the night; and as they jogged on throughthis June heat she recalled with bitter longing the bright November day, the changing leaves, the upland air, and Manisty's delight in the strangeunfamiliar country, in the vast oak woods above the Paglia, and themarvellous church at Monte Fiascone. 

But it was not the agent's house, the scene of their former stay, to whichshe was now guiding Lucy. When she and Manisty, hurrying out for an earlywalk before the carriage started, had explored a corner of the dense oakwoods below the _palazzo_ on the hill, they had come across a desertedconvent, with a contadino's family in one corner of it, and a ruinouschapel with a couple of dim frescoes attributed to Pinturicchio. 

How well she remembered Manisty's rage over the spoliation of the conventand the ruin of the chapel! He had gone stalking over the deserted place, raving against 'those brigands from Savoy, ' and calculating how much itwould cost to buy back the place from the rascally Municipio of Orvieto, towhom it now belonged, and return it to its former Carmelite owners. 

Meanwhile Eleanor had gossiped with the _massaja_, or farmer's wife, andhad 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 theresometimes from Orvieto for coolness and change--the plateau being 3, 000feet 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 hotelproprietor at Orvieto, through whom they got their lodgers. Eleanor hadtaken down the name and all particulars in a fit of enthusiasm for thebeauty and loneliness of the place. 'Suppose some day we came here towrite?' Manisty had said vaguely, looking round him with regret as theydrove away. The mere suggestion had made the name of Torre Amiata sweet toEleanor thenceforward. 

Was it likely that he would remember?--that he would track them? Hardly. Hewould surely think that in this heat they would go northward. He would notdream of looking for them in Italy. 

She too was thinking of nothing--nothing!--but the last scenes at the villaand in Rome, as the carriage moved along. The phrases of her letter toManisty ran through her mind. Had they made him her lasting enemy? Thethought was like a wound draining blood and strength. But in her presentstate of jealous passion it was more tolerable than that other thoughtwhich was its alternative--the thought of Lucy surrendered, Lucy in herplace. 

'Lucy Foster is with me, ' she had written. 'We wish to be together for awhile before she goes back to America. And that we may be quite alone, weprefer to give no address for a few weeks. I have written to Papa to saythat I am going away for a time with a friend, to rest and recruit. You andAunt Pattie could easily arrange that there should be no talk and no gossipabout the matter. I hope and think you will. Of course if we are in anystrait or difficulty we shall communicate at once with our friends. '

How had he received it? Sometimes she thought of his anger anddisappointment with terror, sometimes with a vindictive excitement thatpoisoned all her being. Gentleness turned to hate and violence, --was it ofthat in truth, and not of that heart mischief to which doctors gave longnames, that Eleanor Burgoyne was dying?

 * * * * *

They had turned into a wide open space crossed by a few wire fences at vastintervals. The land was mostly rough pasture, or mere sandy rock and scrub. In the glowing west, towards which they journeyed, rose far purple peakspeering over the edge of the great tableland. To the east and south vastwoods closed in the horizon. 

The carriage left the main road and entered an ill-defined track leadingapparently through private property. 

'Ah! I remember!' cried Eleanor, starting up. 'There is the _palazzo_--andthe village. '

In front of them, indeed, rose an old villa of the Renaissance, with itslong flat roofs, its fine _loggia_, and terraced vineyards. A rude villageof 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 verywalls. Meanwhile the earth grew kinder and more fertile. The vines and figsstood thick again among the green corn and flowering lucerne. Peasantsstreaming home from work, the men on donkeys, the women carrying theirbabies, 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 closelyguarded roads about the Alban lake, and to see them here gave her a senseof protection. 

Bending over the side of the carriage, she nodded to the two handsomebrown-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 defencepointed to his smoking horses. The Carabinieri laughed, and diving into thefield, one on either side, they kept up with the carriage as it neared thevillage. 

'Why, it is like coming home!' said Lucy, wondering. And indeed they werenow surrounded by the whole village population, just returned from thefields--pointing, chattering, laughing, shouting friendly directions to thedriver. 'Santa Trinità!' 'Ecco!--Santa Trinità!' sounded on all sides, amida forest of gesticulating hands. 

'How could they know?' said Eleanor, looking at the small crowd withstartled 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 aregreatly excited by the coming of _forestieri_--especially at this time ofyear. '

'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 handsin hers. 'Did you see the Contessa when you were here before?'

And she glanced up at the great yellow mass of the _palazzo_ towering abovethe 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. Thereis a new man. '

'Then it's quite safe!' said Lucy in French. And her kind deep eyes lookedsteadily into Eleanor's, as though mutely cheering and supporting her. 

Eleanor unconsciously pressed her hand upon her breast. She was lookinground her in a sudden anguish of memory. For, now they were through thevillage, they were descending--they were in the woods. Ah! the white wallsof the convent--the vacant windows in its ruined end--and at the gateof the rough farmyard that surrounded it the stalwart _capoccia_, thegrinning, 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 fillingall 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 tothem. A bed with a straw palliasse, one or two broken chairs, and bits ofworm-eaten furniture filled what had formerly been one of a row of cellsrunning along an upper corridor. The floor was of brick and very dirty. Against the wall a tattered canvas, a daub of St. Laurence and hisgridiron, still recalled the former uses of the room. 

They had given orders for a few comforts to be sent out from Orvieto, butthe cart conveying them had not yet arrived. Meanwhile Marie was crying inthe next room, and the _contadina_ was looking on astonished and a littlesulky. The people who came from Orvieto never complained. What was wrongwith 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--verynear to sobs. 

'I!' cried Lucy. 'As if I couldn't sleep anywhere, and eat anything! Butyou--that's another business. When the cart comes, we can fix you up alittle 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 herhands a shaky carpet-chair, the only article of luxury apparently that theconvent 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 howshe could somehow propitiate these strange beings, so well provided, as itseemed, with superfluous _lire_. 

'Ah!' she cried suddenly; 'but the ladies have not seen our _bellavista_!--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 inthe 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 herchattel, --'Monte Amiata! Selvapendente--the Paglia--does the Signora seethe bridge down there?--_veda lei_, under Selvapendente? Those forests onthe mountain there--they belong all to the Casa Guerrini--_tutto, tutto_!as far as the Signorina can see! And that little house there, on thehill--that _casa di caccia_--that was poor Don Emilio's, that was killed inthe war. '

And she chattered on, in a _patois_ not always intelligible, even toEleanor's trained ear, about the widowed Contessa, her daughter, and herson; about the new roads that Don Emilio had made through the woods; of therepairs and rebuilding at the Villa Guerrini--all stopped since his death;of the Sindaco of Selvapendente, who often came up to Torre Amiata for thesummer; of the nuns in the new convent just built there under the hill, andtheir _fattore_, --whose son was with Don Emilio after he was wounded, whenthe poor young man implored his own men to shoot him and put him out of hispain--who had stayed with him till he died, and had brought his watch andpocket-book back to the Contessa--

'Is the Contessa here?' said Eleanor, looking at the woman with thestrained and startled air that was becoming habitual to her, as though eachmorsel of passing news only served somehow to make life's burden heavier. 

But certainly the Contessa was here! She and Donna Teresa were always atthe Villa. Once they used to go to Rome and Florence part of the year, butnow--no more!

A sudden uproar arose from below--of crying children and barking dogs. Thewoman threw up her hands. 'What are they doing to me with the baby?' shecried, and disappeared. 

Lucy went back to fetch the carpet-chair. She caught up also a couple ofFlorentine silk blankets that were among their wraps. She laid them onthe bricks of the _loggia_, found a rickety table in Eleanor's room, hertravelling-bag, and a shawl. 

'Don't take such trouble about me!' said Eleanor, almost piteously, as Lucyestablished her comfortably in the chair, with a shawl over her knees and abook 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 anddiscover the kitchen. They say they've got a cook, and the dinner'll soonbe 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, claspingher hands a moment in a gesture familiar to her, and turning towards thegreat prospect of mountain, wood, and river. 'And it's so strange--sostrange! It's like another Italy! Why, these woods--they might be just in apart of Maine I know. You can't see a vineyard--not one. And the air--isn'tit fresh? Isn't it lovely? Wouldn't you guess you were three thousand feetup? I just know this--we're going to make you comfortable. I'm going rightdown now to send that cart back to Orvieto for a lot of things. And you'regoing 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 thinhands into her own. Her face, thrown back, had lost its gaiety; her mouthquivered. 

Eleanor met the girl's tender movement dry-eyed. For the hundredth timethat day she asked herself the feverish, torturing question--'Does she lovehim?'

'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 mustall come right. '

Eleanor was silent. In her own heart she knew more finally, moreirrevocably every hour that for her it would never come right. But how sayto Lucy that her whole being hung now--not on any hope for herself, but onthe 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 frombelow. Presently there was a distant sound of wheels, and the _carro_ fromOrvieto appeared, escorted by the whole village, who watched its unpackingwith copious comment on each article, and a perpetual scuffling for placesin the front line of observation. Even the _padre parroco_ and the doctorpaused as they passed along the road, and Lucy as she flitted about caughtsight of the smiling young priest, in his flat broad-brimmed hat and capedsoutane, side by side with the meditative and gloomy countenance of thedoctor, who stood with his legs apart, smoking like a chimney. 

But Lucy had no time to watch the crowd. She was directing the men withthe _carro_ where to place the cooking-stove that had been brought fromOrvieto, in the dark and half-ruinous kitchen on the lower floor of theconvent; marvelling the while at the _risotto_ and the _pollo_ that thelocal artist, their new cook, the sister of the farmer's wife, was engagedin producing, out of apparently nothing in the way either of fire or tools. She was conferring with Cecco the little manservant, who, with less polishthan Alfredo, but with a like good-will, was running hither and thither, intent only on pleasing his ladies, and on somehow finding enough spoonsand forks to lay a dinner-table with; or she was alternately comforting andlaughing at Marie, who was for the moment convinced that Italy was pure andsimple Hades, and Torre Amiata the lowest gulf thereof. 

Thus--under the soft, fresh evening--the whole forlorn and ruinous buildingwas once more alive with noise and gaiety, with the tread of men carryingpackages, with the fun of skirmishing children, with the cries of the cookand 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 ashadow. Her dress had lost its old perfection, though its carelessness wasstill the carelessness of instinctive grace, of a woman who could not throwon a shawl or a garden-hat without a natural trick of hand, that held eventhrough despair and grief. The delicacy and emaciation of the face had nowgone far beyond the bounds of beauty. It spoke of disease, and drew thepity of the passer-by. 

Her loneliness grew upon her--penetrated and pursued her. She could notresign herself to it. She was always struggling with it, beating it away, as a frightened child might struggle with the wave that overwhelms it onthe beach. A few weeks ago she had been so happy, so rich in friends--theworld had been so warm and kind!

And now it seemed to her that she had no friends; no one to whom she couldturn; no one she wished to see, except this girl--this girl she had knownbarely a couple of months--by whom she had been made desolate!

She thought of those winter gatherings in Rome which she had enjoyed withso 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. Butbeneath her outward sweetness she carried a proud and often unsuspectedreserve. She had made a _confidante_ of no one. That her relation toManisty was accepted and understood in Rome; that it was regarded asa romance, with which it was not so much ill-natured as ridiculous toassociate a breath of scandal--a romance which all kind hearts hoped mightend as most of such things should end--all this she knew. She had beenproud of her place beside him, proud of Rome's tacit recognition of herclaim upon him. But she had told her heart to nobody. Her wild scene withLucy 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 ofthe stricken animal she turned from her kind. Her father? What had he everbeen to her? Aunt Pattie? Her very sympathy and pity made Eleanor thankfulto be parted from her. Other kith and kin? No! Happy, she could have lovedthem; miserable, she cared for none of them. Her unlucky marriage hadnumbed and silenced her for years. From that frost the waters of life hadbeen loosened, only to fail now at their very source. 

Her whole nature was one wound. At the moment when, standing spell-bound inthe shadow, she had seen Manisty stooping over the unconscious Lucy, andhad heard his tender breathless words, the sword had fallen, dividing thevery roots of being. 

And now--strange irony!--the only heart on which she leant, the only handto which she clung, were the heart and the hand of Lucy!

'Why, why are we here?' she cried to herself with a sudden change ofposition and of anguish. 

Was not their flight a mere absurdity?--humiliation for herself, since itrevealed what no woman should reveal--but useless, ridiculous as any checkon Manisty! Would he give up Lucy because she might succeed in hidingher for a few weeks? Was that passionate will likely to resign itself tothe momentary defeat she had inflicted on it? Supposing she succeeded indespatching Lucy to America without any further interview between them; arethere no steamers and trains to take impatient lovers to their goal? Whatchildish 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 herpleasure in it! She started in her chair. It seemed to her that she alreadyheard his feet upon the road. 

Then her thought rebounded in a fierce triumph, an exultation that shookthe feeble frame. She was secure! She was entrenched, so to speak, inLucy's heart. Never would that nature grasp its own joy at the cost ofanother's agony. No! no!--she is not in love with him!--the poor hurryingbrain insisted. She has been interested, excited, touched. That, he canalways achieve with any woman, if he pleases. But time and change soonwear down these first fancies of youth. There is no real congruity betweenthem--there never, never could be. 

But supposing it were not so--supposing Lucy could be reached and affectedby Manisty's pursuit, still Eleanor was safe. She knew well what had beenthe effect, what would now be the increasing effect of her weakness andmisery on Lucy's tender heart. By the mere living in Lucy's sight she wouldgain her end. From the first she had realised the inmost quality of thegirl's strong and diffident personality. What Manisty feared she countedon. 

Sometimes, just for a moment, as one may lean over the edge of a precipice, she imagined herself yielding, recalling Manisty, withdrawing her ownclaim, and the barrier raised by her own vindictive agony. The mind spedalong the details that might follow--the girl's loyal resistance--Manisty'sardour--Manisty's fascination--the homage and the seduction, the quarrelsand the impatience with which he would surround her--the scenes in whichLucy's reserve mingling with her beauty would but evoke on the man's sideall the ingenuity, all the delicacy of which he was capable--and the finalsoftening of that sweet austerity which hid Lucy's heart of gold. --

No!--Lucy had no passion!--she would tell herself with a feverish, an angryvehemence. How would she ever bear with Manisty, with the alternate excessand defect of his temperament?

And suddenly, amid the shadows of the past winter Eleanor would seeherself writing, and Manisty stooping over her, --his hand taking her pen, his shoulder touching hers. His hand was strong, nervous, restless likehimself. Her romantic imagination that was half natural, half literary, delighted to trace in it both caprice and power. When it touched her ownslender fingers, it seemed to her they could but just restrain themselvesfrom nestling into his. She would draw herself back in haste, lest someinvoluntary movement should betray her. But not before the lightningthought had burnt its way through her--'What if one just fell backagainst 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 wouldsecretly revenge itself on the girl's maidenly coldness, on the youngstiffness, Manisty had once mocked at. How incredible that she should haveattracted him!--how, impossible that she should continue to attract him!All Lucy's immaturities and defects passed through Eleanor's analysingthought. 

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 terrorof these new meannesses and bitterness that were invading her, stealingfrom her her very self, robbing her of the character that unconsciouslyshe had loved in herself, as other people loved it--knowing that in deedand truth she was what others thought her to be, kind, and gentle, andsweet-natured. 

And last of all--poor soul!--an abject tenderness and repentance towardsLucy, which yet brought no relief, because it never affected for an instantthe fierce tension of will beneath. 

A silvery night stole upon the sunset, absorbed, transmuted all the goldsand 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 toconcern herself a little with Miss Foster's comfort and Miss Foster'sluggage. 

Lucy escaped from the rooms littered with trunks and clothes. She tookher hat and a light cape, and stole out into the broad passage, on eitherside of which opened the long series of small rooms which had once beenCarmelite cells. Only the four or five rooms at the western end, the bare'apartment' which they occupied, were still whole and water-tight. Half-waydown the passage, as Lucy had already discovered, you came to rooms wherethe windows had no glass and the plaster had dropped from the walls, andthe ceilings hung down in great gaps and rags of ruin. There was a baywindow at the eastern end of the passage, which had been lately glazedfor the summer tenants' sake. The rising moon streamed through on thedesolation of the damp-stained walls and floors. And a fresh upland windwas beginning to blow and whistle through the empty and windowless cells. Even Lucy shivered a little. It was perhaps not wonderful that the Frenchmaid should be in revolt. 

Then she went softly down an old stone staircase to the lower floor. Herewas the same long passage with rooms on either side, but in even worsecondition. At the far end was a glow of light and a hum of voices, comingfrom the corner of the building occupied by the _contadino_, and their ownkitchen. 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, andon either side--caverns of desolation--the old wine and oil stores, thekitchens and wood cellars of the convent, now black dens avoided by thecautious, and dark even at midday because of the rough boarding-up of thewindows. There was a stable smell in the passage, and Lucy already knewthat 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, andstepped out into the courtyard that surrounded the convent, half of whichwas below the road as it rapidly descended from the village, and half aboveit. 

She took a few steps to the right. 

Exquisite!

There opened out before her a little cloister, with double shafts carryingRomanesque arches; and at the back of the court, the chapel, and a tinybell-tower. The moon shone down on every line and moulding. Under itslight, stucco and brick turned to ivory and silver. There was an absolutesilence, an absolute purity of air; and over all the magic of beauty and ofnight. Lucy thought of the ruined frescoes in the disused chapel, of thefaces of saints and angels looking out into the stillness. 

Then she mounted some steps to the road, and turned downwards towards theforest that crept up round them on all sides. 

Ah! was there yet another portion of the convent?--a wing running at rightangles to the main building in which they were established, and containingsome habitable rooms? In the furthest window of all was a light, and afigure moving across it. A tall black figure--surely a priest? Yes!--asthe form came nearer to the window, seen from the back, Lucy perceiveddistinctly 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 theshining line of the river, and rose again on the further side! They wereoak woods, and spoke strangely to Lucy of the American and English north. Yet, as she came nearer, the moon shone upon delicate undergrowth of heathand arbutus, that chid her fancy back to the 'Saturnian land. '

And beyond all, the blue mountains, ætherially light, like dreams on thehorizon; and above all, the radiant serenity of the sky. 

Ah! there spoke the nightingales, and that same melancholy note of thelittle brown owl which used to haunt the olive grounds of Marinata. Lucyheld her breath. The tears rushed into her eyes--tears of memory, tears oflonging. 

But she drove them back. Standing on a little cleared space beside the roadthat commanded the whole night scene, she threw herself into the emotionand poetry which could be yielded to without remorse, without any unnervingof the will. How far, far she was from Uncle Ben, and that shingled housein Vermont! It was near midsummer, and all the English and Americans hadfled from this Southern Italy. Italy was at home, and at ease in her ownhouse, living her own rich immemorial life, knowing and thinking nothing ofthe foreigner. Nor indeed on those uplands and in those woods had she everthought of him; though below in the valley ran the old coach road fromFlorence to Rome, on which Goethe and Winckelmann had journeyed to theEternal 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 raiseda corner of Italy's mantle, and drawn close to the warm breast of one ofthe great mother-lands of the world. 

Ah! but feeling sweeps fast and far, do what we will. Soon she wasstruggling out of her depth. These weeks of rushing experience had beenloosening soul and tongue. To-night how she could have talked of thesethings to one now parted from her, perhaps for ever! How he would havelistened to her--impatiently often! How he would have mocked and rent her!But then the quick softening--and the beautiful kindling eye--the dogmatismat once imperative and sweet--the tyranny that a woman might both fight andlove!

Yet how painful was the thought of Manisty! She was ashamed--humiliated. Their flight assumed as a certainty what after all, let Eleanor say whatshe would, he had never, never said to her--what she had no clear authorityto believe. Where was he? What was he thinking? For a moment, her heartfluttered 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 dimwhite cliffs on the side of Monte Amiata, she felt herself, in this strangeand beautiful land, brought face to face with calls of the spirit, withdeep 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 armsabove 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 whatformula she had slipped, unwittingly. 

 * * * * *

She moved on a few paces down the road, meaning just to peep into the woodsand their scented loneliness. The night was so lovely she was loth to leaveit. 

Suddenly she became aware of a point of light in front, and the smell oftobacco. 

A man rose from the wayside. Lucy stayed her foot, and was about to retreatswiftly when she heard a cheerful--

'Buona sera, Signorina!' She recognised a voice of the afternoon. It wasthe 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 Ruggierisleeps--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 hishand vaguely towards the west. Then he shook his head. 'Bad country--badpeople--in Maremma. '

'Oh yes, I know, ' said Lucy, laughing. 'If there is anything bad here, yousay it comes from Maremma. When our harness broke this afternoon our driversaid, "_Che vuole?_ It was made in Maremma!"--Tell me--who lives in thatpart 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 hesaid 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'tit?'

'I don't understand, ' said Lucy. 

'_Per Dio!_ what does it matter?' said the man, laughing. 'The people herewouldn't trouble their heads, only--But you understand, Signorina'--hedropped 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 hisdaughter--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 themoney--_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 theirfriends, and--' His grin and gesture finished the sentence. 

'But what's the matter?' said Lucy, wondering. 'Has he committed anycrime?' 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. Shefrowned 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 alreadyacquainted with that strange instinct of the lower-class Italian whichleads him to make mock of calamity. He has passion, but no sentiment; heinstinctively 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 themothers have forbidden them to take them. Gianni there'--he pointed to theconvent, and Lucy understood that he referred to the _contadino_--'Gianniwent to Don Teodoro, and asked if he should turn him out. But Don Teodorowouldn't say Yes or No. He pays well, but the village want him to go. Theysay 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 noeyes. The Bishop sent the word. '

'And everybody here does what the priests tell them?'

Lucy's tone expressed that instinctive resentment which the Puritan feelsagainst a ruling and dominant Catholicism. 

Antonio laughed again, but a little stupidly. It was the laugh of a man whoknows that it is not worth while even to begin to explain certain mattersto 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 manybanks--so many _casse_--so many _societâ_! That holds the people betterthan prayers. '

 * * * * *

When Lucy turned homewards she found herself watching the light in the farwindow with an eager attention. A priest in disgrace?--and a foreigner?What could he be hiding here for?--in this remote corner of a districtwhich, as they had been already told at Orvieto, was Catholic, _fino alfanatismo_?

 * * * * *

The morning rose, fresh and glorious, over mountain and forest. 

Eleanor watched the streaks of light that penetrated through the woodensun-shutters grow brighter and brighter on the white-washed wall. She wasweary of herself, weary of the night. The old building was full of strangesounds--of murmurs and resonances, of slight creepings and patterings, thattried the nerves. Her room communicated with Lucy's, and their doors wereprovided with bolts, the newness of which, perhaps, testified to the fearsof other summer tenants before them. Nevertheless, Eleanor had been a preyto starts and terrors, and her night had passed in a bitter mingling ofmoral 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 longago, from Paris--as to which Lucy had often silently wondered how anyonecould think it right to spend so much money on such things. 

Eleanor, of course, was not conscious of the smallest reproach in thematter. Dainty and costly dress was second nature to her; she never thoughtabout 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 labourof hand and head, and then caught sight of her own face and shouldersin the cracked glass upon the wall, she was seized with certain ghastlyperceptions that held her there motionless in the semi-darkness, shiveringamid the delicate lace and muslin which enwrapped her. Finished!--forher--all the small feminine joys. Was there one of her dresses that did notin some way speak to her of Manisty?--that had not been secretly plannedwith a view to tastes and preferences she had come to know hardly lessintimately than her own?

She thought of the face of the Orvieto doctor, of certain words that shehad stopped on his lips because she was afraid to hear them. A suddenterror 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, asa wave breaks upon a barren shore. How can any God send human beings intothe world for such a lot? There can be no God. But how is the riddleeasier, 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 andstream and forest, this pomp of shining cloud, this silky shimmer of thewheat, this sparkle of flowers in the grass; while human hearts break, andhuman lives fail, and the graveyard on the hill yonder packs closer andcloser its rows of metal crosses and wreaths!

Suddenly, from a patch of hayfield on the further side of the road, sheheard a voice singing. A young man, tall and well made, was mowing in acorner of the field. The swathes fell fast before him: every movement spokeof an assured rejoicing strength. He sang with the sharp stridency which isthe rule in Italy--the words clear, the sounds nasal. 

Gradually Eleanor made out that the song was the farewell of a maiden toher 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 ofthe words, interrupting himself every now and then to sharpen his scythe, and then beginning again. To Eleanor it seemed the natural voice of themorning; one more, echo of the cry of universal parting, now for a day, nowfor a season, now for ever--which fills the world. 

 * * * * *

She was too restless to enjoy the _loggia_ and the view, too restlessto go back to bed. She pushed back the door between her and Lucy, onlyto see that Lucy was still fast asleep. But there were voices and stopsdownstairs. The farm-people had been abroad for hours. 

She made a preliminary toilette, took her hat, and stole downstairs. As sheopened the outer door the children caught sight of her and came crowdinground, large-eyed, their fingers in their mouths. She turned towards thechapel and the little cloister that she remembered. The children gave ashout and swooped back into the convent. And when she reached the chapeldoor, 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 leaveher alone--quite alone. Then when she came back they should have _soldi_. The children nodded shrewdly, withdrew in a swarm to the corner of thecloister, and watched events. 

Eleanor entered. From some high lunette windows the cool early sunlightcame creeping and playing into the little whitewashed place. On either handtwo cinque-cento frescoes had been rescued from the whitewash. They shonelike delicate flowers on the rough, yellowish-white of the walls; on oneside a martyrdom of St. Catharine, on the other a Crucifixion. Their paleblues and lilacs, their sharp pure greens and thin crimsons, made subtleharmony with the general lightness and cleanness of the abandoned chapel. A poor little altar with a few tawdry furnishings at the further end, aconfessional box falling to pieces with age, and a few chairs--these wereall 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 andone person made her for the moment the victim of an illusion so strong thatit 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, hiseyes just turning from the picture to meet hers; eyes always eagerlyconfident, whether their owner pronounced on the affinities of a picture orthe fate of a country. 

'School of Pinturicchio certainly!--but local work. Same hand--don'tyou think so?--as in that smaller chapel in the cathedral. Eleanor! youremember?'

She gave a gasp, and hid her face, shaking. Was this haunting of eye andear to pursue her now henceforward? Was the passage of Manisty's beingthrough the world to be--for her--ineffaceable?--so that earth and airretained the impress of his form and voice, and only her tortured heart andsense were needed to make the phantom live and walk and speak again?

She began to pray--brokenly and desperately, as she had often prayed duringthe last few weeks. It was a passionate throwing of the will against afate, cruel, unjust, intolerable; a means not to self-renunciation, but toa self-assertion which was in her like madness, so foreign was it to allthe habits of the soul. 

'That he should make use of me to the last moment, then fling me to thewinds--that I should just make room, and help him to his goal--and then diemeekly--out of the way--No! He too shall suffer!--and he shall know that itis Eleanor who exacts it!--Eleanor who bars the way!'

And in the very depths of consciousness there emerged the strange andbitter recognition that from the beginning she had allowed him to holdher cheaply; that she had been content, far, far too content, with whathe chose to give; that if she had claimed more, been less delicate, lessexquisite in loving, he might have feared and regarded her more. 

She heard the chapel door open. But at the same moment she became awarethat her face was bathed in tears, and she did not dare to look round. Shedrew down her veil, and composed herself as she best could. 

The person behind, apparently, also knelt down. The tread and movementswere those of a heavy man--some countryman, she supposed. 

But his neighbourhood was unwelcome, and the chapel ceased to be a placeof refuge where feeling might have its way. In a few minutes she rose andturned towards the door. 

She gave a little cry. The man kneeling at the back of the chapel rose inastonishment and came towards her. 

'Madame!'

'Father Benecke! _you_ here, ' said Eleanor, leaning against the wall forsupport--so weak was she, and so startling was this sudden apparition ofthe man whom she had last seen on the threshold of the glass passage atMarinata, barely a fortnight before. 

'I fear, Madame, that I intrude upon you, ' said the old priest, staring ather with embarrassment. 'I will retire. '

'No, no, ' said Eleanor, putting out her hand, with some recovery of hernormal voice and smile. 'It was only so--surprising; so--unexpected. Whocould have thought of finding you here, Father?'

The priest did not reply. They left the chapel together. The knot ofwaiting children in the cloister, as soon as they saw Eleanor, raised ashout of glee, and began to run towards her. But the moment they perceivedher 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 withcries of '_Bestia!--bestia!_' they flung them at the priest over theirshoulders, as they all fled helter-skelter, the brothers dragging off thesisters, the big ones the little ones, out of sight. 

'Horrid little imps!' cried Eleanor in indignation. 'What is the matterwith 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 noharm?'

What had happened to him since they met last at the villa? No doubt hehad been in conflict with his superiors and his Church. Was he alreadysuspended?--excommunicate? But he still wore the soutane?

Then panic for herself swept in upon and silenced all else. All was overwith their plans. Father Benecke either was, or might at any moment be, incommunication with Manisty. Alas, alas!--what ill-luck!

They walked together to the road--Eleanor first imagining, then rejectingone 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 uncertaingait. Eleanor noticed that his soutane was dusty and torn, and that he wasunshaven. The peculiar and touching charm that had once arisen from thecontrast between the large-limbed strength which he inherited from a raceof Suabian peasants, and an extraordinary delicacy of feature and skin, achildish brightness and sweetness in the eyes, had suffered eclipse. He wasdulled and broken. One might have said almost that he had become a mereungainly, ill-kept old man, red-eyed for lack of sleep, and disorganised bysome bitter distress. 

'You remember--what I told you and Mr. Manisty, at Marinata?' he said atlast, with difficulty. 

'Perfectly. You withdrew your letter?'

'I withdrew it. Then I came down here. I have an old friend--a Canon ofOrvieto. He told me once of this place. '

Eleanor looked at him with a sudden return of all her natural kindness andcompassion. 

'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 tremulousformality. 'You will be wishing to return to your apartment I heard thattwo English ladies were expected--but I never thought--'

'How could you?' said Eleanor hurriedly. 'I am not in any hurry. It is veryearly still. Will you not tell me more of what has happened to you? Youwould'--she turned away her head--'you would have told Mr. Manisty?'

'Ah! Mr. Manisty!' said the priest, with a long, startled sigh. 'I trust heis 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 mybeing here to any of your friends in Rome, to--to anybody, in fact. Lastautumn I happened to pass by this place, and thought it very beautiful. Itwas a sudden determination on my part and Miss Foster's--you remember theAmerican lady who was staying with us?--to come here. The villa was gettingvery hot, and--and there were other reasons. And now we wish to be quitealone for a little while--to be in retirement even from our friends. Youwill, I am sure, respect our wish?'

She looked up, breathing quickly. All her sudden colour had gone. Heranxiety and discomposure were very evident. The priest bowed. 

'I will be discreet, Madame, ' he said, with the natural dignity of hiscalling. 'May I ask you to excuse me? I have to walk into Selvapendente tofetch a letter. '

He took off his flat beaver hat, bowed low and departed, swinging alongat a great pace. Eleanor felt herself repulsed. She hurried back to theconvent. The children were waiting for her at the door, and when theysaw that she was alone they took their _soldi_, though with a touch ofsulkiness. 

And the door was opened to her by Lucy. 

'Truant!' said the girl reproachfully, throwing her arm round Eleanor. 'Asif you ought to go out without your coffee! But it's all ready for you onthe _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 goingto tell you of my adventure. Father Benecke! How very, very strange! Andhow very tiresome! It's made you look so tired. '

And before she would hear a word more Lucy had put the elder woman into herchair in the deep shade of the _loggia_, had brought coffee and bread andfruit from the little table she herself had helped Cecco to arrange, andhad hovered round till Eleanor had taken at least a cup of coffee and afraction of roll. Then she brought her own coffee, and sat down on the rugat 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 heis, --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 itwith painful colour--the shame of the suppliant living on the mercy of theconqueror. 

'He might, ' said Lucy, thinking. 'But if you asked him? No; I don't believehe 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, ' saidLucy, under her breath. 

And she repeated her conversation with the handsome Antonio. Eleanor cappedit 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'swords and looks; Eleanor recalled the priest's last visit to the villaand that secret storm of feeling which had overtaken her as she bade himgood-bye. 

But when Lucy speculated on what might have happened, Eleanor hardlyresponded. She fell into a dreamy silence from which it was difficult torouse her. It was very evident to Lucy that Father Benecke's personalplight interested her but little. Her mind could not give it room. Whatabsorbed her was the feverish question: Were they safe any longer at TorreAmiata, or must they strike camp and go further?

CHAPTER XVII

The day grew very hot, and Eleanor suffered visibly, even though thequality of the air remained throughout pure and fresh, and Lucy in theshelter of the broad _loggia_ felt nothing but a keen physical enjoyment ofthe 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 sheperceived 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 tiredhe looks!--and with that heavy parcel too!'

And withdrawing herself a little out of sight she watched the priest. Hehad just paused in a last patch of shade to take breath after the longascent. Depositing the bundle he had been carrying on a wayside stone, hetook out his large coloured handkerchief and mopped the perspiration fromhis face with long sighs of exhaustion. Then with his hands on his sides helooked round him. Opposite to him was a little shrine, with the usual rudefresco and enthroned Madonna behind a grating. The priest walked over toit, and knelt down. 

In a few minutes he returned and took up his parcel. As he entered theouter gate of the convent, Lucy could see him glancing nervously from sideto side. But it was the hour of siesta and of quiet. His tormentors of themorning were all under cover. 

The parcel that he carried had partly broken out of its wrappings duringthe 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 tocarry 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 intothe _loggia_. The empty cells on the eastern side were now cool, butthey looked upon the inner cloistered court which was alive with playingchildren, and all the farm life. Eleanor shrank both from noise andspectators. Yet she grew visibly more tired and restless, and Lucy went outto reconnoitre. She came back recommending a descent into the forest. 

So they braved a few yards of sun-scorched road and plunged into a littleright-hand track, which led downward through a thick undergrowth of heathand arbutus towards what seemed the cool heart of the woods. 

Presently they came to a small gate, and beyond appeared a broad, well-keptpath, 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 yellowpile on the edge of the plateau, the forest stretching steeply up to it andenveloping it from below. 

'There is nothing to stop us, ' said Lucy. 'They won't turn us out, if it istheirs. 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 inastonishment at the strange and lovely thing upon which they had stumbledunawares. 

'I know!' cried Lucy. 'The woman at the convent tried to tell me--and Icouldn't understand. She said we must see the "Sassetto"--that it was awonder--and all the strangers thought so. And it _is_ a wonder! And socool!'

Down from the very brow of the hill, in an age before man was born, thegiant force of some primeval convulsion had flung a lava torrent ofmolten rock to the bed of the Paglia. And there still was the torrent--arock-stream composed of huge blocks of basalt--flowing in one vast steepfall, a couple of hundred yards wide, through the forest from top to bottomof the hill. 

And very grim and stern would that rock-river have been but for Italy, andthe powers of the Italian soil. But the forest and its lovely undergrowths, its heaths and creepers, its ferns and periwinkles, its lichen and mosseshad thrown themselves on the frozen lava, had decked and softened its wildshapes, had reared oaks and pines amid the clefts of basalt, and plantedall the crannies below with lighter, featherier green, till in the dimforest light all that had once been terror had softened into grace, andNature herself had turned her freak to poetry. 

And throughout the 'Sassetto' there reigned a peculiar and deliciouscoolness--the blended breath of mountain and forest. The smooth path thatEleanor and Lucy had been following wound in and out among the strangerock-masses, bearing the signs of having been made at great cost anddifficulty. Soon, also, benches of grey stone began to mark the course ofit at frequent intervals. 

'We must live here!' cried Lucy in enchantment. 'Let me spread the shawlfor 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 theblue distance towards Orvieto, heard a hurried word from Eleanor, lookedround, and saw Father Benecke just rising from a seat in front. 

A shock ran through her. The priest stood hesitating and miserable beforethem, a hot colour suffusing his hollow cheeks. Lucy saw that he was nolonger in clerical dress. He wore a grey alpaca suit, and a hat of fineLeghorn straw with a broad black ribbon. Both ladies almost feared to speakto him. 

Then Lucy ran forward, her cheeks too a bright red, her eyes wet andsparkling. 'How do you do, Father Benecke? You won't remember me, but I wasjust introduced to you that day at luncheon--don't you remember--on theAventine?'

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 girlsuddenly. 'I'd have helped you carry that parcel up the hill. It was toomuch for you in the heat. '

Her face expressed the sweetest, most passionate sympathy, the indignanthomage of youth to old age unjustly wounded and forsaken. Eleanor was noless 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 atSelvapendente, but no one would serve me. '

He paused a moment, then resumed speaking with a sort of passionatereluctance, his eyes upon the ground. 

'I am a suspended priest--and the Bishop of Orvieto has notified the factto his clergy. The news was soon known through the whole district. And nowit seems the people hate me. They will do nothing for me. Nay, if theycould, 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 delicateface and hair, like a study in ivory and silver, thrown out against thedeep 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 shouldtrouble 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 thanenough. Will you kindly make her rest while I am gone?'

She fixed upon him her kind beseeching eyes. The sympathy, the homage ofthe two women enveloped the old man. His brow cleared a little. 

She sped down the winding path, aglow with anger and pity. The priest'scrushed strength and humiliated age--what a testimony to the power of thattradition for which Mr. Manisty was working--its unmerciful and tyrannouspower!

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 hesaw 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 along 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 gentlewords and phrases, and presently he again mustered courage to speak:

'You remember, Madame, that my letter was sent to the _OsservatoreRomano_ after a pledge had been given to me that only the bare fact of mysubmission, the mere formula that attends the withdrawal of any book thathas been placed upon the Index, should be given to the public. Then myletter appeared. And suddenly it all became clear to me. I cannot explainit. It was with me as it was with St. Paul: "Placuit Domino ut revelaretfilium suum in me!" My heart rose up and said: "Thou hast betrayed thetruth"--"_Tradidisti Sanctum et Justum!_" After I left you that day I wrotewithdrawing my letter and my submission. And I sent a copy to one of theLiberal papers. Then my heart smote me. One of the Cardinals of the HolyOffice had treated me with much kindness. I wrote to him--I tried toexplain 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--notone. All were silent--as though I were already a dead man. Then I tried tosee one or two of my old friends. But no one would receive me; one and allturned me from their doors. So then I left Rome. But I could not make upmy mind to go home till I knew the worst. You understand, Madame, that Ihave been a Professor of Theology; that my Faculty can remove me--that myFaculty obeys the Bishops, and the Bishops obey the Holy See. I rememberedthis place--I left my address in Rome--and I came down here to wait. Ah! itwas not long!'

He drew himself up, smiling bitterly. 

'Two days after I arrived here I received two letters simultaneously--onefrom my Bishop, the other from the Council of my Faculty--suspendingme both from my priestly and my academical functions. By the next postarrived a communication from the Bishop of this diocese, forbidding me theSacraments. '

He paused. The mere recital of his case had brought him again into thebewilderment of that mental anguish he had gone through. Eleanor made amurmur of sympathy. He faced her with a sudden ardour. 

'I had expected it, Madame; but when it came I was stunned--I was bowed tothe earth. A few days later, I received an anonymous letter--from Orvieto, I think--reminding me that a priest suspended _a divinis_ has no rightto the soutane. "Let the traitor, " it said, "give up the uniform he hasdisgraced--let him at least have the decency to do that. " In my trouble Ihad 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 staggeringalone 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 whatevery educated man in Europe knows to be true?'

'Father, ' said Eleanor, longing to express some poor word of comfort andrespect, 'you have suffered greatly--you will suffer--but it is not foryourself. '

He shook his head. 

'Madame, you see a man dying of hunger and thirst! He cannot cheat himselfwith fine words. He starves!'

She stared at him, startled--partly understanding. 

'For forty-two years, ' he said, in a low, pathetic voice, 'have I receivedmy Lord--day after day--without a break. And now "they have taken Himaway--and I know not where they have laid Him!"'

Nothing could be more desolate than tone and look. Eleanor understood. Shehad seen this hunger before. She remembered a convent in Rome where on GoodFridays 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 graduallyrecovered himself. With great delicacy, with fine and chosen words, shebegan to try and comfort him, dwelling on his comradeship with all themartyrs of the world, on the help and support that would certainly gatherround him, on the new friends that would replace the old. And as she talkedthere grew up in her mind an envy of him so passionate, so intense, thatshe could have thrown herself at his feet there and then and opened her ownwretched heart to him. 

He, tortured by the martyrdom of thought, by the loss of Christianfellowship!--She, scorched and consumed by a passion that was perfectlyready to feed itself on the pain and injury of the beloved, or theinnocent, as soon as its own selfish satisfaction was denied it! There wasa 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 heshould hear the beating of her heart. 

 * * * * *

Then the hand dropped. The inner tumult passed. And at the same moment thesound of steps was heard approaching. 

Round the further corner of the path came two ladies, descending towardsthem. They were both dressed in deep mourning. The first was an old woman, powerfully and substantially built. Her grey hair, raised in a sort oftoupé under her plain black bonnet, framed a broad and noticeable brow, black eyes, and other features that were both benevolent and strong. Shewas very pale, and her face expressed a haunting and prevailing sorrow. Eleanor noticed that she was walking alone, some distance ahead of hercompanion, and that she had gathered up her black skirts in an unglovedhand, with an absent disregard of appearances. Behind her came a youngerlady, a sallow and pinched woman of about thirty, very slight and tall. 

As they passed Eleanor and her companion, the elder woman threw a lingeringglance 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. Eleanorhad just begun to speak again when she heard herself suddenly addressed inFrench. 

She looked up in astonishment and saw that the old lady had returned andwas 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 dulychastened by courtesy, took note of that delicate and frail refinementwhich belonged both to Eleanor's person and dress. 

'I fear, Madame, you are but roughly housed at the Trinità. They are notaccustomed 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 placegive them no privacy? She answered however with her usual grace. 

'You are very good, Madame. I suppose that I am speaking to the ContessaGuerrini?'

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. ButI 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 fewdirections as to paths and points of view, pointed out a drive beyondSelvapendente on the mountain side, bowed and departed. 

Her bow did not include the priest. But he was not conscious of it. Whilethe ladies talked, he had stood apart, holding the hat that seemed to burnhim, in his finger-tips, his eyes, with their vague and troubled intensity, expressing only that inward vision which is at once the paradise and thetorment 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 theroad. Then, as it seemed to Lucy, she resigned herself to trust in FatherBenecke's discretion, influenced also no doubt by the sense of her ownphysical weakness, and piteous need of rest. 

And now--in these first days of July--their risk was no doubt much lessthan it had been. Manisty had not remembered Torre Amiata--another thorn inEleanor's heart! He must have left Italy. As each fresh morning dawned, sheassured 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 seldomoppressive. Lucy, indeed, soon found out from her friend the Carabinierethat while malaria haunted the valley, and scourged the region of Bolsenato the south, the characteristic disease of their upland was pneumonia, caused by the daily ascent of the labourers from the hot slopes below tothe sharp coolness of the night. 

No, the heat was not overwhelming. Yet Eleanor grew paler and feebler. Lucyhovered round her in a constantly increasing anxiety. And presently shebegan to urge retreat, and change of plan. It was madness to stay in thesouth. 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, caressingEleanor's hand. 'Send me back to Uncle Ben. I can go home any time. But youought to be in Scotland. Let me write to Miss Manisty!'

Eleanor laid her hand on her mouth. 'You promised!' she said, with hersweet stubborn smile. 

'But it isn't right that I should let you run these risks. It--it--isn'tkind to me. '

'I don't run risks. I am as well here as anywhere. The Orvieto doctor sawno objection to my being here--for a month, at any rate. '

'Send me home, ' murmured Lucy again, softly kissing the hand she held. 'Idon'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 appealto 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, asshe rose. 'She manages most of their affairs for them. But poor, poorthing!--did you see that account in the _Tribuna_ this morning?'

The girl's voice dropped, as though it had touched a subject almost toohorrible 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 letterdescribing the burial--after three months!--of the remains of the armyslain in the carnage of Adowa on March 1. For three months had thosethousands of Italian dead lain a prey to the African sun and the Africanvultures, before Italy could get leave from her victorious foe to pay thelast offices to her sons. 

That fine young fellow of whom the neighbourhood talked, who seemed to haveleft 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 bearthinking of. 

Lucy went downstairs to attend to some household matters. It was aboutten o'clock in the morning, and presently Eleanor heard the postman fromSelvapendente knock at the outer door. Marie brought up the letters. 

There were four or five for Lucy, who had never concealed her address fromher uncle, though she had asked that it might be kept for a while fromother people. He had accordingly forwarded some home-letters, and Marielaid them on the table. Beside them were some letters that Lucy had justwritten and addressed. The postman went his round through the village; thenreturned to pick them up. 

Marie went away, and suddenly Eleanor sprang from the sofa. With a flushand a wild look she went to examine Lucy's letters. 

Was all quite safe? Was Lucy not tampering with her, betraying her in anyway? The letters were all for America, except one, addressed to Paris. Nodoubt an order to a tradesman? But Lucy had said nothing about it--and theletter filled Eleanor with a mad suspicion that her weakness could hardlyrepress. 

'Why! by now--I am not even a lady!' she said to herself at last withset 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 informherself as to the destination of all the letters. And then she scourged andhumbled herself for her doubts, and became for the rest of the morning themost winning and tender of companions. 

As a rule they never spoke of Manisty. What Lucy's attitude implied wasthat she had in some unwitting and unwilling way brought trouble onEleanor; that she was at Torre Amiata to repair it; and that in general shewas at Eleanor's orders. 

Of herself she would not allow a word. Beyond and beneath her sweetnessEleanor divined a just and indomitable pride. And beyond that Mrs. Burgoynecould not penetrate. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Meanwhile Eleanor found some distraction in Father Benecke. 

The poor priest was gradually recovering a certain measure of serenity. Thetwo ladies were undoubtedly of great assistance to him. They became popularin 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 theSindaco of Selvapendente. They were the innocent causes, indeed, of someevil. Eleanor had been ordered goats' milk by the Orvieto doctor, and thegentleman who had secured the order from the _massaja_ went in fear of hislife at the hands of two other gentlemen who had not been equally happy. But in general they brought prosperity, and the popular smile was grantedthem. 

So that when it was discovered that they were already acquainted withthe mysterious foreign priest, and stoutly disposed to befriend him, the village showed the paralysing effect of a conflict of interests. Atthe moment and for various reasons the clericals were masters. And theclericals denounced Father Benecke as a traitor and a heretic. At the sametime the village could not openly assail the ladies' friend without runningthe risk of driving the ladies themselves from Torre Amiata. And thisclearly would have been a mere wanton slight to a kind Providence. Even thechildren understood the situation, and Father Benecke now took his walksunmolested by anything sharper than sour looks and averted faces. 

Meanwhile he was busy in revising a new edition of his book. This reviewof his own position calmed him. Contact with all the mass of honest andlaborious 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 statebrought him could be sometimes forgotten. There were moments indeed whenthe iron entered into his soul. When the bell of the little church rang athalf-past five in the morning, he was always there in his corner by thedoor. 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 bitterenvy of the officiating priest, and at such moments he suffered all thatany 'Vaticanist' could have wished him to suffer. 

But when he was once more among his books, large gusts of a new and strangefreedom began, as it were, to blow about him. In writing the philosophicalbook which had now brought him into conflict with the Church, he hadwritten in constraint and timidity. A perpetual dread, not only ofecclesiastical censure but of the opinion of old and valued friends; aperpetual uncertainty as to the limits of Catholic liberty; these thingshad held him in bondage. What ought he say? What must he leave unsaid? Heunderstood perfectly that hypothesis must not be stated as truth. But thevast accumulation of biological fact on the one hand, and of historicalcriticism on the other, that has become the common property of thescientific mind, how was it to be recapitulated--within Catholic limits? Hewrote 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 themystical temperament of the Suabian. He dreaded the collision whichultimately came. Yet the mental process could not be stayed. 

Now, with the final act of defiance, obscurely carried out, conditioned heknew not how, there had arrived for him a marvellous liberation of soul. Even at sixty-five he felt himself tragically new-born--naked and feebleindeed, but still with unknown possibilities of growth and new life beforehim. 

His book, instead of being revised, must be re-written. No need now totremble for a phrase! Let the truth be told. He plunged into his oldstudies again, and the world of thought met him with a friendlier andfranker 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. Butfor the moment there was an extraordinary though painful exhilaration--theexcitement of leading-strings withdrawn and walls thrown down. 

This enfranchisement brought him, however, into strange conflict withhis own character. His temperament was that of the ascetic and visionaryreligious. His intelligence had much the same acuteness and pliancy as thatof another and more pronounced doubter--a South German also, like FatherBenecke, --the author of the 'Leben Jesu. ' But his _character_ was the jointproduct of his temperament and his habits, and was often difficult toreconcile 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, andknowing almost nothing of other women, except through the Confessional. Tohis own astonishment he was in great request as a director. But socially heknew very little of his penitents; they were to him only 'souls, ' spiritualcases which he studied with the ardour of a doctor. Otherwise the smallbenefice which he held in a South German town, his university class, andthe travail of his own research absorbed him wholly. 

Hence a great innocence and unworldliness; but also an underlying sternnesstowards himself and others. His wants were small, and for many years thedesires of the senses had been dead within him. Towards women he felt, ifthe truth were known, with that strange unconscious arrogance which is amost real and very primitive element in Catholicism, notwithstanding theworship of Mary and the glories of St. Teresa and St. Catharine. The Churchdoes not allow any woman, even a 'religious, ' to wash the corporal andother linen which has been used in the Mass. There is a strain of thoughtimplied in that prohibition which goes deep and far--back to the dim dawnof human things. It influences the priest in a hundred ways; it affectedeven the tender and spiritual mind of Father Benecke. As a director ofwomen he showed them all that impersonal sweetness which is of the essenceof Catholic tradition; but they often shrank nevertheless from what theyfelt to be a fundamental inflexibility mingled with pity. 

Thus when he found himself brought into forced contact with the two ladieswho had invaded his retreat, when Lucy in a hundred pretty ways began toshow him a young and filial homage, when Eleanor would ask him to coffeewith 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 understoodthat she had been of assistance to Mr. Manisty: but that it had been theassistance 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 wasconscious 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 TorreAmiata, he had been under the influence of a shock which had crushed thechild in him and broken down his reserve. Yet that reserve was naturallystrong, together with certain despotic instincts which Eleanor perceivedwith surprise beneath his exquisite gentleness. She sometimes despaired oftaming him. 

Nevertheless when Eleanor presently advised him to publish a statement ofhis case in a German periodical; when the few quick things she said showeda knowledge of the German situation and German current literature thatfilled him with astonishment; when with a few smiles, hints, demurs, shemade plain to him that she perfectly understood where he had weakened hisbook--which lay beside her--out of deference to authority, and where itmust be amended, if it was to produce any real influence upon Europeancultivated opinion, the old priest was at first awkward or speechless. Then slowly he rose to the bait. He began to talk; he became by degreescombative, critical, argumentative. His intelligence took the field; hischaracter receded. Eleanor had won the day. 

Presently, indeed, he began to haunt them. He brought to Eleanor eacharticle and letter as it arrived, consulting her on every phase of acontroversy, concerning him and his book, which was now sweeping throughcertain Catholic circles and newspapers. He was eager, forgetful, exactingeven. Lucy began to dread the fatigue that he sometimes produced. Whilefor Lucy he was still the courteous and paternal priest, for Eleanor hegradually became--like Manisty--the intellectual comrade, crossing swordsoften in an equal contest, where he sometimes forgot the consideration dueto 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_, wherehe had been taking coffee with herself and Lucy. 

And meanwhile what attracted her was not in the least the controversialistand 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 sexlessmystery, the priest. Other men are the potential lovers of herself orother women; she knows herself their match. But in this man set apart, sherecognises the embodied conscience, the moral judge, who is indifferentto her as a woman, observant of her as a soul. Round this attraction sheflutters, and has always fluttered since the beginning of things. It ispartly a yearning for guidance and submission; partly also a secret pridethat she who for other men is mere woman, is, for the priest, spirit, andimmortal. She prostrates herself; but at the same time she seems to herselfto enter through her submission upon a region of spiritual independencewhere she is the slave, not of man but of God. 

What she felt also, tortured as she was by jealousy and angry will, was thesheer longing for human help that must always be felt by the lonely and theweak. Confession, judgment, direction--it was on these tremendous thingsthat her inner mind was brooding all the time that she sat talking toFather Benecke of the Jewish influence in Bavaria, or the last number ofthe 'Civiltà Cattolica. '

 * * * * *

One evening at the beginning of July Eleanor and Lucy were caught in thewoods by a thunder-shower. The temperature dropped suddenly, and as theymounted the hill towards the convent Eleanor in her thin white dress met ablast of cold wind that followed the rain. 

The result was chill and fever. Lucy and Marie tended her as best theycould, but her strength appeared to fail her with great rapidity, and therecame 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 theMunicipio of Selvapendente, and tended the Commune of Torre Amiata?

She had discovered, however, that he was not liked by the peasants. Hisappearance was not attractive, and she doubted whether she could persuadeEleanor to see him. 

An idea struck her. Without consulting Mrs. Burgoyne, she took her hat andboldly walked up to the Palazzo on the hill. Here she inquired for theContessa Guerrini. The Contessa, however, was out; Lucy left a little notein 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 theContessa, who regretted extremely that Mademoiselle Foster should nothave found her at home. There was a good doctor at Selvapendente, and theContessa would have great pleasure in sending a mounted messenger to fetchhim. She regretted the illness of Madame. There was a fair _farmacia_ inthe village. Otherwise she was afraid that in illness the ladies would notfind themselves very well placed at Torre Amiata. Would Mademoiselle kindlyhave her directions for the doctor ready, and the messenger would callimmediately?

Lucy was sincerely grateful and perhaps a little astonished. She wasobliged to tell Eleanor, and Eleanor showed some restlessness, but was toounwell to protest. The doctor came and proved to be competent. The feverwas subdued, and Eleanor was soon convalescent. Meanwhile flowers, fruit, and delicacies were sent daily from the Palazzo, and twice did the Contessadescend from her little victoria at the door of the convent courtyard, toinquire 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 neverthelesssensitively alive in a sort of old-fashioned stately way to the claims ofstrangers on the protection of the local grandee. It seemed to attract herthat 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 theestate. But I wonder, Mademoiselle, that you come to us at this time ofyear?'

Lucy laughed and coloured. She said it was pleasant to see Italy withoutthe _forestieri_; that it was like surprising a bird on its nest. Butshe stumbled a little, and the Contessa noticed both the blush and thestumbling. 

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 downthe miles of zig-zag road that Don Emilio had made through the forest oneither side of the river, connecting the Palazzo Guerrini with the _casadi caccia_ on the mountain opposite. The roads were deserted; grass wasbeginning to grow on them. The peasants scarcely ever used them. They clungto the old steep paths and tracts that had been theirs for generations. Butthe small smart horses, in their jingling harness, trotted briskly along;and Eleanor beside her companion, more frail and languid than ever, lookedlistlessly 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 wouldhonour her and her daughter by taking tea with them at the Palazzo. 'We arein deep mourning and receiving no society, ' said the note; 'but if Madameand 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 beautifulcountry. '

Eleanor winced and accepted. 

 * * * * *

The Palazzo, as they climbed up through the village towards it, showeditself to be an imposing pile of the later seventeenth century, withheavily-barred lower windows, and, above, a series of graceful _loggie_on its northern and western fronts which gave it a delicate and habitableair. On the north-eastern side the woods, broken by the stone-fall of theSassetto, sank sharply to the river; on the other the village and thevineyards pressed upon its very doors. The great entrance gateway opened ona squalid village street, alive with crawling babies and chatting mothers. 

At this gateway, however--through which appeared a courtyard aglow witholeanders and murmurous with running water--they were received withsome state. An old majordomo met them, accompanied by two footmen and acarrying-chair. Eleanor was borne up a high flight of stone stairs, andthrough a vast and bare 'apartment' of enormous rooms with tiled or brickfloors and wide stone _cheminées_, furnished with a few old chests andcabinets, a collection of French engravings of the last century, and someindifferent pictures. A few of the rooms were frescoed with scenes ofhunting or social life in a facile eighteenth-century style. Here andthere was a piece of old tapestry or a Persian carpet. But as a whole, thePalazzo, in spite of its vastness, made very much the impression of an oldEnglish manor house which has belonged to people of some taste and no greatwealth, and has grown threadbare and even ugly with age. Yet tradition andthe family remain. So here. A frugal and antique dignity, sure of itselfand 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 chairnear the open window, and her hostess could not forbear a few curious andpitying glances at the sharp, high-bred face of the Englishwoman, thefeverish lips, and the very evident emaciation, which the elegance of theloose black dress tried in vain to hide. 

'I understand, Madame, ' she said, after Eleanor had expressed her thankswith the pretty effusion that was natural to her, 'that you were at TorreAmiata last autumn?'

Eleanor started. The _massaja_, she supposed, had been gossiping. It wasdisagreeable, but good-breeding bade her be frank. 

'Yes, I was here with some friends, and your agent gave us hospitality forthe 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 sheturned 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 faston a good many disconnected subjects, found herself observing her hostess. The Contessa's strong square face had been pale and grief-stricken when shesaw it first. But she noticed now that the eyelids were swollen and red, asthough from constant tears; and the little sallow daughter looked sadderand shyer than ever. Eleanor presently gathered that they were living inthe strictest seclusion and saw no visitors. 'Then why'--she asked herself, wondering--'did she speak to us in the Sassetto?--and why are we admittednow? Ah! that is his portrait!'

For at the Contessa's elbow, on a table specially given up to it, sheperceived a large framed photograph draped in black. It represented atall young man in an Artillery uniform. The face was handsome, eager, andyet melancholy. It seemed to express a character at once impatient anddespondent, but held in check by a strong will. With a shiver Eleanor againrecalled the ghastly incidents of the war; and the story they had heardfrom the _massaja_ of the young man's wound and despair. 

Her heart, in its natural lovingness, went out to his mother. She foundher tongue, and she and the Contessa talked till the twilight fell of thecountry and the peasants, of the improvements in Italian farming, of theold convent and its history. 

Not a word of the war; and not a word, Eleanor noticed, of theirfellow-lodger, Father Benecke. From various indications she gathered thatthe sallow daughter was _dévote_ and a 'black. ' The mother, however, seemedto 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 theshrewdness and sobriety, the large pleasant homeliness, of a good man ofbusiness. It was evident that she, rather than her _fattore_, managed herproperty, 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 futureplans of the visitors. But indirectly, and without betraying her newfriends, 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 TorreAmiata were three--a gentleman and two ladies. The gentleman was a Mr. Manisty, a former member of the English Parliament, and very conspicuousin Rome last winter for a kind of Brunetière alliance with the Vatican andhostility to the Italian _régime_. People mostly regarded it as a pose; andas he and his aunt were rich and of old family, and Mr. Manisty was--whenhe chose--a most brilliant talker, they were welcome everywhere, and Romecertainly fêted them a good deal. The lady staying with them was a Mrs. Burgoyne, a very graceful and charming woman whom everybody liked. It wasquite plain that there was some close relation between her and Mr. Manisty. By which I mean nothing scandalous! Heavens! nobody ever thought of sucha thing. But I believe that many people who knew them well felt that itwould be a very natural and right thing that he should marry her. She wasevidently touchingly devoted to him--acting as his secretary, and hangingon his talk. In the spring they went out to the hills, and a young Americangirl--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 seeher. Miss Manisty promised to bring her here before they left in June. Butapparently 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 whatmakes you ask? I often think of poor Mrs. Burgoyne, and hope she may behappy some day. I can't say, however, that Mr. Manisty ever seemed to me avery desirable husband! And yet I was very sorry you were not at home inthe autumn. You might have disliked him heartily, but you would have foundhim _piquant_ and stimulating. And of all the glorious heads on man'sshoulders he possesses the most glorious--the head of a god attached to arather awkward and clumsy body. '

Happy! Well, whatever else might have happened, the English lady was notyet happy. Of that the Contessa Guerrini was tolerably certain after afirst conversation with her. Amid the gnawing pressure of her own griefthere was a certain distraction in the observance of this sad and delicatecreature, and in the very natural speculations she aroused. Clearly MissFoster was the young American girl. Why were they here together, in thisheat, 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 cloudyevening, 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 stoodfor an instant amid the curtains of the doorway, glancing at the two ladieswith an expression at once shy and confiding. 

He received the Contessa's greeting with effusion, bowing low overher hand. When she introduced him to the English lady, he bowed againceremoniously. 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 andspontaneity that seemed to be characteristic. Eleanor watched him withadmiration, noticing also the subtle discernment of the Italian, whichshowed through all his simplicity of manner. It was impossible to mistake, for instance, that he felt himself in a house of mourning. The movementsof body and voice were all at first subdued and sympathetic. Yet themourning had passed into a second stage, and ordinary topics might now beintroduced. He glided into them with the most perfect tact. 

He had come for two reasons. First, to announce his appointment as SelectPreacher for the coming Advent at a well-known church in Rome; secondly, tobring to the Contessa's notice a local poet--gifted, but needy--an Orvietoman, whose Muse the clergy had their own reasons for cultivating. 

The Contessa congratulated him, and he bowed profoundly in a silentpleasure. 

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 atlast with a little sigh, and a sudden dropping of the eyes, like a childcraving pardon. 

Eleanor was delighted with him, and the Contessa, who seemed more difficultto please, also smiled upon him. Teresa, the pious daughter, was with Lucyin the Sassetto. No doubt she was the little priest's particular friend. Hehad 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 methat 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. Agreat affair--the King and Queen--and a paper on Science and Religion, byMazzoli. Perhaps you don't remember his name? He was our Minister of theInterior a few years ago. '

Eleanor did not hear. Her attention was diverted by the sudden change inthe aspect of the _padre parroco_. It was the dove turned hawk. The freshface 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 hisaddress had been of great interest, as bearing witness to the revival ofreligious ideas in circles that had once been wholly outside religion. The _parroco's_ lips quivered with scorn. He remembered the affair--ascandalous business! The King and Queen present, and a _Jew_ daring beforethem, to plead the need of 'a new religion'--in Italy, where Catholicism, Apostolic and Roman, was guaranteed as the national religion--by the firstarticle of the _Statuto_. The Contessa replied with some dryness thatMazzoli spoke as a philosopher. Whereupon the _parroco_ insisted with heatthat there could be no true philosophy outside the Church. The Contessalaughed and turned upon the young man a flashing and formidable eye. 

'Let the Church add a little patriotism to her philosophy, Father, --shewill find it better appreciated. '

Don Teodoro straightened to the blow. 'I am a Roman, _Eccellenza_--youalso--_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 Italyhas 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 suoprimato--l'unico!_'

He threw at her a look sparkling and venomous. All the grace of hisyouth had vanished. As he sat there, Eleanor in a flash saw in him theconspirator and the firebrand that a few more years would make of him. 

'Ah!' said the Contessa, flushing. 'There were none of these things in theold Papal States?--under the Bourbons?--the Austrians? Well--we understandperfectly 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 asthe 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 withthe strange lady. But it soon passed. He sat a moment, quieting down, withhis eyes dropped, his finger-tips lightly joined upon his knee. Then hesaid 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 theportraits. '

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 atBologna. The original has been much injured, and the excellence of the copystruck her. She was seized, too, with a stabbing memory of a day in theBologna Gallery with Manisty!

She hurried across the room to look at the picture. The priest followedher. 

'Ah! that, Madame, ' he said with enthusiasm--that is a _capolavoro_. It isby Michael Angelo. '

Eleanor looked at him in astonishment. 'This one? It is a copy, Padre, ofRaphael's St. Cecilia at Bologna--a very interesting and early copy. '

Don Teodoro frowned. He went up to look at it doubtfully, pushing out hislower lip. 

'Oh! no, Madame, ' he said, returning to her, and speaking with a softyet obstinate complacency. 'Pardon me--but you are mistaken. That is anoriginal work of the great Michael Angelo. '

Eleanor said no more. 

When the Contessa returned, Eleanor took up a volume of French translationsfrom the Greek Anthology that the Contessa had lent her the day before. Sherestored the dainty little book to its mistress, pointing to some of herfavourites. 

The _parroco's_ face fell as he listened. 

'Ah!--these are from the Greek!' he said, looking down modestly, as theContessa handed him the book. 'I spent five years, _Eccellenza_, inlearning 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 wordsin 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; hecorrected himself once or twice; and at the end he threw back his head witha 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 silverhead. Yet Benecke was an outcast, and this youth was already on the ladderof promotion. 

When he departed the Contessa threw up her hands. 

'And that man is just appointed Advent Preacher at one of the greatestchurches 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 herduring the winter to the recognition of Catholic learning, within its ownself-chosen limits!

'It is this deplorable Seminary education!' sighed the Contessa. 'Howis one half of the nation ever to understand the other? They speak adifferent language. Imagine all our scientific education on the one side, and this--this dangerous innocent on the other! And yet we all wantreligion--we all want some hope beyond this life. '

Her strong voice broke. She turned away, and Eleanor could only see themassive outline of head and bust, and the coils of grey hair. 

Mrs. Burgoyne drew her chair nearer to the Contessa. Silently and timidlyshe laid a hand upon her knee. 

'I can't understand, ' she said in a low voice, 'how you have had thepatience to be kind to us, these last weeks!'

'Do you know why?' said the Contessa, turning round upon her, and no longerattempting 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 summerin England. I--I don't know whether he was in love with anyone. But, atany rate, he looked back to it with deep feeling. He always did everythingthat he could for any English person--and especially in these wilds. I haveknown 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 knewexactly what he would have done. You looked so delicate--and I rememberedhow rough the convent was. I had hardly spoken to anybody but Teresa sincethe 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 onlygot the full account last week from a brother-officer, who was a prisonertill the end of June. Emilio, like all the rest, thought the position wascarried--that it was a victory. He raised his helmet and shouted, _Viva ilRe! Viva l'Italia!_ And then all in a moment the Scioans were on them likea flood. They were all carried away. Emilio rallied his men again and againunder a hail of bullets. Several heard him say: "Courage, lads--courage!Your Captain dies with you! _Avanti! avanti! Viva l'Italia!_" Then atlast he was frightfully wounded, and perhaps you may have heard inthe village'--again the mother turned her face away--' that he saidto a _caporale_ beside him, who came from this district, whom he knewat home--"Federigo, take your gun and finish it. " He was afraid--mybeloved!--of falling into the hands of the enemy. Already they had passedsome wounded, horribly mutilated. The _caporale_ refused. "I can't do that, _Eccellenza_, " he said; "but we will transport you or die with you!" Thenagain there was a gleam of victory. He thought the enemy were repulsed. Abrother-officer saw him being carried along by two soldiers, and Emiliobeckoned to him. "You must be my Confessor!" he said, smiling. And he gavehim 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 theother--who knew--couldn't bear to tell him the truth. He said, "Yes. " AndEmilio said, "You swear it?" "I swear. " And the boy made the sign of thecross--said again, _Viva l'Italia!_--and died.... They buried him thatnight under a little thicket. My God! I thank Thee that he did not lie onthat accursed plain!'

She raised her handkerchief to hide her trembling lips. Eleanor saidnothing. Her face was bowed upon her hands, which lay on the Contessa'sknee. 

'His was not a very happy temperament, ' said the poor mother presently. ' Hewas always anxious and scrupulous. I sometimes thought he had been too muchinfluenced by Leopardi; he was always quoting him. That is the way withmany of our young men. Yet Emilio was a Christian--a sincere believer. Itwould have been better if he had married. But he gave all his affectionto me and Teresa--and to this place and the people. I was to carry on hiswork--but I am an old woman--and very tired. Why should the young go beforetheir time?... Yet I have no bitterness about the war. It was a ghastlymistake--and it has humiliated us as a nation. But nations are made bytheir blunderings as much as by their successes. Emilio would not havegrudged 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, _Gesùmio!_--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 hewas 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 nowwas but a hovering shadow compared to Manisty. It was not this sacredmother-love that was destroying her own life. 

 * * * * *

As they drove home through the evening freshness, Eleanor's mind pursuedits endless and solitary struggle. 

Lucy sat beside her. Every now and then Eleanor's furtive guilty looksought the girl's face. Sometimes a flying terror would grip her by theheart. Was Lucy graver--paler? Were there some new lines round the sweeteyes? That serene and virgin beauty--had it suffered the first witheringtouch 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 nosooner imagined than it was denied, scouted, hurried out of sight. 

That brave, large-brained woman with whom she had just been talking; therewas something in the atmosphere which the Contessa's personality shed roundit, that made Eleanor doubly conscious of the fever in her own blood. As inFather Benecke's case, so here; she could only feel herself humiliated anddumb before these highest griefs--the griefs that ennoble and enthrone. 

That night she woke from a troubled sleep with a stifled cry of horror. Inher dreams she had been wrestling with Manisty, trying to thrust him backwith all the frenzied force of her weak hands. But he had wrenched himselffrom her hold. She saw him striding past her--aglow, triumphant. And thatdim white form awaiting him--and the young arms outstretched!

'No, no! False! She doesn't--doesn't love him!' her heart cried, throwingall its fiercest life into the cry. She sat up in bed trembling andhaggard. Then she stole into the next room. Lucy lay deeply, peacefullyasleep. Eleanor sank down beside her, hungrily watching her. 'How couldshe sleep like that--if--if she cared?' asked her wild thoughts, and shecomforted herself, smiling at her own remorse. Once she touched the girl'shand with her lips, feeling towards her a rush of tenderness that came likedew on the heat of the soul. Then she crept back to bed, and cried, andcried--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 fullconfidence, and on Eleanor's side the consciousness both of the futilityand the enormity of what she had done only increased with time, embitteringthe resistance of a will which was still fierce and unbroken. 

Meanwhile she often observed her companion with a quick and torturingcuriosity. What was it that Manisty had found so irresistible, when all herown subtler arts had failed?

Lucy was in some ways very simple, primitive even, as Manisty had calledher. Eleanor knew that her type was no longer common in a modern Americathat sends all its girls to college, and ransacks the world for anexperience. But at the same time the depth and force of her nature promisedrich developments in the future. She was still a daughter of New England, with many traits now fast disappearing; but for her, too, there wasbeginning that cosmopolitan transformation to which the women of her racelend themselves so readily. 

And it was Manisty's influence that was at work! Eleanor's miserable eyesdiscerned it in a hundred ways. Half the interests and questions on whichManisty'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 byLucy's selections--till one day the key to them flashed across her. 

The girl indeed was making her way, fast and silently, into quite newregions of thought and feeling. She read, and she thought. She observed thepeople of the village; she even frequented their humble church, though shewould never go with Eleanor to Sunday Mass. There some deep, unconquerableinstinct held her back. 

All through, indeed, her personal beliefs and habits--Evangelical, unselfish, strong, and a little stern--seemed to be quite unchanged. Butthey were differently tinged, and would be in time differently presented. Nor would they ever, of themselves, divide her from Manisty. Eleanor sawthat clearly enough. Lucy could hold opinion passionately, unreasonablyeven; but she was not of the sort that makes life depend upon opinion. Hertrue nature was large, tolerant, patient. The deepest forces in it wereforces of feeling, and no intellectual difference would ever be able todeny them their natural outlet. 

Meanwhile Lucy seemed to herself the most hopelessly backward and ignorantperson, particularly in Eleanor's company. 

'Oh! I am just a dunce, ' she said one day to Eleanor, with a smile andsigh, after some questions as to her childhood and bringing up. 'They oughtto have sent me to college. All the girls I knew went. But then Uncle Benwould 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 teachme. 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. Yousee, I was slow, and everybody else was quick. But an American that isn'tquick'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 Lucyoften found so difficult to understand, because of the strange note ofhostility which, for no reason at all, would sometimes penetrate throughthe sweetness. 'It's absurd. How quickly you've picked up Italian--andfrocks!--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 mademuch progress since their arrival at Torre Amiata. Secretly she wonderedwhether she was to finish it there. Eleanor now shrank from the leastmention of change; and Lucy, having opened her generous arms to thisburden, did not know when she would be allowed to put it down. She carriedit, indeed, very tenderly--with a love that was half eager remorse. Still, before long Uncle Ben must remonstrate in earnest. And the Porters, whomshe had treated so strangely? They were certainly going back to America inSeptember, if not before. And must she not go with them?

And would the heat at Torre Amiata be bearable for the sensitive Northernerafter July? Already they spent many hours of the day in their shuttered andclosed rooms, and Eleanor was whiter than the convolvulus which covered thenew-mown hayfields. 

What a darling--what a kind and chivalrous darling was Uncle Ben! She hadasked him to trust her, and he had done it nobly, though it was evidentfrom his letters that he was anxious and disturbed. 'I cannot tell youeverything, ' she had written, 'or I should be betraying a confidence; butI am doing what I feel to be right--what I am sure you would consent to mydoing if you knew. Mrs. Burgoyne is _very_ frail--and she clings to me. Ican't explain to you how or why--but so it is. For the present I must lookafter her. This place is beautiful; the heat not yet too great; and youshall hear every week. Only, please, tell other people that I wish you toforward 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 absurdto pretend that I did. But I haven't trusted my Lucy for fourteen years inorder 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, mygenerosity, as you call it, will break down--and I shall be for sending outa search party right away.... Do you want money? I must say that I hopeJuly will see the end of your adventure. '

Would it? Lucy found her mind full of anxious thoughts as Eleanor readaloud to her. 

Presently she discovered that a skein of silk she wanted for her work wasnot in her basket. She turned to look also in her old inlaid workbox, whichstood 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 getmy silk. '

She stood up hastily, and her movement upset the rickety cane table. With acrash 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 theground lay all the little Nemi fragments which Manisty had given to Lucy, and which had been stowed away, each carefully wrapped in tissue paper, inthe well of her old workbox. 

Eleanor assisted to pick them up, rather silently. The note of keendistress 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 chipsand bruises to bemoan when Lucy at last had gathered them all safely intoher lap. Still, chips and bruises in the case of delicate Græco-Romanterra-cottas are more than enough to make their owner smart, and Lucy bentover them with a very flushed and rueful face, examining and wrapping themup again. 

'Cotton-wool would be better, ' she said anxiously. 'How have you put yourtwo away?'

Directly the words were out of her mouth she felt that they had been betterunspoken. 

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 fullof her treasures, Eleanor again stood up. 

'I will go in and rest for an hour before _déjeuner_. I _think_ I might goto sleep. '

She had passed a very broken night, and Lucy looked at her with tenderconcern. She quickly but carefully laid aside her terra-cottas, that shemight go in with Eleanor and 'settle her' comfortably. 

But when she was left to rest in her carefully darkened room, and Lucy hadgone back to the _loggia_, Eleanor got no wink of sleep. She lay in ananguish of memory, living over again that last night at the villa--thinkingof Manisty in the dark garden and her own ungovernable impulse. 

Presently a slight sound reached her from the _loggia_. She turned her headquickly. A sob?--from Lucy?

Her heart stood still. Noiselessly she slipped to her feet. The doorbetween her and the _loggia_ had been left ajar for air. It was partiallyglazed, with shutters of plain green wood outside, and inside a muslinblind. Eleanor approached it. 

Through the chink of the door she saw Lucy plainly. The girl had beensitting almost with her back to the door, but she had turned so that herprofile and hands were visible. 

How quiet she was! Yet never was there an attitude more eloquent. She heldin 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 unlikeher own which she had destroyed, --a smaller and ruder Artemis with theCybele crown. There flashed into her mind the memory of Manisty explainingit to the girl, sitting on the bench behind the strawberry hut; his blackbrows 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 eyeswere shut, the beautiful mouth quivered in the effort to be still. She wasmistress of herself, yet not for the moment wholly mistress of longing andof sorrow. A quick struggle passed over the face. There was another slightsob. 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 eternalfarewell; the gesture of a child expressing the heart of a woman. 

Eleanor tottered back. She sat on the edge of her bed, motionless in thedarkness, till the sounds of Cecco bringing up the _pranzo_ in the corridoroutside warned her that her time of solitude was over. 

 * * * * *

In the evening Eleanor was sitting in the Sassetto. Lucy with her youngneed of exercise had set off to walk down through the wood to the firstbridge over the Paglia. Eleanor had been very weary all day, and for thefirst 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 greenshade of the Sassetto. All about her was a chaos of moss-grown rockscrowned with trees young and old; a gap in the branches showed her adistant peachy sky suffused with gold above the ethereal heights of theAmiata 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 inthe cool shadowed place. 

The Contessa was to have joined Eleanor here at six o'clock. But a note hadarrived excusing her. The visit of some relations detained her. 

Nevertheless a little after six a step was heard approaching along thewinding path which while it was still distant Eleanor knew to be FatherBenecke. 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 roadshe shrank out of his path as though his mere shadow brought malediction. 

Her pinched face, her thin figure seemed to contract still further under animpulse 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 daythat she had come across Mrs. Burgoyne and Father Benecke together in theSassetto--in after-excuse for her behaviour to him. 'For you and me--_bienentendu!_--we think what we please. Heaven knows I am not bigoted. Teresamakes herself unhappy about me. ' The stout, imperious woman stifled asigh that betrayed much. 'I take what I want from our religion--and Idon't trouble about the rest. Emilio was the same. But a priest thatdisobeys--that deserts--! No! that is another matter. I can't argue; itseizes me by the throat. ' She made an expressive movement. 'It is aninstinct--an inheritance--call it what you like. But I feel like Teresa; Icould run at the sight of him. '

Certainly Father Benecke gave her no occasion to run. Since his recoveryfrom the first shock and agitation of his suspension he had moved about theroads and tracks of Torre Amiata with the 'recollected' dignity of the paleand meditative recluse. He asked nothing; he spoke to no one, except tothe ladies at the convent, and to the old woman who served him unwillinglyin the little tumble-down house by the river's edge to which he had nowtransferred himself and his books, for greater solitude. Eleanor understoodthat he shrank from facing his German life and friends again till he hadcompleted the revision of his book, and the evolution of his thought; andshe had some reason to believe that he regarded his isolation and theenmity of this Italian neighbourhood as a necessary trial and testing, tobe borne without a murmur. 

As his step came nearer, she sat up and threw off her languor. It mighthave been divined, even, that she heard it with a secret excitement. 

When he appeared he greeted her with the manner at once reticent andcordial that was natural to him. He had brought her an article in a Germannewspaper of the 'Centre' on himself and his case, the violence of whichhad 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 herthat her _rôle_, of counsellor and critic was--again--played out. SuddenlyFather Benecke said:

'I have submitted my reply to Mr. Manisty. I would like to show you what hesays. '

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 heheld. 

'I wrote to him through his bankers the other day, Madame. I have alwaysfound that letters so addressed to him are forwarded. '

Then he stopped in distress and perturbation. Mrs. Burgoyne was stillapparently struggling for breath and composure. His absent, seer's eyes atlast took note of her as a human being. He understood, all at once, thathe had before him a woman very ill, apparently very unhappy, and that whathe had just said had thrown her into an anguish with which her physicalweakness 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 givento 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. 'MissFoster 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 dryon it--that it was still warm from Manisty's hand. The date of it was onlythree days old. And the place from which it came? Cosenza?--Cosenza inCalabria? 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 hereyes closed under her large hat, each hand trying to prevent the tremblingof the other. 

A strange pride swelled in her. It was a kind and manly letter, expressingfar more personal sympathy with Benecke than Manisty had ever yet allowedhimself--a letter wholly creditable indeed to the writer, and marked witha free and flowing beauty of phrase that brought home to Eleanor at everyturn 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 systemmust 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 neverwavers; 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 amperched for the night on the side of a mountain thickly covered with beechwoods, in a remote Calabrian hamlet, where however last year some pushingperson built a small 'health resort, ' to which a few visitors come fromNaples and even from Rome. The woods are vast, the people savage. Thebrigands are gone, or going; of electric light there is plenty. I camethis morning, and shall be gone to-morrow. I am a pilgrim on the face ofItaly. For six weeks I have wandered like this, from the Northern Abruzzidownwards. 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 aremany quests in the world. Mine is one of the oldest that man knows. Myheart 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. Atevery sentence he became aware of some electrical effect upon the delicateframe and face beside him; but he read on--not knowing how to savehimself--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 backfrom her forehead; she turned her white drawn face upon the priest. 

'Father, ' she said, bending towards him, 'you are a priest--and aconfessor?'

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 ama human being--with a soul, I suppose--if there are such things!--and youare old enough to be my father, and have had great experience. I am introuble--and probably dying. Will you hear my case--as though it were aconfession--under the same seal?'

She fixed her eyes upon him. Insensibly the priest's expression hadchanged; the priestly caution, the priestly instinct had returned. Helooked at her steadily and compassionately. 

'Is there no one, Madame, to whom you might more profitably make thisconfession--no one who has more claim to it than I?'

'No one. '

'I cannot refuse, ' he said, uneasily. 'I cannot refuse to hear anyone introuble and--if I can--to help them. But let me remind you that this couldnot be in any sense a true confession. It could only be a conversationbetween friends. '

She drew her hand across her eyes. 

'I must treat it as a confession, or I cannot speak. I shall not ask youto absolve me. That--that would do me no good, ' she said, with a littlewild laugh, 'What I want is direction--from some one accustomed to look atpeople 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 momentslonger. Then he dropped his own look upon the ground, and clasped hishands. 

'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. Whenshe 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 anynames. Last winter, Father, I had reason to think that life had changed forme--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 powerof the speaker escaped with them. 'I thought that--in return--I was heldin high value, in true affection--that--that my friend cared for me morethan for anyone else--that in time he would be mine altogether. It was agreat hope, you understand--I don't put it at more. But I had done muchto deserve his kindness--he owed me a great deal. Not, I mean, for themiserable work I had done for him; but for all the love, the thought by dayand night that I had given him. '

She bowed her head on her hands for a moment. The priest sat motionless andshe 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 oldstory, 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 littlecold 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 thebeginning--some one younger, and far more attractive than I. It took fiveweeks--hardly so much. There was no affinity of nature and mind to goupon--or I thought so. It seemed to me all done in a moment by a beautifulface. I could not be expected to bear it--to resign myself at once to theloss of everything that made life worth living--could I, Father?' she saidpassionately. 

The priest still did not look up. 

'You resisted?' he said. 

'I resisted--successfully, ' she said with fluttering breath. 'I separatedthem. The girl who supplanted me was most tender, dear, and good. Shepitied me, and I worked upon her pity. I took her away from--from myfriend. And why should I not? Why are we called upon perpetually to giveup--give up? It seemed to me such a cruel, cold, un-human creed. I knew myown life was broken--beyond mending; but I couldn't bear the unkindness--Icouldn't forgive the injury--I couldn't--couldn't! I took her away; and mypower 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 heartthat threatened to silence her. When she spoke of giving up, her voice hadtaken a note of scorn, almost of hatred, that brought a momentary furrow tothe priest's brow. 

For a little while after she had ceased to speak he sat bowed, andapparently deep in thought. When he looked up she braced herself, as thoughshe 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 soshe is young; she has all her powers and chances before her. What wouldkill me would only--anticipate--for her--a day that must come. She is bornto be loved. '

Again she let him see her face, convulsed by the effort for composure, theeyes 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 bentit steadily upon her. 

'Madame--God has done you a great honour. '

The words were just breathed, but they did not falter. Mutely, with partedlips, she seemed to search for his meaning. 

'There are very few of whom God condescends to ask, as plainly, asgenerously, as He now asks of you. What does it matter, Madame, whether Godspeaks to us amid the thorns or the flowers? But I do not remember thatHe ever spoke among the flowers, but often--often, amongst deserts andwildernesses. And when He speaks--Madame! the condescension, the gift isthat He should speak at all; that He, our Maker and Lord, should pleadwith, should as it were humble Himself to, our souls. Oh! how we shouldhasten to answer, how we should hurry to throw ourselves and all that wehave into His hands!'

Eleanor turned away. Unconsciously she began to strip the moss from a treebeside her. The tears dropped upon her lap. 

But the appeal was to religious emotion, not to the moral judgment, and sherallied her forces. 

'You speak, Father, as a priest--as a Christian. I understand of coursethat 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 fromanother point of view. You say that for yourself you have renounced theexpectation of happiness. What, then, do you desire? Merely the pain, the humiliation of others? But is that an end that any man or woman maylawfully pursue--Pagan or Christian? It was not a Christian who said, "Menexist for the sake of one another. " Yet when two other human beings--yourfriends--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 compassionatespirit--and intended you no harm. Yet you will punish her--for the sake ofyour own pride. And she is young. You who are older, and better able tocontrol passion, ought you not to feel towards her as a tender eldersister--a mother--rather than a rival?'

He spoke with a calm and even power, the protesting force of his own soulmounting all the time like a tide. 

Eleanor rose again in revolt. 

'It is no use, ' she said despairingly. 'Do you understand, Father, whatI said to you at first?--that I have probably not many months--a yearperhaps--to live? And that to give these two to each other would embitterall my last days and hours--would make it impossible for me to believe, tohope, anything?'

'No, no, poor soul!' he said, deeply moved. 'It would be with you as withSt. John: "Now we know that we have passed from death unto life, because welove 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 counselof me, if God had not been already at work in your soul--if your sin werenot 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 theword. 

But he did not quail. 

'All selfish desire is sin--desire that defies God and wills the hurt ofman. But you will cast it out. The travail is already begun in you thatwill 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 onall that promises consolation. When I see the nuns from down below pass upand down this road, I often think that theirs is the only way out; thatthe Catholic Church and a convent are perhaps the solution to which I mustcome--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 ofwhat rod he would be scourged with; but it always has seemed to me that thechoice was an added punishment. I would not have chosen. I would have leftall to His Divine Majesty! This cross is not of your own making; it comesto you from God. Is it not the most signal proof of His love? He asks ofyou what only the strongest can bear; gives you just time to serve Him withthe 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 thatcreeds and dogmas mean nothing to you. How can I, who am now cast outfrom the Visible Church, uphold them to you--attempt to bind them on yourconscience? But one thing I can do, whether as man or priest; I can bid youask yourself whether in truth _Christ_ means nothing to you--and Calvarynothing?'

He paused, staring at her with his bright and yet unseeing eyes, the waveof feeling rising within him to a force and power born of recent storm, ofthe personal wrestling with a personal anguish. 

'Why is it'--he resumed, each word low and pleading, --'that this divinefigure is enshrined, if not in all our affections--at least in all ourimaginations? Why is it that at the heart of this modern world, with allits love of gold, its thirst for knowledge, its desire for pleasure, therestill lives and burns '--

--He held out his two strong clenched hands, quivering, as though he heldin them the vibrating heart of man--

--'this strange madness of sacrifice, this foolishness of the Cross? Whyis it that in these polite and civilised races which lead the world, whilecreeds and Churches divide us, what still touches us most deeply, whatstill binds us together most surely, is this story of a hideous death, which the spectators said was voluntary--which the innocent Victim embracedwith joy as the ransom of His brethren--from which those who saw itreceived in very truth the communication of a new life--a life, a DivineMystery, renewed amongst us now, day after day, in thousands of humanbeings? What does it mean, Madame? Ask yourself! How has our world of lustand iron produced such a thing? How, except as the clue to the world'ssecret, is man to explain it to himself? Ah! my daughter, think what youwill of the nature and dignity of the Crucified--but turn your eyes to theCross! Trouble yourself with no creeds--I speak this to your weakness--butsink 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 evilmind--an angry desire--a _cupido_ which keeps you from God. Lay it downbefore the Crucified, and rejoice--rejoice!--that you have something togive 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 theyseem to me somehow remote--impossible. Let me think of them. I am notstrong enough to talk more now. '

She bade him good-night, and left him. With her feeble step she slowlymounted the Sassetto path, and it was some little time before her slenderform and white dress disappeared among the trees. 

Father Benecke remained alone--a prey to many conflicting currents ofthought. 

 * * * * *

For him too the hour had been strangely troubling and revolutionary. On therecognised lines of Catholic confession and direction, all that had beenasked of him would have been easy to give. As it was, he had been obligedto deal with the moral emergency as he best could; by methods which, nowthat the crisis was over, filled him with a sudden load of scrupulousanguish. 

The support of a great system had been withdrawn from him. He still felthimself neither man nor priest--wavering in the dark. 

This poor woman! He was conscious that her statement of her case had rousedin him a kind of anger; so passionate and unblushing had been the egotismof her manner. Even after his long experience he felt in it somethingmonstrous. Had he been tender, patient enough?

What troubled him was this consciousness of the _woman_, as apart fromthe penitent, which had overtaken him; the woman with her frail physicalhealth, possibly her terror of death, her broken heart. New perplexitiesand compunctions, not to be felt within the strong dykes of Catholicpractice, rushed upon him as he sat thinking under the falling night. Thehuman fate became more bewildering, more torturing. The clear landscapeof Catholic thought upon which he had once looked out was wrapping itselfin clouds, falling into new aspects and relations. How marvellous are thechances of human history! The outward ministry had been withdrawn; in itsstead this purely spiritual ministry had been offered to him. '_Domine, incælo misericordia tua--judicia tua abyssus multa!_'

 * * * * *

Recalling what he knew of Mrs. Burgoyne's history and of Manisty's, hismind trained in the subtleties of moral divination soon reconstructed thewhole story. Clearly the American lady now staying with Mrs. Burgoyne--whohad showed towards himself such a young and graceful pity--was the otherwoman. 

He felt instinctively that Mrs. Burgoyne would approach him again, coldlyas she had parted from him. She had betrayed to him all the sick confusionof soul that existed beneath her intellectual competence and vigour. Thesituation between them, indeed, had radically changed. He laid asidedeference and humility; he took up the natural mastery of the priest as themoral expert. She had no faith; and faith would save her. She was wanderingin darkness, making shipwreck of herself and others. And she had appealedto him. With an extraordinary eagerness the old man threw himself intothe 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 anddespotism of his nature were both concerned. And was there somethingelse?--the eagerness of the soldier who retrieves disobedience by somespecial and arduous service? To be allowed to attempt it is a grace; tosucceed in it is pardon. 

Was she dying--poor lady!--or was it a delusion on her part, one of thedevices of self-pity? Yet he recalled the emaciated face and form, thecough, the trailing step, Miss Foster's anxiety, some comments overheard inthe 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 habitthrough which he was passing, even those ways of thinking and acting whichbecome the second nature of the priest were somewhat shaken. Had Eleanor'sconfidence been given him in Catholic confession he might not even by wordor look have ever reminded herself of what had passed between them; stillless have acted upon it in any way. Nor under the weight of traditionwhich binds the Catholic priest, would he ever have been conscious of theremotest temptation to what his Church regards as one of the deadliest ofsins. 

And further. If as his penitent, yet outside confession, --in a letter orconversation--Eleanor had told him her story, his passionately scrupuloussense of the priestly function would have bound him precisely in the sameway. Here, all Catholic opinion would not have agreed with him; but his ownconviction would have been clear. 

But now in the general shifting of his life from the standpoint ofauthority, to the standpoint of conscience, new aspects of the caseappeared to him. He recalled certain questions of moral theology, with which as a student he was familiar. The modern discipline of theconfessional 'seal' is generally more stringent than that of the middleages. Benecke remembered that in the view of St. Thomas, it is sometimeslawful for a confessor to take account of what he hears in confession sofar as to endeavour afterwards to remove some obstacle to the spiritualprogress 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 suddenlyattained a new beauty and compulsion. 

He considered it long. He thought of Manisty, his friend, to whom hisaffectionate heart owed a debt of gratitude, wandering about Italy, in ablind quest of the girl who had been snatched away from him. He thought ofthe girl herself, and the love that not all Mrs. Burgoyne's jealous anguishhad been able to deny. And then his mind returned to Mrs. Burgoyne, and thearid misery of her struggle. --

The darkness was falling. As he reached the last of the many windings ofthe road, he saw his tiny house by the riverside, with a light in thewindow. 

He leant upon his stick, conscious of inward excitement, feeling suddenlyon his old shoulders the burden of those three lives of which Mrs. Burgoynehad spoken. 

'My God, give them to me!'--he cried, with a sudden leap of the heart thatwas at once humble and audacious. Not a word to Mr. Manisty, or to anyother 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, 'likeany 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 hadonce been the enclosed monastery garden, Eleanor could see the fire-fliesflashing against the distant trees; further, above the darkness of theforest, ethereal terraces of dimmest azure lost in the starlight; and wherethe mountains dropped to the south-west a heaven still fiery and streakedwith threats of storm. Had she raised herself a little she could havetraced far away, beyond the forest slopes, the course of those white miststhat rise at night out of the wide bosom of Bolsena. 

Outside, the country-folk were streaming home from their work; the menriding their donkeys or mules, the women walking, often with burdens ontheir heads, and children dragging at their hands; dim purplish figures, inthe evening blue, charged with the eternal grace of the old Virgilian lifeof Italy, the life of corn and vine, of chestnut and olive. Lucy hung overthe balcony, looking at the cavalcades, sometimes waving her hand to achild or a mother that she recognised through the gathering darkness. Itwas an evening spectacle of which she never tired. Her feeling clung tothese labouring people, whom she idealised with the optimism of her cleanyouth. Secretly her young strength envied them their primal, necessarytoils. She would not have shrunk from their hardships; their fare wouldhave 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 perhapsthat there was in her the promise of a wide and rare human sympathy, whichmust 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 runsfrom darkness to protecting arms; and so escape her pain. 

Presently she came to sit by Eleanor again, trying to amuse her bythe account of a talk on the roadside, with an old _spaccapietre_, orstone-breaker, who had fought at Mentana. 

Eleanor listened vaguely, hardly replying. But she watched the girl in hersimple white dress, her fine head, her grave and graceful movements; shenoticed the voice, so expressive of an inner self-mastery through all itsgaiety. And suddenly the thought flamed through her--

'If I told her!--if she knew that I had seen a letter from him thisafternoon?--that he is in Italy?--that he is looking for _her_, day andnight! If I just blurted it out--what would she say?--how would she takeit?'

But not a word passed her lips. She began again to try and unravel themeaning of his letter. Why had he gone in search of them to the Abruzzi ofall places?

Then, suddenly, she remembered. 

One day at the villa, some Italian friends--a deputy and his wife--haddescribed to them a summer spent in a wild nook of the Abruzzi. The younghusband had possessed a fine gift of phrase. The mingled savagery andinnocence of the people; the vast untrodden woods of chestnut and beech;the slowly advancing civilisation; the new railway line that seemed tothe peasants a living and hostile thing, a kind of greedy fire-monster, carrying away their potatoes to market and their sons to the army; thecontrasts of the old and new Italy; the joys of summer on the heights, of an unbroken Italian sunshine steeping a fresh and almost northernair: he had drawn it all, with the facility of the Italian, the broken, impressionist strokes of the modern. Why must Italians nowadays always rushnorth, 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 worldmoreover, 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 ofscenes so rarely seen, so little visited, existing so near to them, in thisold old Italy, seemed to touch the girl's imagination--to mingle as it werea 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 paperbefore her, with pleased intent eyes, like one planning. 

And the Italian, amused by her enthusiasm, had given her a list of placeswhere accommodation could be got, where hotels of a simple sort werebeginning to develop, whence this new land that was so old could beexplored by the stranger. 

And Manisty had stood by, smoking and looking down at the girl's gracefulhead, 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 hadfurnished the clue which had sent him on his vain quest through themountains. 

 * * * * *

'I do think '--said Lucy, presently, taking Eleanor's hand, --'you haven'tcoughed 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 notrelax. This cough was a new trouble. Eleanor made light of it. But Mariesometimes spoke of it to Lucy with expressions which terrified one who hadnever known illness except in her mother. 

Meanwhile Eleanor was thinking--'Something will bring him here. He iswriting to Father Benecke--Father Benecke to him. Some accident willhappen--any day, any hour. Well--let him come!'

Her hands stiffened under her shawl that Lucy had thrown round her. Afierce consciousness of power thrilled through her weak frame. Lucy washers! The pitiful spectacle of these six weeks had done its work. Let himcome. 

His letter was not unhappy!--far from it. She felt herself flooded withbitterness as she remembered the ardour that it breathed; the ardour ofa lover to whom effort and pursuit are joys only second to the joys ofpossession. 

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 themonly wait a little. 

Her hand burnt in Lucy's cool clasp. Restlessly, she asked the girl somefurther 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 pitywould 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 hertired lids. 

Had Father Benecke ever truly weighed her case, her plea at all? Never! Ithad been the stereotyped answer of the priest and the preacher. Her secretsense resented the fact that he had been so little moved, apparently, byher physical state. It humiliated her that she should have brought so big aword as death into their debate--to no effect. Her thin cheek flushed withshame 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 parapetlooking into the night. 

'I cough less?' she thought. 'Why?--for I get worse every day. That I maymake less noise in dying? Well! one would like to go without ugliness andfuss. 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 asingle 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 justcompleting, she recalled him. 

They met without the smallest reference to the scene which had passedbetween them. He asked for her literary opinion with the same simplicity, the same outward deference as before. She was once more the elegant andlanguid woman, no writer herself, but born to be the friend and muse ofwriters. She made him feel just as clearly as before the clumsiness of aphrase, 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 theposition of the Old Catholics, or the triumph of Ultramontanism in France, it would drop of a sudden, neither knew how, and light upon some smallmatter of conduct or feeling, some 'flower in the crannied wall, ' chargedwith the profoundest things--things most intimate, most searching, concerned with the eternal passion and trouble of the human will, the 'bodyof this death, ' the 'burden' of the 'Pilgrim's Progress. '

Then the priest's gentle insistent look would steal on hers; he would speakfrom his heart; he would reveal in a shrinking word or two the secrets ofhis own spiritual life, of that long inner discipline, which was now hisonly 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 hadtried to persuade him that she was a sceptic and unbeliever. But he hadnot done with her. She divined the ardour of the Christian; perhaps theacuteness of the ecclesiastic. Often she was not strong enough to talk tohim, 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 todraw it back in fear, to stand once more on a bitter unspoken defence ofherself that would not yield. Yet he recognised in her the approach of somecrisis of feeling. She seemed herself to suspect it, and to be trying toward it off, in a kind of blind anguish. Nothing meanwhile could be moretouching than the love between her and Lucy. The old man looked on andwondered. 

Day after day he hesitated. Then one evening, in Lucy's absence, he foundher so pale, and racked with misery--so powerless either to ask help, or tohelp herself, so resolute not to speak again, so clearly tortured by herown coercing will, that his hesitation gave way. 

He walked down the hill, in a trance of prayer. When he emerged from it hismind was made up. 

 * * * * *

In the days that followed he seemed to Eleanor often agitated and illat ease. She was puzzled, too, by his manner towards Lucy. In truth, he watched Miss Foster with a timid anxiety, trying to penetrate hercharacter, to divine how presently she might feel towards him. He was notafraid of Mrs. Burgoyne, but he was sometimes afraid of this girl with herclear, candid eyes. Her fresh youth, and many of her American ways andfeelings were hard for him to understand. She showed him friendship in ahundred pretty ways; and he met her sometimes eagerly, sometimes with akind of shame-facedness. 

Soon he began to neglect his work of a morning that he might wander out tomeet the postman beyond the bridge. And when the man passed him by witha short 'Non c' è niente, ' the priest would turn homeward, glad almostthat for one day more he was not called upon to face the judgment in LucyFoster's face on what he had done. 

 * * * * *

The middle of July was past. The feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel hadcome and gone, bringing processions and music, with a Madonna under a goldbaldacchino, 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 lookedback with a pang to Marinata, and to the indulgent pleasure that Eleanorhad once taken in all the many-coloured show of Catholicism. Now she wasalways weary, and often fretful. It struck Lucy too that she was morerestless than ever. She seemed to take no notice of the present--to bealways living in the future--expecting, listening, waiting. The gesturesand sudden looks that expressed this attitude of mind were often of theweirdest effect. Lucy could have thought her haunted by some unseenpresence. Physically she was not, perhaps, substantially worse. But herstate was more appealing, and the girl's mind towards her more pitiful dayby day. 

One thing, however, she was determined on. They would not spend August atTorre Amiata. It would need stubbornness with Eleanor to bring her to thepoint 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 withthunder clouds promising more. 

She escaped into a washed and cooled world. But the thirsty earth had drunkthe rain at a gulp. The hill which had been running with water was almostdry, the woods had ceased to patter; on all sides could be felt the freshrestoring impulse of the storm. Nature seemed to be breathing from a deeperchest--shaking her free locks in a wilder, keener air--to a long-silentmusic from the quickened river below. 

Lucy almost ran down the hill, so great was the physical relief of the rainand 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 youngrounded form. Round her shapely throat and the lace collar that showedEleanor's fancy and seemed to herself a little too elaborate for themorning, she wore a child's coral necklace--a gleam of red between theabundant black of her hair and the soft blue of her dress. Her hat, a largeLeghorn, with a rose in it, framed the sweet gravity of her face. She wasmore beautiful than when she had said good-bye to Uncle Ben on the Bostonplatform. But it was a beauty that for his adoring old heart would havegiven new meaning to 'that sad word, Joy. '

She turned into the Sassetto and pushed upwards through its tumbled rocksand trees to the seat commanding the river and the mountains. 

As she approached it, she was thinking of Eleanor and the future, and hereyes were absently bent on the ground. 

But a scent familiar and yet strange distracted her. Suddenly, on the pathin front of the seat, she saw a still burning cigarette, and on the seat abook 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 ahand she knew, a name that startled every pulse in her young body. 

_His_ book? And that cigarette? Father Benecke neither smoked nor did heread French novels. 

Beyond the seat the path branched, upwards to the Palazzo, and downwards tothe river. She rose and looked eagerly over its steep edge into the medleyof rock and tree below. She saw nothing, but it seemed to her that in thedistance she heard voices talking--receding. 

They had left the seat only just in time to escape her. Mr. Manisty hadforgotten his book! Careless and hasty--how well she knew the trait! But hewould miss it--he would come back. 

She stood up and tried to collect her thoughts. If he was here, he was withFather 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 risinglike the Paglia after the storm--swelling, thundering within her. 

'What shall I--what shall I do?' she cried under her breath, pressing herhands to her eyes. 

Then she turned and walked swiftly homewards. Eleanor must not know--mustnot see him. The girl was seized with panic terror at the thought of whatmight be the effect of any sudden shock upon Mrs. Burgoyne. 

Halfway up the hill, she stopped involuntarily, wringing her hands in frontof 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 ona 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 FatherBenecke. At best, he must have been careless, inconsiderate. A man of truedelicacy would have done more than keep his promise, would have activelyprotected him. 

That he had kept the letter of his promise was almost proved by the factthat Mr. Manisty had not yet descended upon the convent. For what could itmean--his lingering in Italy--but a search, a pursuit? Her cheek flamedguiltily over the certainty thus borne in upon her. But if so, what couldhold back his impetuous will--but ignorance? He could not know they werethere. That was clear. 

So there was time--a chance. Perhaps Father Benecke was taken by surprisetoo--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 anguishthat sustained her. After devotion so boundless, service so measureless--solightly, meagrely repaid--were Mrs. Burgoyne's peace and health to be againin peril at her cousin's hands?

 * * * * *

Luckily Eleanor showed that day no wish to move from her sofa. The stormhad shaken her, given her a headache, and she was inclined to shiver in thecooler air. 

After luncheon Lucy coaxed her to stay in one of the inner rooms, wherethere was a fire-place; out of sight and sound of the road. Marie made afire on the disused hearth of what had once been an infirmary cell. Thelogs crackled merrily; and presently the rain streamed down again acrossthe open window. 

Lucy sat sewing and reading through the afternoon in a secret anguishof listening. Every sound in the corridor, every sound from downstairs, excited the tumult in the blood. 'What is the matter with you?' Eleanorwould say, reaching out first to pinch, then to kiss the girl's cheek. 'Itis all very well that thunder should set a poor wretch like me on edge--butyou! Anyway it has given you back your colour. You look superbly well thisafternoon. '

And then she would fall to gazing at the girl under her eyebrows with thatlittle trick of the bitten lip, and that piteous silent look, that Lucycould 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 rathercold starlight shone above the woods. 

'Now I understand Aunt Pattie's tales of fires at Sorrento in August, ' saidEleanor, crouching over the hearth. 'This blazing Italy can touch you whenshe likes with the chilliest fingers. Poor peasants!--are their heartslighter 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 inSeptember stripped the grape; destroyed half their receipts--and pinchedtheir whole winter. They will think it all comes of their litanies andbanners the other day. If the vintage goes well too, perhaps they will givethe Madonna a new frock. How simple!--how satisfying!'

She hung over the blaze, with her little pensive smile, cheered physicallyby 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, howlovely still, in the half light!

Suddenly Eleanor turned to her, and held out her arms. Lucy knelt downbeside her, trembling lest any look or word should betray the secret in herheart. But Eleanor drew the girl to her, resting her cheek tenderly on thebrown head. 

'Do you miss your mother very much?' she said softly, turning her lips tokiss 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 theother. But Eleanor's features relaxed; for a little while she rested, bodyand mind. And as Lucy lingered in the clasp thrown round her, she seemedfor the first time since the old days at the villa to be the cherished, andnot the cherisher. 

 * * * * *

Eleanor went early to bed, and then Lucy took a warm shawl and paced up anddown the _loggia_ in a torment of indecision. Presently she was attractedby the little wooden stair which led down from the _loggia_ to what hadonce been the small walled garden of the convent, where the monks of thisaustere 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 myrtlein its midst. But the high walls were still intact, and an old wooden dooron the side nearest to the forest. Beneath the garden was a triangularpiece of open grass land sloping down towards the entrance of the Sassettoand bounded on one side by the road. 

Lucy wandered up and down, in a wild trance of feeling. Half a mile awaywas he sitting with Father Benecke?--winning perhaps their poor secret fromthe priest's incautious lips'? With what eagle-quickness could he pounce ona sign, an indication! And then the flash of those triumphant eyes, and theonslaught of his will on theirs!

Hark! She caught her breath. 

Voices! Two men were descending the road. She hurried to hide her whitedress, close, under the wall--she strained every sense. 

The sputter of a match--the trail of its scent in the heavy air--anexclamation. 

'Father!--wait a moment! Let me light up. These matches are damp. Besides Iwant 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 notonly fear of discovery that held her. It was a mad uncontrollable joy, thatlike a wind on warm embers, kindled all her being into flame. 

'One more crime--that!--of your Parliamentary Italy! What harm had the poorthings done that they should be turned out? You heard what that carabinieresaid?--that they farmed half the plateau. And now look at that! I feel as Ido when I see a blackbird's nest on the ground, that some beastly boy hasbeen robbing and destroying. I want to get at the boy. '

'The boy would plead perhaps that the blackbirds were too many--and thefruit 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 nightis a new impression. What a pure and exquisite air!'--Lucy could hear thelong inhalation that followed the words. 'I recollect a vague notion ofcoming to read here. The _massaja_ told us they took in people for thesummer. Ah! There are some lights, I see, in those upper windows. '

'There are rooms in several parts of the building. Mine were in thatfurther wing. They were hardly watertight, ' said the priest hastily, and inthe same subdued voice. 

'It is a place that one might easily rest in--or hide in, ' said Manistywith a new accent on the last words. 'To-morrow morning I will ask thewoman to let me walk through it again. --And to-morrow midday, I must beoff. '

'So soon? My old Francesca will owe you a grudge. She is almost reconciledto me because you eat--because you praised her omelet. '

'Ah! Francesca is an artist. But--as I told you--I am at present a wandererand a pilgrim. We have had our talk--you and I--grasped hands, cheered eachother, "passed the time of day, " _undweiter noch--noch weiter--mein treuerWanderstab_!'

The words fell from the deep voice with a rich significant note. Lucy heardthe sigh, the impatient, despondent sigh, that followed. 

They moved away. The whiffs of tobacco still came back to her on the lightwesterly 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 shestood motionless, with bent head, till the moment was over, and her bloodtamed. 

CHAPTER XXI

'Maso! look here!' said Lucy, addressing a small boy, who with his brotherwas driving some goats along the road. 

She took from a basket on her arm, first some _pasticceria_, then a squareof 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 giveyou another letter in exchange, and if you bring it up to me, you shallhave all those!'

And she spread out her bribes. 

The boys' faces were sulky. The house by the river was unpopular, owingto its tenant. But the temptation was of a devilish force. They took theletter and scampered down the hill driving their goats before them. 

Lucy also walked down some three or four of the innumerable zig-zags of theroad. Presently she found a rocky knoll to the left of it. A gap in thetrees opened a vision of the Amiata range, radiantly blue under a superbsky, 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 mountedtowards her. But some bushes of tall heath and straggling arbutus made alight screen in front of her. She saw, but she could hardly be seen, tillthe passer-by coming from the river was close upon her. 

She sat there with her hands lightly crossed upon her knees, holdingherself a little stiffly--waiting. 

The phrases of her letter ran in her head. It had been short andsimple. --'Dear Father Benecke, --I have reason to know that Mr. Manisty ishere--is indeed staying with you. Mrs. Burgoyne is not aware of it and I amanxious that she should not be told. She wishes--as I think she made clearto you--to be quite alone here, and if she desired to see her cousins shewould of course have written to them herself. She is too ill to be startledor troubled in any way. Will you do us a great kindness? Will you persuadeMr. Manisty to go quietly away without letting Mrs. Burgoyne know that hehas been here? Please ask him to tell Miss Manisty that we shall not behere much longer, that we have a good doctor, and that as Torre Amiata ison the hills the heat is not often oppressive. '

... The minutes passed away. Presently her thoughts began to escape thecontrol she had put upon them; and she felt herself yielding to a sense ofexcitement. She resolutely took a book of Italian stories from the bottomof 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 andbroke 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 owndiplomacy; nor have I yet mentioned your presence here to my guest. I amnot at liberty to do so, having given my promise to Mrs. Burgoyne. Willyou not see and speak to Mr. Manisty yourself? He talks of going up thismorning to see the old convent. I cannot prevent him, without betrayingwhat I have no right to betray. At present he is smoking in my garden. Buthis carriage is ordered from Selvapendente two hours hence. If he does goup the hill, it would surely be easy for you to intercept him. If not, youmay he sure that he has left for Orvieto. '

Lucy read the letter with a flush and a frown. It struck her that it wasnot quite simple; that the priest knew more, and was more concerned in thenew turn of events than he avowed. 

She was well aware that he and Eleanor had had much conversation; thatEleanor was still possessed by the same morbid forces of grief and angerwhich, at the villa, had broken down all her natural reticence andself-control. Was it possible--?

Her cheek flamed. She felt none of that spell in the priestly office whichaffected Eleanor. The mere bare notion of being 'managed' by this kind oldpriest was enough to rouse all her young spirit and defiance. 

But the danger was imminent. She saw what she must do, and prepared herselfto do it--simply, without any further struggle. 

The little goatherds left her, munching their cakes and looking back at herfrom time to time in a childish curiosity. The pretty blue lady had seatedherself again as they had found her--a few paces from the roadside, underthe thick shadow of an oak. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, Manisty was rejoined by Father Benecke--who had left him fora few minutes to write his letter--beside the Paglia, which was rushingdown in a brown flood, after the rain of the day before. Around and abovethem, on either side of the river, and far up the flanks of the mountainsopposite, stretched the great oak woods, which are still to-day the linealprogeny of that vast Ciminian forest where lurked the earliest enemies ofRome. 

'But for the sun, it might be Wales!' said Manisty, looking round him, ashe took out another cigarette. 

Father Benecke made no reply. He sat on a rock by the water's side, in whatseemed to be a reverie. His fine white head was uncovered. His attitude wasgentle, dignified, abstracted. 

'It is a marvellous country this!' Manisty resumed. 'I thought I knew itpretty well. But the last five weeks have given one's mind a new hold uponit. The forests have been wasted--but by George!--what forests there arestill!--and what a superb mountain region, half of which is only known toa 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 todo 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 thinkof the human toil that has gone to the making and maintaining of them sincethe 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 tothe three or four distant towns, each on its mountain spur, that held thevalley between them and Orvieto--pale jewels on the purple robe of rock andwood. 

'So Virgil saw them. So the latest sons of time shall see them--the homesof a race that we chatter about without understanding--the most laboriousrace 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 sentimentson your part?'

Manisty coloured a little, and shook his black head, protesting. 

'I never said uncivil things, that I remember, about Italy or the Italiansas such. My quarrel was with the men that run them, the governments thatexploit 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 damnablequarrel with the Church, without knowing what they were running theirheads into. And in consequence they found themselves--in spite of riversof corrupt expenditure--without men, or money, or credit to work their bignew machine with; while the Church was always there, stronger than ever forthe grievance they had presented her with, and turned into an enemy withwhom it was no longer possible to parley. Well!--that struck me as a goodobject lesson. I wanted to say to the secularising folk everywhere--Englandincluded--just come here, and look what your policy comes to, when it'scarried out to the bitter end, and not in the gingerly, tinkering fashionyou affect at home! Just understand what it means to separate Church fromState, to dig a gulf between the religious and the civil life. --Here's acountry where nobody can be at once a patriot and a good Christian--wherethe Catholics don't vote for Parliament, and the State schools teachno religion--where the nation is divided into two vast camps, hatingand 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 itprofitable--does it make for good times? In your own small degree, are yougoing to drive England that way too?--You'll admit, Father--you always didadmit--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 Romanticand an artist I sided with the Church. The new machine, and the men thatwere running it, seemed to me an ugly jerry-built affair, compared with thePapacy and all that it stood for. But then--'

--He leant back in his chair, one hand snatching and tearing at the bushesround 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 ofthis 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 Italybehind the Italy we know, or history knows!--Voices come to one, as Goethewould say, from the caves where dwell "Die Mütter"--the creative generativeforces of the country. '--

He turned his flashing look on Benecke, pleased now as always with the meretask of speech. 

'Anyway, as I have been going up and down their country, especially duringthe last six weeks; prating about their poverty, and their taxes, theircorruption, the incompetence of their leaders, the folly of their quarrelwith the Church; I have been finding myself caught in the grip of thingsolder and deeper--incredibly, primevally old!--that still dominateeverything, shape everything here. There are forces in Italy, forces ofland and soil and race--only now fully let loose--that will remake Churchno less than State, as the generations go by. Sometimes I have felt asthough this country were the youngest in Europe; with a future as fresh andteeming as the future of America. And yet one thinks of it at other timesas 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 thembirth, "with equal mind"; and that with equal mind will sweep them both toits 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 embarrassedlook. 

'This must have some cause, ' he said slowly, when Manisty ceased to speak. 'Surely?--this change? I recall language so different--forecasts sogloomy. '

'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'task 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 everypriest I could come across in these remote country districts where Ihave been wandering. _Per Dio!_--Marcello used to talk--I didn't believehim. But upon my word, the young fellows whom the seminaries are nowsending out in shoals represent a fact to give one pause!--Little blackdevils!--_Scusi!_ Father, --the word escaped me. Broadly speaking, theyare a political militia, --little else. Their hatred of Italy is a venomin their bones, and they themselves are mad for a spiritual tyranny whichno modern State could tolerate for a week. When one thinks of the oldermen--of Rosmini, of Gioberti, of the priests who died on the Milanbarricades in '48!'

His companion made a slow movement of assent. 

Manisty smoked on, till presently he launched the _mot_ for which he hadbeen 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 ortwice 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 isserious. --The economic difficulties are serious. --The House of Savoy willhave 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 thechild in the womb. The birth is over. The organism is still weak, but itlives. And the forces behind it are indefinitely, mysteriously strongerthan the Vatican thinks. '

'A great recantation, ' said the priest quickly. 

Manisty winced, but for a while said nothing. All at once he jerked awayhis cigarette. 

'Do you suspect some other reason for it, than the force of evidence?'--hesaid, 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, Itold you that I had been wandering about Italy on a quest that was nothealth, 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 foryou?'

'For me! You talk in riddles. '

'Very simple. Your letters might have contained a piece of news--and didnot. Yet if it had been there to give, you would have given it. So Icrossed 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 theycould 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 herfor weeks. She has hidden herself from me. But I shall find her!--now orlater--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 nourishingthan that!'

The priest lifted his eyebrows. 

'You are so certain?'

'I must be certain'--said Manisty, in a low voice, --'or in torment! Iprefer the certainty. '

His face darkened. In its frowning disorganisation his companion saw forthe first time a man hitherto unknown to him, a man who spoke with thedignity, 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 hisvisitor, from his own scheme. 

'Then how do you explain the young lady's disappearance?' he asked, after apause. 

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 amoment--'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 theirEnglish friends, in Italy than elsewhere, at this time of year. Beside, Iremember 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 youmust give yourself three hours to Orvieto--'

'Time enough. I'll go and have a look at those frescoes again--and a chatwith 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 thedeparture of his guest. 

Manisty breasted the hill, humming as he walked. The irregular vigorousform, the nobility and animation of his carriage drew the gaze of thepriest 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 alreadyfast closed and shuttered, but her door stood open to the _loggia_ intowhich no sun penetrated till the afternoon. 

A fresh breeze, which seemed the legacy of the storm, blew through thedoorway. Framed in the yellow arches of the _loggia_ she saw two cypressesglowing 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 bunchesof an oleander. From a distance the songs of harvesters at their work; andclose 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 fromunconsciousness. She had a confused memory of things which had passed insleep--of emotions and experiences. Her heart was beating fast, and asshe sat up, she caught her own reflection in the cracked glass on thedressing-table. Startled, she put up her hand to her flushed cheek. It waswet. 

'Crying!' she said, in wonder--'what have I been dreaming about? And why doI feel like this? What is the matter with me?'

After a minute or two, she rang a handbell beside her, and her maidappeared. 

'Marie, I am so well--so strong! It is extraordinary! Bring everything. Ishould 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 hertoilette was reached, and she was sitting in her white wrapper before thecracked 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 variouselaborate _coiffures_ in which she had been wont to appear at the villa. She would allow nothing but the simplest and rapidest methods; and Mariehad been secretly alarmed lest her hand should lose her cunning. 

So that to-day she coiled, crimped, curled with a will. When she hadfinished, Eleanor surveyed herself and laughed. 

'_Ah! mais vraiment, Marie, tu es merveilleuse!_ What is certain is thatneither that glass nor Torre Amiata is worthy of it. _N'importe. _ One mustkeep up standards. '

'Certainly, madame, you look better to-day. '

'I slept. Why did I sleep? I can't imagine. After all, Torre Amiata is notsuch 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 Eleanorwas 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 walkingdress--perfect--but of the utmost simplicity; with her soft black hat tiedround the ripples and clouds of her fair hair. 

'How it hangs on me!' she said, gathering up the front of her dress in herdelicate 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 myclothes left to walk about--by their little selves!'

She smiled. The maid said nothing. She was on her knees buttoning hermistress's shoes. 

'Now then--_fini!_ Take all those books on to the _loggia_ and arrange mychair. 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 littlemore--and a little more--then pain perhaps--horrid pain--and one day itwill be impossible to get up--and all one's poor body will fail one like abroken 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 blowsout the light--or a quiet drowning in deep waters--without pain.... Andto-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 herknees, as she always did for a minute or two morning and evening, mostlyout of childish habit. 

But her thoughts fell into no articulate words. Her physical weaknessrested against the chair; but the weakness of the soul seemed also to reston some invisible support. 

'What is the matter with me to-day?'--she asked herself again, inbewilderment. 'Is it an omen--a sign? All bonds seem loosened--the airlighter. What made me so miserable yesterday? I wanted him to come--and yetdreaded--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 tinygarland of heath and myrtle was hung round it. The little fellow seemed tobe tottering towards her, the eyes a little frightened, yet trusting, thegait 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 wouldsit, looking out through the arches of the _loggia_, to the road, and themountains. 

'Miss Foster is a long time, ' she said to Marie. 'It is too hot for her tobe out. And how odd! There is the Contessa's carriage--and the Contessaherself--at this time of day. Run, Marie! Tell her I shall be delighted tosee her. And bring another comfortable chair--there's a dear. '

The Contessa mounted the stone stairs with the heavy masculine step thatwas characteristic of her. 

'_Vous permettez, madame!_'--she said, standing in the doorway--'at thisunseasonable hour. '

Eleanor made her welcome. The portly Contessa seated herself with aninvoluntary gesture of fatigue. 

'What have you been doing?' said Eleanor. 'If you have been helping theharvesters, _je proteste_!'

She laid her hand laughingly on the Contessa's knee. It seemed to her thatthe 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 outamong them perpetually. She quarrelled with them and hectored them; she hadas good a command of the local dialect as they had; and an eye that pouncedon cheating like an osprey on a fish. Nevertheless, as she threw in yetanother evident trifle--that she cared more for them and their intereststhan for anything else in the world, now that her son was gone--theyendured 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 askof 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 forherself. 'It was taken ill last night, and they sent for me. '

'But you are too, too wonderful!' cried Eleanor in amusement. 'Is it allgrist 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 theplace. In his regiment they called him the "vet. , " because he was alwayspatching up the sick and broken mules. One of his last messages to mewas about an old horse. He taught me a few things--and sometimes I am ofuse--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 hasmade 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 inOctober. 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 weare devout, like Teresa, we regard the convent as the gate of heaven. Whenwe 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, itwould be all right, ' she said, in a voice that betrayed the mind's fatiguewith its own debate. 'It's the time it all lasts; when you are as strong asI am. '

Eleanor took her hand and kissed it. 

'Do you never take quite another line?' she said, with sparkling eyes. 'Doyou never say--"This is my will, and I mean to have it! I have as muchright 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 inher 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 Ibelieve in a future life. '

'And you think it wrong ever to press--to _insist_ upon--the personal, theselfish 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, herpallor--and the pretty dress. 

She remembered her friend's letter, and the 'Signor Manisty' who shouldhave married this sad, charming woman, and had not done so. It was easyto see that not only disease but grief was preying on Mrs. Burgoyne. TheContessa was old enough to be her mother. A daughter whom she had lost ininfancy would have been Eleanor's age, if she had lived. 

'Madame, let me give you a piece of advice'--she said suddenly, takingEleanor'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 thingsbefore. The words rang like a dirge upon her ear. They talked a littlelonger. Then the Contessa rose, and Eleanor rose, too, in spite of herguest's motion to restrain her. 

As they stood together the elder woman in her strength suddenly feltherself irresistibly drawn towards the touching weakness of the other. Instead of merely pressing hands, she quickly threw her strong arms roundMrs. Burgoyne, gathered her for an instant to her broad breast, and kissedher. 

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 thesmall horses trotted away, with a jingling of bells and a fluttering of thefurry tails that hung from their ears, the _padre parroco_ passed. He tookoff his hat to the Contessa, then seeing Mrs. Burgoyne on the _loggia_, hegave her, too, a shy but smiling salutation. 

His light figure, his young and dreamy air, suited well with the beautifullandscape through which it passed. Shepherd? or poet? Eleanor thought ofDavid among the flocks. 

'He only wants the crook--the Scriptural crook. It would go quite well withthe soutane. '

Then she became aware of another figure approaching on her right from thepiece 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, theslow embarrassed gesture. The _padre parroco_ passed without lookingto the right or left. All the charming pliancy of the young figure haddisappeared. 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 whichshe, too, never failed to display towards Father Benecke, introduced thevisitor. 

'Entrez, mon père, entrez, ' said Eleanor, holding out a friendly hand. 'Areyou, too, braving the sun? Did you pass Miss Foster? I wish she would comein--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 fromOrvieto. '

But he did not accept her invitation--at least not at once. He remainedhesitating--looking down upon her. And she, struck by his silence, struckby his expression, felt a sudden seizing of the breath. Her hand slid toher 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 youwill perhaps allow me to tell you of the letter that has reached me thismorning. One of the heads of the Old Catholic community invites me to goand 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 apriesthood shorn of its strength. But the invitation is so kind, sobrotherly, 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 moreto come. 

'I have also heard from my sister. She refuses to keep my house anylonger. Her resentment at what I have done is very bitter--apparentlyinsurmountable. She wishes to retire to a country place in Bavaria where wehave 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 Iam destitute. I have lost everything. But my education will always bring meenough 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 presentlyhe raised himself. Never had the apostolic dignity of his white head, hisbroad 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 Imust 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 lifeit was your conversation--when my heart was so sorely cast down--whichrevived 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--thiscompanionship you have permitted me. I humbly confess that I shall alwayshenceforward think differently of women, and of the relations that men andwomen 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 mysupport. You threw yourself on mine. Ah! Madame, have I been of anyassistance 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 todash it away. 

'I don't know, Father--I don't know. But to-day--for some mysteriousreason--I seem almost to be happy again. I woke up with the feeling of onewho 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 tocare for nothing--to grieve for nothing. Sometimes you know that happens topeople who are very ill. A numbness comes upon them. --But I am not numb. Ifeel everything. Perhaps, Father'--and she turned to him with her old sweetinstinct--of one who loved to be loved--'perhaps you have been praying forme?'

She smiled at him half shyly. But he did not see it. His head bent lowerand 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 herpallor 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--ahundred 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 inferenceis easy. --And you planned it! You took--you _dared_ to take--as much asthis--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, --'nohardness--like an angel's! What I would not have ventured to do with myclosest friend, my nearest and dearest--you--a stranger--have done--with alight heart. Oh! it is monstrous!--monstrous!'

She moved her neck from side to side as though she wassuffocating--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 Imade to you?--which no man of honour or of heart could have possiblybetrayed, '--she said passionately. 'Ah! you did well to warn me that itwas no true confession--under no true seal! You should have warned mefurther--more effectually. '

Her paleness was all gone. Her cheeks flamed. The priest felt that she wasbeside herself, and, traversed as his own mind was with the most poignantdoubts and misgivings, he must needs wrestle with her, defend himself. 

'Madame!--you do me some wrong, ' he said hurriedly. 'At least in wordsI 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, sinceif 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 inmy 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 towardsgenerosity, towards peace. I felt--oh! madame, I felt with all my heart, that there lay just one step between you and a happiness that wouldcompensate you a thousand times for all you had gone through. You say thatI prayed for you. I did--often--and earnestly. And it seemed to me that--inour later conversations--I saw such signs of grace in you--such exquisitedispositions of the heart--that were the chance of action once more givento you--you would find the strength to seize the blessing that God offeredyou. And one evening in particular, I found you in an anguish that seemedto be destroying you. And you had opened your heart to me; you had asked myhelp as a Christian priest. And so, madame, as you say--I dared. I said, inwriting to Mr. Manisty, who had told me he was coming northward--"if TorreAmiata is not far out of your road--look in upon me. " Neither your name norMiss Foster's passed my lips. But since--I confess--I have lived in muchdisturbance 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 outwardtowards the road and the forest. Her face and eyes were full of anincredible animation; her lips were lightly parted to let the quick breathpass. 

Then of a sudden she withdrew. Her eyes moved back to Father Benecke; shebent 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 atonce awkward and beautiful. 

'I don't know yet'--he said, in a deep perplexity--'whether I absolvemyself. '

'You will soon know, ' she said almost with gaiety. 'Oh! it is quitepossible'--she threw up one hand in a wild childish gesture--'it is quitepossible that to-morrow I may be at your feet, asking you to give mepenance for my rough words. On the other hand--Anyway, Father, you have notfound me a very dutiful penitent?'

'I expected castigation, ' he said meekly. 'If the castigation is done, Ihave come off better than I could have hoped. '

She raised herself, and took up her gloves that were lying on the littletable beside her sofa. 

'You see'--she said, talking very fast--'I am an Englishwoman, and my raceis 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 othernight. The men were knifing each other. The _parroco_ sent them word thatthey should come at once to his house--_per pacificarli_. They went. Thereis 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. Thereis a lad who made some blasphemous remarks in the street on the day of theMadonna'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 anEnglishwoman can sometimes feel the need of another judgment than her own?'

She smiled. All the time that she had made her little speech about thevillage, she had been casting quick glances along the road. It was evidentthat her mind was only half employed with what she was saying. Therose-flush in her cheeks, the dainty dress, the halo of fair hair gave herback 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 drawback, 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 theground. The whole young form drooped under the heat, and under a weight ofthought still more oppressive. As it came nearer a wave of sadness seemedto 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 thegate of the courtyard, Mrs. Burgoyne crossed the _loggia_, and called toher maid. 

'Marie--be so good as to tell Miss Foster when she comes in that I havegone out; that she is not to trouble about me, as I shall soon return; andtell 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 thenight before. At the foot of the stairs she paused. The wall of the gardendivided them from the courtyard, and on the other side of it they couldhear 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 thefield, 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 istoo fatiguing for you. '

Eleanor took no notice. She, who for days had scarcely dragged one languidfoot after another, sped through the heat and over the broken ground likeone of the goldfinches in the convent garden. The old priest followed herwith difficulty. Nor did she pause till they were in the middle of theSassetto. 

'Explain what we are doing!' he implored her, as she allowed him to presshis 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 thecool green heart of the Sassetto, towards the Paglia. 

They emerged upon the fringe of the wood, where amid scrub and saplingtrees stood the little sun-baked house. 

From the distance came a sound of wheels--a carriage from Selvapendentecrossing the bridge over the Paglia?

Mrs. Burgoyne looked at the house for a moment in silence. Then, shelteredunder her large white parasol, she passed round to the side that frontedthe river. 

There, in the shade, sat Manisty, his arms upon his knees, his head buriedin his hands. 

He did not at first hear Mrs. Burgoyne's step, and she paused a little wayoff. She was alone. The priest had not followed her. 

At last, as she moved, either the sound of her dress or the noise of theapproaching 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 hadleapt 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 perhapsTorre Amiata might have occurred to you. It was you that praised it--thatproposed to find quarters at the convent. '

He stared at her in amazement. 

'Eleanor--in God's name!' he broke out violently, 'tell me what thisall means! What has been the meaning of this mad--this extraordinarybehaviour?'

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 wehave 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 hasmade him believe it!'

Very soon his step was heard returning. The woman he had left in the shadelistened for it, as though in all this landscape of rushing river andmurmuring wood it the one audible, significant sound. But when he came backto her again, he saw nothing but a composed, expectant Eleanor; dressed, in these wilds, with a dainty care which would have done honour to Londonor Paris, with a bright colour in her cheeks, and the quiver of a smile onher lips. Ill! He thought he had seldom seen her look so well. Had she notalways been of a thistle-down lightness? 'Exaggeration!--absurdity!' hesaid to himself fiercely, carrying his mind back to certain sayings in agirl's voice that were still ringing in his ears. 

He, however, was in no mood to smile. Eleanor had thrown herself sidewayson the chair he had brought her; her arms resting on the back of it, herdelicate 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 andpassionate 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 yougoing to tell me why my cousin and comrade hates me and plots againstme?--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 wasmad 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 grassbetween them, she was conscious of a sudden childish instinct to put outher hand and stroke the black curls and the great broad shoulders. He wasnot for her; but, in the old days, who had known so well as she how tosoothe, manage, control him?

'I can't tell you those things--certainly, ' she said, after a pause. 'Ican't describe what doesn't exist. '

And to herself she cried: 'Oh! I shall lie--lie--lie--like a fiend, if Imust!'

'What doesn't exist'?' he repeated scornfully. 'Will you listen to myversion of what has happened--the barest, unadorned tale? I was your hostand Miss Foster's. I had begun to show the attraction that Miss Foster hadfor me, to offer her the most trifling, the most ordinary attention. Fromthe moment I was first conscious of my own feeling, I knew that you wereagainst me--that you were influencing--Lucy'--the name dropped from hislips in a mingled anguish and adoration--'against me. And just as I wasbeginning to understand my own heart--to look forward to two or three lastprecious weeks in which to make, if I could, a better impression upon her, after my abominable rudeness at the beginning--_you_ interfered--you, mybest friend! Without a word our party is broken up; my chance is snatchedfrom me; Miss Foster is spirited away. You and she disappear, and you leaveme to bear my affront--the outrage done me--as best I may. You alarm, youdistress all your friends. Your father takes things calmly, I admit. Buteven 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 ownwrath. 

'And at last'--he resumed, pausing in front of her--'after wandering up anddown Italy, I find you--in this remote place--by the merest chance. FatherBenecke said not a word. But what part he has played in it I don't yetunderstand. In another half-hour I should have been off; and again youwould 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 allunshapeliness of limb or movement seemed to have disappeared. Transfiguredby the unconsciousness of passion, he was all energy and all grace. 

'Eleanor!--explain! Has our old friendship deserved this? Why have you donethis thing to me?--And, my God!'--he began to pace up and down again, hishands in his pockets--'how well--how effectually you have gone to work! Youhave had--Lucy--in your hands for six weeks. It is plain enough what hasbeen going on. This morning--on that hill--suddenly, '--he raised his handto his brow, as though the surprise, the ecstacy of the moment returnedupon him--'there among the trees--was her face! What I said I shall neverremember. But when a man feels as I do he has no need to take thoughtwhat he shall say. And she? Impatience, coldness, aversion!--not a wordpermitted of my long pilgrimage--not a syllable of explanation for thisslight, 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 nolonger fit to be your companion. Even the servants talked. Aunt Pattie andI had to set ourselves at once to devise the most elaborate falsehoods, orHeaven knows where the talk would have spread. How had I deserved such ahumiliation?--Yet, when I meet Miss Foster again, she behaves as though sheowed me not a word of excuse. All her talk of you and your health! I mustgo away at once--because it would startle and disturb you to see me. Shehad already found out by chance that I was here--she had begged FatherBenecke to use his influence with me not to insist on seeing you--not tocome 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 andeveryone on it rushing together to Bedlam?'

Still she did not speak. Was it that his mere voice, the familiar torrentof 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, stillsay the same'?

But he meant to be answered. He came close to her. 

'We have been comrades, Eleanor--fellow-workers--friends. You have come toknow me as perhaps no other woman has known me. I have shown you a thousandfaults. You know all my weaknesses. You have a right to despise me as anunstable, egotistical, selfish fool; who must needs waste other people'sgood time and good brains for his own futile purposes. You have a rightto think me ungrateful for the kindest help that ever man got. You havea right as Miss Foster's friend--and perhaps, guessing as you do at someof my past history, --to expect of me probation and guarantees. You havea 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 ofmind--as you have imposed on me the last six weeks! I deny it, Eleanor--Ideny it altogether! The punishment, the test goes beyond--far beyond--yourright 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--'nowis 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 muchattached to each other?'

'I understand. '

'That she had felt great sympathy for me in the failure of the book, andwas inclined--well, you have proof of it!--to pity me, of course a greatdeal too much, for being a weakling. She is the most tender--the mostloving 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 toplease 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 thepeople about--and I heard. '

He waited, all ear. But she ceased to speak. She bent a little farther overthe back of the chair, as though she were making a mental enumeration ofthe leaves of a tiny myrtle bush that grew near his heel. 

'I thought that bit of truth would have stiffened the lies, ' she thought toherself; 'but somehow--they don't work. '

'Well: then, you see'--she threw back her head again and looked at him--'Ihad to consider. As you say, I knew you better than most people. It was allremarkably rapid--you will hardly deny that? For a fortnight you took nonotice of Lucy Foster. Then the attraction began--and suddenly--Well, weneedn't go into that any more; but with your character it was plain thatyou would push matters on--that you would give her no time--that you wouldspeak, _coûte qua coûte_--that you would fling caution and delay to thewinds--and that all in a moment Lucy Foster would find herself confrontedby a great decision that she was not at all prepared to make. It was notfair 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 ofyou--wasn't that to be desired? And no use whatever to go and leave youthe address!--you'll admit that?' she said hurriedly, with the accent of achild trying to entrap the judgment of an angry elder who was bringing itto book. 

He stood there lost in wrath, bewilderment, mystification. Was there ever amore lame, more ridiculous tale?

Then he turned quickly upon her, searching her face for some clue. A suddenperception--a perception of horror--swept upon him. Eleanor's first flushwas gone; in its place was the pallor of effort and excitement. What aghost, what a spectre she had become! Manisty looked at her aghast, --at herunsteady yet defiant eyes, at the uncontrollable trembling of the mouth shedid 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; alwayswith Eleanor; Eleanor his tool, his stimulus; her delicate mind and heartthe block on which he sharpened his own powers and perceptions. He recalledhis constant impatience of the barriers that hamper cold and cautiouspeople. He must have intimacy, feeling, and the moods that border on andplay with passion. Only so could his own gift of phrase, his own artisticdivinations develop to a fine suhtlety and clearness, like flowers in akind air. 

An experience, --for him. And for her? He remembered how, in a leisurely andlordly way, he had once thought it possible he might some day reward hiscousin; at the end of things, when all other adventures were done. 

Then came that tragi-comedy of the book; his disillusion with it; hisimpatient sense that the winter's work upon it was somehow bound up inEleanor's mind with a claim on him that had begun to fret and tease; andthose rebuffs, tacit or spoken, which his egotism had not shrunk frominflicting on her sweetness. 

How could he have helped inflicting them? Lucy had come!--to stir inhim the deepest waters of the soul. Besides, he had never taken Eleanorseriously. On the one hand he had thought of her as intellect, andtherefore hardly woman; on the other he had conceived her as too gentle, too sweet, too sensitive to push anything to extremes. No doubt the flightof the two friends and Eleanor's letter had been a rude awakening. Hehad then understood that he had offended Eleanor, offended her both as afriend, and as a clever woman. She had noticed the dawn of his love forLucy Foster, and had determined that he should still recognise her powerand influence upon his life. 

This was part of his explanation. As to the rest, it was inevitable thatboth his vanity and passion should speak soft things. A girl does not takesuch 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 beenhis 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! Thenon their heels followed an angry denial of responsibility, mingled withalarm and revolt. Was he to be robbed of Lucy because Eleanor had misreadhim? No doubt she had imprinted what she pleased on Lucy's mind. Was heindeed undone?--for good and all?

Then shame, pity, rushed upon him headlong. He dared not look at the facebeside him with its record of pain. He tried to put out of his mind what itmeant. Of course he must accept her lead. He was only too eager to acceptit; 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 andplaced himself beside her. 

'Well--that explains something'--he said more gently. 'I can't complainthat I don't seem to you or anyone a miracle of discretion; I can'twonder--perhaps--that you should wish to protect Miss Foster, if--if youthought she needed protecting. But I must think--I can't help thinking, that you set about it with very unnecessary violence. And for yourselftoo--what madness! Eleanor! what have you been doing to yourself?'

He looked at her reproachfully with that sudden and intimate penetrationwhich 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. Itwould only be a waste of time. '

'Of course you have found this place too rough for you. Have you anycomforts at all in that ruin? Eleanor, what a rash, --what a wild thing todo!'

He came closer to her, and Eleanor trembled under the strong expostulatingtenderness of his face and voice. It was so like him--to be always somehowin the right! Would he succeed, now as always, in doing with her exactly ashe would? And was it not this, this first and foremost that she had fledfrom?

'No'--she said, --'no. I have been as well here as I should have beenanywhere else. Don't let us talk of it. '

'But I must talk of it. You have hurt yourself--and Heaven knows you havehurt me--desperately. Eleanor--when I came back from that function theday you left the Villa, I came back with the intention of telling youeverything. I knew you were Miss Foster's friend. I thought you were minetoo. In spite of all my stupidity about the book, Eleanor, you would havelistened 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 backof 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 everexplain those things?'

'What makes you want to marry her? What possible congruity is there betweenher and you?'

He laughed uneasily. 

'What's the good of asking those things? One's feeling itself is theanswer. '

'But I'm the spectator--the friend. '--The word came out slowly, with astrange 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 shewere going to give herself any opportunity to find out. '

'Well, let us talk so, for argument. You're not exactly a novice, youknow, in these things. How is one to be sure that you're not playing withLucy--as you played with the book--till you can go back to the play youreally like best?'

'What do you mean?' he cried, starting with indignation--'the play ofpolitics?'

'Politics--ambition--what you will. Suppose Lucy finds herself taken up andthrown down--like the book?--when the interest's done?'

She uncovered her eyes, and looked at him steadily, coldly. It was anEleanor he did not know. 

He sprang up in his anger and discomfort, and began to pace again in frontof her. 

'Oh well--if you think as badly of me as that'--he said fiercely, --'I don'tsee 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 hadheld out the tip of her little finger--But she didn't. And I should havebeen a fool. It was too soon--too hasty. Anyway, she would not give methe smallest opening. And afterwards--' He paused. His mind passed to hisnight-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 toldhim 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 youwere out of charity with me. And, goodness knows, there was not much tobe said for me! But at any rate I thought that we, who had been such oldfriends, had better understand each other; that you'd help me if I askedyou. You'd never yet refused, anyway. '

His voice changed. She said nothing for a little, and her hands still madea 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 triedto tell her how I had gone up and down Italy, seeking for her, hungeringfor any shred of news of you. And she?--she treated me like a troublesomeintruder, like a dog that follows you unasked and has to be beaten backwith 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 fataltransformation in her was still more plainly visible; Manisty could hardlykeep his eyes from her. Was it his fault? His poor, kind Eleanor! He feltthe ghastly tribute of it, felt it with impatience, and repulsion. Must aman always measure his words and actions by a foot-rule--lest a woman takehim too seriously? He repented; and in the same breath told himself thathis 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 achance for you. You would take her to London--expect her to play her partthere--in your world. Suppose she failed. How would you get on?'

'Eleanor--really!--am a "three-tailed bashaw"?'

'No. But you are absorbing--despotic--fastidious. You might break thatgirl's heart in a thousand ways--before you knew you'd done it. You don'tgive; 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 stillbefore her, his features working with emotion. 

'If I am incapable of love--and unworthy of hers, ' he said in a stifledvoice, --'if that's your verdict--if that's what you tell her--I'd bettergo. I know your power--don't dispute your right to form a judgment--I'llgo. 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, mostecstatic sense of deliverance. She had been her own executioner; and thiswas not death--but life!

She rose. And speaking in her natural voice, with her old smile, shesaid--'I must go back to her--she will have missed me. Now then--what shallwe 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--noparticular hope--you didn't see and hear her just now! But I leave it allin 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 ofpower over both his destiny and Lucy's. But he suppressed it; made noreply. 

They turned the corner of the house. 'Your carriage can take ms up thehill, ' said Eleanor. 'You must ask Father Benecke's hospitality a littlelonger; and you shall hear from me to-night. '

They walked towards the carriage, which was waiting a hundred yardsaway. On the way Manisty suddenly said, plunging back into some of theperplexities which had assailed him before Eleanor's appearance:

'What on earth does Father Benecke know about it all? Why did he nevermention that you were here; and then ask me to pay him a visit? Why did hesend me up the hill this morning? I had forgotten all about the convent. Hemade me go. '

Eleanor started; coloured; and pondered a moment. 

'We pledged him to secrecy as to his letters. But all priests areJesuits, aren't they?--even the good ones. I suppose he thought we hadquarrelled, and he would force us for our good to make it up. He is verykind--and--rather romantic. '

Manisty said no more. Here, too, he divined mysteries that were bestavoided. 

They stood beside the carriage. The coachman was on the ground remedyingsomething 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. Theybreathed 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 gazethat they had ever exchanged; hers infinitely sad, full of a dignityrecovered, and never to be lost again, the gaze, indeed, of a soul thatwas already withdrawing itself gently, imperceptibly from the things ofearth and sense; his agitated and passionate. It seemed to him that he sawthe clear brown of those beautiful eyes just cloud with tears. Then theydropped, 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 upthe hill. 

 * * * * *

'Sapphira was nothing to me!' thought Eleanor as she threw herself back inthe old shabby landau with a weariness of body that made little impressionhowever on the tension of her mind. 

Absently she looked out at the trees above and around her; at theinnumerable turns of the road. So the great meeting was over! Manisty'sreproaches had come and gone! With his full knowledge--at his humbledemand--she held his fate in her hands. 

Again that extraordinary sense of happiness and lightness! She shrank fromit in a kind of terror. 

Once, as the horses turned corner after corner, the sentence of ameditative Frenchman crossed her mind; words which said that the onlysatisfaction for man lies in being _dans l'ordre_; in unity, that is, withthe great world-machine in which he finds himself; fighting with it, notagainst 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 whichseemed to have driven out for the moment all the other elements in hischaracter--those baser, vainer, weaker elements that she knew so well. Thechange in him was a measure of the smallness of her own past influence uponhim; of the infinitude of her own self-deception. Her sharp intelligencedrew the inference at once, and bade her pride accept it. 

They had reached the last stretch of hill before the convent. Where wasLucy? She looked out eagerly. 

The girl stood at the edge of the road, waiting. As Eleanor bent forwardwith a nervous 'Dear, I am not tired--wasn't it lovely to find thiscarriage?' Lucy made no reply. Her face was stern; her eyes red. She helpedEleanor to alight without a word. 

But when they had reached Eleanor's cool and shaded room, and Eleanor waslying on her bed physically at rest, Lucy stood beside her with a quiveringface. 

'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 restthere for hours. Why we should be disturbed in this unwarrantable, thisunpardonable way, I can't imagine. '

She looked taller than Eleanor had ever seen her; and more queenly. Herwhole 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 ghastlypallor 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 adelirium--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--Ifelt the demon--go! And the result is very simple. Put your ear down tome. '

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 Edwardshould be happy--and forgive me. '

Her voice was lost in a sob. Lucy kissed her quickly, passionately. Thenshe rose. 

'I shall never marry Mr. Manisty, Eleanor, if that is what you mean. It iswell 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 marryhim--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 methat meant nothing--_nothing_--from you, of all people? Oh! you dear, dearchild!--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 Ido. And I will never marry Mr. Manisty. '

Eleanor still held her. 

'Dear--you remember that night when Alice attacked you? I came into thelibrary, unknown to you both. You were still in the chair--you heardnothing. 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 temperamentlike his to despair. You know how he lives by feeling, by imagination--howmuch of the artist, of the poet, there is in him. If he is happy--if thereis someone to understand, and strengthen him, he will do great things. Ifnot 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. Sheshook 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. Inever can. '

'And you told him so?'

'I don't know what I told him--except that he mustn't trouble you--that wewanted 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 rightto say what he does. Did I encourage him to spend these weeks in lookingfor us? Never!'

'He didn't want encouraging, ' said Eleanor. 'He is in love--perhaps for thefirst time in his life. If you are to give him no hope--it will go hardwith 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 saidpresently, in a low voice. 'I have poisoned the sound of them to yourears. '

Lucy was silent. She began to walk up and down the room, with her handsbehind 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 thehill this morning to see me. It was the most intolerable interference andpresumption. Only a priest could have done it. '

'Oh! you bigot!--you Puritan! Come here, little wild-cat. Let me saysomething. '

Lucy came reluctantly, and Eleanor held her. 

'Doesn't it enter into your philosophy--tell me--that one soul should beable to do anything for another?'

'I don't believe in the professional, anyway, ' said Lucy stiffly--'nor inthe 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 avisible effort. 

Eleanor made no reply. She lay with her face hidden. When Lucy bent down toher she said with a sudden sob:

'Don't you understand? I have been near two griefs since I came here--hisand the Contessa's. And mine didn't stand the comparison. '

'Father Benecke had no right to take matters into his own hands, ' said Lucystubbornly. 

'I think he was afraid--I should die in my sins, ' said Eleanor wildly. 'Heis 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 takeyou safely back to England, and then to go home--home to Uncle Ben--to myown people. '

Her voice showed the profoundest and most painful emotion. Eleanor felt amovement of despair. What could he have said or done to set this tendernature so on edge? If it had not been for that vision on the _loggia_, shewould have thought that the girl's heart was in truth untouched, and thatManisty would sue in vain. But how was it possible to think it?

She lost herself in doubts and conjectures, while Lucy still moved up anddown. 

Presently Cecco brought up their meal, and Eleanor must needs eat and drinkto soothe Lucy's anxiety. The girl watched her every movement, and Eleanordared neither be tired nor dainty, lest for every mouthful she refusedManisty'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 tohear. '

'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 wereunkind to him. You have made him suffer, my dear; he is not the meekest ofmen. Be content. '

'I will be quite polite, ' said the girl, turning away her head. 'You willbe 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 didyou say? If you attacked me, it has done you harm. '

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Lucy, who felt herself exiled from the woods, the roads, thevillage, by one threatening presence, shut herself up for a while in herown room, in youth's most tragic mood, calling on the pangs of thought tostrengthen still more her resolve and clear her mind. 

She forced her fingers to an intermittent task of needlework, but therewere long pauses when her hands lay idle on her lap, when her head droopedagainst the back of her chair, and all her life centred in her fast beatingheart, driven and strained by the torment of recollection. 

That moment when she had stepped out upon the road from the shelter of thewood--the thrill of it even in memory made her pale and cold. His look--hiscry--the sudden radiance of the face, which, as she had first caught sightof it, bent in a brooding frown over the dusty road, had seemed to her thevery 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--theeager grasp of her hand--the words and phrases that were the words andphrases of love--dictated, justified only by love--then her first mentionof Eleanor--the short stammering sentences, which as she spoke them soundedto her own ear so inconclusive, unintelligible, insulting--and his growingastonishment, the darkening features, the tightening lips, and finally hisstep backward, the haughty bracing of the whole man. 

'Why does my cousin refuse to see me? What possible reason can you or sheassign?'

And then her despairing search for the right word, that would not come! Hemust please, please, go away--because Mrs. Burgoyne was ill--because thedoctors were anxious--because there must be no excitement. She was actingas nurse, but it was only to be for a short time longer. In a week ortwo, no doubt Mrs. Burgoyne would go to England, and she would return toAmerica with the Porters. But for the present, quiet was still absolutelynecessary. 

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 atlast that sharp sentence, like lightning from the cloud, as to 'whims andfollies' that no sane man could hope to unravel, which had suddenly nervedher to be angry. 

'Oh! I was odious--odious!'--she thought to herself, hiding her face in herhands. 

His answering indignation seemed to clatter through her room. 

'And you really expect me to do your bidding calmly, --to play thisridiculous part?--to leave my cousin and you in these wilds--at this timeof 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 greatresponsibility, Miss Foster, that you take, with me, and with her! I refuseto yield it to you, till I have given you at least a little further timefor consideration. I shall stay here a few hours longer. If you change yourmind, send to me--I am with Father Benecke. If not--good-bye! But I warnyou that I will be no party to further mystification. It is undesirable forus all. I shall write at once to General Delafield-Muir, and to my aunt. Ithink it will be also my duty to communicate with your friends in London orin 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 twowills, 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 beginninginstead of conciliating she had provoked him. But how to make a plausiblestory out of their adventure at all? There was the deciding, the fataldifficulty! Her face burnt anew as she tried to think his thoughts, toimagine all that he might or must guess; as she remembered the glow ofswift instinctive triumph with which he had recognised her, and realisedfrom it some of the ideas that must have been his travelling companions allthese weeks. 

No matter: let him think what he pleased! She sat there in the gatheringdark; at one moment, feeling herself caught in the grip of a moralnecessity that no rebellion could undo; and the next, childishly catchingto 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 hecarried 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. Andit would almost seem as though nature, for her own secret reasons, hadthrown a special charm round the egotist of all types, for the loving andthe true. Is it that she is thinking of the race--must needs balance in itthe 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 herthoughts. She was no conscious thief, no willing traitor. Not even Eleanorshould persuade her. Eleanor was dying because she, Lucy, had stolen fromher the affections of her inconstant lover. Was there any getting overthat? None! The girl shrank in horror from the very notion of such a baseand plundering happiness. 

CHAPTER XXIV

On the following morning when Lucy entered Eleanor's room she found hergiving 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 aface 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 withher deep blue eyes. 

'Well, it's only a few days more, ' said Eleanor, guiltily. 'Do let's takeit leisurely! It's so horrid to be hurried in one's packing. Look at allthese things!'

She waved her hand desperately round the little room, choked up withmiscellaneous boxes; then laid both hands on Lucy's shoulders, coaxing andsmiling at her like a child. 

Lucy soon convinced herself that it was of no use to argue. She must justsubmit, unless she were prepared to go to lengths of self-assertion whichmight 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 cheekhad reddened, but Eleanor admired her stateliness. 

'Oh, we must keep Edward. We want him for courier. I gave you troubleenough, on the journey here. '

Lucy said nothing. Her heart swelled a little. It seemed to her that underall this sweetness she was being treated with a certain violence. She wentto the balcony, where the breakfast had just been laid, that she mightbring Eleanor's coffee. 

'It _is_ just a little crude, ' Eleanor thought, uneasily. 'Dear bird!--thenet is sadly visible. But what can one do?--with so little time--so fewchances! Once part them, and the game is up!'

So she used her weakness once more as a tyranny, this time for differentends. 

The situation that she dictated was certainly difficult enough. Manistyappeared, 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 onthe previous day, naturally, not a word. So far indeed as allusions to thepast were concerned, the three might just have travelled together fromMarinata. Eleanor very flushed, and dressed in her elegant white dress andFrench 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 theglances that he threw his cousin. The trouble which they betrayed gave thegirl a bitter satisfaction. 

Presently she left them alone. After her disappearance Eleanor turned toManisty with a smile. 

'On your peril--not another word to her!--till I give you leave. That wouldfinish 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 controlhis depression, and Eleanor was soon distracting and comforting him inthe familiar ways of the past. Before forty-eight hours had elapsed therelations between them indeed had resumed, to all appearance, the old andclose intimacy. On his arm she crept down the road, to the Sassetto, whileLucy 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 villagechildren who would always henceforward associate her white dress and thepure oval of her face with their dreams of the Madonna. 

In their _tête-à-têtes_, the talk of Manisty and Eleanor was always eitherof Lucy or of Manisty's own future. He had been at first embarrassed orreluctant. But she had insisted, and he had at length revealed himselfas in truth he had never revealed himself in the days of their earlyfriendship. With him at least, Eleanor through all anguish had remainedmistress of herself, and she had her reward. No irreparable word had passedbetween them. In silence the old life ceased to be, and a new bond arose. The stifled reproaches, the secret impatiences, the _ennuis_, the hiddenanguish of those last weeks at Marinata were gone. Manisty, freed fromthe pressure of an unspoken claim which his conscience half acknowledgedand his will repulsed, was for his cousin a new creature. He began totreat her as he had treated his friend Neal, with the same affectionateconsideration, the same easy sweetness; even through all the torments thatLucy made him suffer. 'His restlessness as a lover, --his excellence as afriend, '--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 thatEleanor'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 yetdone in the days when she ruled alone. 

One evening finding her more feeble than usual, he implored her to let himsummon a doctor from Rome before she risked the fatigue of the Mont Cenisjourney. 

But she refused. 'If necessary, ' she said, 'I will go to Orvieto. There isa good man there. But there is some one else you shall write to, if youlike:--Reggie! Didn't you see him last week?'

'Certainly. Reggie and the first secretary left in charge, sitting in theirshirt-sleeves, with no tempers to speak of, and the thermometer at 96. ButReggie was to get his holiday directly. '

'Write and catch him. '

'Tell him to come not later than Tuesday, please, ' said Lucy, quietly, whowas standing by. 

'Despot!' said Eleanor, looking up. 'Are we really tied and bound toFriday?'

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 atlast 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 whichshe might justly complain. I told her last night I would have gone--but foryour 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 beuseful!--And she hopes Aunt Pattie will meet us in London, that she may befree to start for New York by the 10th, if her friends go then. She haswritten to them. '

Eleanor was silent. 

'I must have it out with her!' said Manisty presently under his breath. Inhis 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 neverforget--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 timesmore. '

But here the conversation reached an _impasse_. Manisty could notsay--'Then why?--in Heaven's name!'--for he knew why. Only it was nota _why_ that he and Eleanor could discuss. Every hour he realised moreplainly with what completeness Eleanor held him in her hands. The situationwas galling. But her sweetness and his own remorse disarmed him. To behelpless--and to be kind!--nothing else apparently remained to him. Theonly gracious look Lucy had vouchsafed him these two days had been inreward for some new arrangement of Eleanor's sofa which had given theinvalid greater ease. 

He returned to his seat, smiling queerly. 

'Well, I am not the only person in disgrace. Do you notice how Benecke istreated?'

'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 experienceof women he never remembered a more queenly and less childish composurethan Lucy had been able to show him since their scene on the hill. Ithad enlarged all his conceptions of her. His passion for her was therebystimulated 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, hisambitions, 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 wasnot able to hide a certain agitation. She got up and began vaguely to putaway 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 thesilks; 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 lovelyentreating eyes. 

'My sister is very ill. There has been another crisis. I might be summonedat 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 docileLucy. 'Have you had a letter?' she asked. 

'Yes, this morning. I saw her the other day when I passed through Rome. Sheknew me, but she is a wreck. The whole constitution is affected. Sometimesthere are intervals, but they get rarer. And each acute attack weakens herseriously. '

'It is terrible--terrible!'

As she stood there before him in her white dress under the twilight, hehad a vision of her lying with shut eyes in his chair at Marinata; heremembered the first wild impulse that had bade him gather her, unconsciousand helpless, in his arms. 

He moved away from her. For something to do, or say, he stooped down tolook into her open workbasket. 

'Isn't that one of the Nemi terra-cottas!'

He blundered into the question from sheer nervousness, wishing it unspokenthe instant it was out. 

Lucy started. She had forgotten. How could she have forgotten! There in asoft bed of many-coloured silks, wrapped tenderly about, yet so as to showthe face and crown, was the little Artemis. The others were beneath thetray of the box. But this for greater safety lay by itself, a thin foldof cotton-wool across its face. In that moment of confusion when he hadappeared on the _loggia_ she had somehow displaced the cotton-wool withoutknowing 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. Hethought of that other lovelier head--her likeness?--whereof the fragmentswere at that moment in a corner of his dressing-case, after journeying withhim through the mountains. 

As for Lucy it was to her as though the little head nestling in his handmust somehow carry there the warmth of her kisses upon it, must somehowbetray her. He seemed to hold a fragment of her heart. 

'Please let me put it away, ' she said hurriedly. 'I must go to Eleanor. Itis nearly time for dinner. '

He gave it up silently. She replaced it, smoothed down her silks and herwork, 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 theloss of self-command. 

The thought of Eleanor calmed her. As she finished her little task, shepaused and spoke again. 

'You won't alarm her about poor Miss Manisty, without--without consultingwith 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 gleamof feeling had made him sensible, of advantage, given him backself-confidence. 

The soft flutter of her dress disappeared, and he was left to pace up anddown the _loggia_ in alternations of hope and despair. He, too, felt withEleanor that these days were fatal. If he lost her now, he lost her forever. 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 ina nutshell. And how insist in these circumstances, as he would have donevehemently 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 Eleanorcould help. 

 * * * * *

The following day, just outside the convent gate, he met Lucy, returningfrom the village, whither she had been in quest of some fresh figs forEleanor's breakfast. It was barely eight o'clock, but the sun was alreadyfierce. After their formal greeting, Lucy lingered a moment. 

'It's going to be frightfully hot to-day, ' she said, looking round her witha troubled face at the glaring road, at the dusty patch of vines beyondit, at the burnt grass below the garden wall. 'Mr. Manisty!--you will makeEleanor 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 andthroat. 

'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 herejoined 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 isbetter. 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 youtoo, ' she added, with difficulty. 

He said nothing, and they walked up to the inner door in silence. Then asthey 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. 'Thatisn't wonderful--is it?--with her?'

Her tone pierced him. 

'Oh! nothing's wonderful in women. You set the standard so high--the mencan't follow. '

He stared at her, pale and frowning. She laughed artificially, but he couldsee 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 saidangrily. 'That, I dare say, you'll admit. '

'Of course I shall, ' she said, with a lip that smiled unsteadily. 'I knowit'll be invaluable. Please, Mr. Manisty, let me pass. I must get Eleanorher breakfast. '

But he still stood there, barring the way. 

'Then, Miss Foster, admit something else!--that I am not the mereintruder--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 forcomposure. But the dignity, the pride behind the agitation were so evidentthat he dared not go a step further. He bowed, and let her pass. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile the Contessa was useful. After a very little observation, basedon the suggestions of her letter from Home, she divined the situationexactly. Her affection and pity for Mrs. Burgoyne grew apace. Lucy sheboth admired and acquitted; while she half liked, half hated Manisty. Heprovoked her perpetually to judgment, intellectual and moral; and theyfell into many a sparring which passed the time and made a shelter forthe 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 aboutthe country, attending to the claims, the sicknesses, and the animals ofdistant _contadini_, the more she read her newspapers, and the more nimblydid 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 EighthCommandment. Well! was ever a nation made in a night before? When yourQueen came to the throne, were you English so immaculate? You talkabout our Socialists--have we any disturbances, pray, worse than yourdisturbances in the twenties and thirties? The _parroco_ says to me dayafter day: "The African campaign has been the ruin of Italy!" That's onlybecause he wants it to be so. The machine marches, and the people paytheir taxes, and the farming improves every year, all the same. A month ortwo ago, the newspapers were full of the mobbing of trains starting withsoldiers for Erythrea. Yet all that time, if you went down into the Campode' Fiori you could find poems sold for a _soldo_, that only the peoplewrote and the people read, that were as patriotic as the poor Kinghimself. '

'Ah! I know, ' said Manisty. 'I have seen some of them. The oddest, naïvestthings!--the metre of Tasso, the thoughts of a child--and every now andthen the cry a poet. '

And he repeated a stanza or two from these broad-sheets of the war, in arolling 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 deservedall that could be said of them. That he was one of the temperaments towhich other lives minister without large return--that she had divined atonce. But, like Lucy, she was not damped by that. The Contessa had knownfew illusions, and only one romance; her love for her dead son. Otherwiseshe took the world as it came, and quarrelled with very few of its markedand persistent phenomena. 

They were sitting on a terrace beneath the north-western front of thePalazzo. The terrace was laid out in a formal garden. Fountains played;statues stood in rows; and at the edge cypresses, black against the eveningblue and rose, threw back the delicate dimness of the mountains, madetheir 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 alittle apart, busy with her embroidery. She very seldom talked, but Eleanorcould 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 Manistyto the Contessa, resuming the conversation. 'When you talk to me of thisCountry and its future, _vous prêchez un converti_. '

'I thought you were the Jonah of our day, ' she said, with her abrupt andrather disdainful smile. 

Manisty laughed. 

'A Jonah who needn't complain anyway that his Nineveh is too ready to hearhim. '

'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 hiddenbehind her work. 

'Oh! preach away, ' cried the Contessa. 'Take up your book again. Publishit. We can bear it. '

Manisty searched with both hands for his matches; his new cigarette betweenhis lips. 

'My book, Madame'--he said coolly--' outlived the pleasure its author tookin writing it. My cousin was its good angel; but not even she could bring ablunder to port. Eleanor!--_n'est-ce pas?_'

He gathered a spray of oleander that grew near him, and laid it on herhand, like a caress. Eleanor's emaciated fingers closed upon it gently. Shelooked 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. Theythought her asleep, for it was common with her now to fall into shortsleeps of pure exhaustion. When they occurred, those near her kept tenderand generally silent watch, joining hands of protection, as it were, roundher 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 otherday she was thankful it had been dropped. '

He looked at her with the half irritable, half sensitive expression thatshe 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 wanthim 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 hissingular power of playing any rôle in his own drama that he might desire toplay. He played it with energy, with desperation, counting meanwhile eachhour as it passed, having in view always that approaching moment in Londonwhen Lucy would disappear within the doors of the Porters' house, leavingthe butler to meet the demands of unwelcome visitors with such equivalentsof 'Not at home' as her Puritan scruples might allow; till the newspapersshould announce the safe sailing of her steamer for New York. 

He ceased to propitiate her; he dropped embarrassment. He ignored her. Hebecame the man of the world and of affairs, whose European interests andrelations are not within the ken of raw young ladies from Vermont. He hadnever been more brilliant, more interesting, more agreeable, for Eleanor, for the Contessa, for Benecke; for all the world, save one. He describedhis wanderings among the Calabrian highlands. He drew the peasants, thepriests, the great landowners of the south still surrounded with theirsemi-feudal state; he made Eleanor laugh or shudder with his tales ofthe brigandage of the sixties; he talked as the artist and the scholarmay of the Greek memories and remains of the Tarentine coast. Then heturned to English politics, to his own chances, and the humours of hiscorrespondence. The Contessa ceased to quarrel with him. The handsomeEnglishman with the colour of a Titian, and the features of an antique, with his eloquence, his petulance, his conceit, his charm, filled thestage, quickened the dull hours whenever he appeared. Eleanor's tragedyexplained itself. The elder woman understood and pitied. As for LucyFoster, the Contessa's shrewd eyes watched her with a new respect. At whatstage, in truth, was the play, and how would it end?

Meanwhile for Lucy Foster alone, Manisty was not agreeable. He roseformally when she appeared; he placed her chair; he paid her all necessarycourtesies. But his conversation never included her. Her coming generallycoincided--after she was ceremoniously provided for--with an outbreak oftalk between him and Eleanor, or between him and Benecke, more eager, animated and interesting than before. But Lucy had no part in it. Itwas not the early neglect and incivility of the villa; it was somethinginfinitely colder and more wounding; the frigidity of disillusion andresentment, of kindness rebuffed and withdrawn. 

Lucy said nothing. She went about her day's work as usual, making allarrangements for their departure, devoting herself to Eleanor. Every nowand then she was forced to consult with Manisty as to arrangements for thejourney. They spoke as mere acquaintances and no more than was necessary;while she, when she was alone, would spend much time in a silentabstraction, thinking of her uncle, of the duties to which she wasreturning, and the lines of her future life. Perhaps in the winter shemight do some teaching. Several people in Greyridge had said they wouldemploy her. 

And, all the time, during the night hours when she was thus wrestlingdown her heart, Manisty was often pacing the forest paths, in an orgieof smoke and misery, cursing the incidents of the day, raging, doubting, suffering--as no woman had yet made him suffer. The more truly hedespaired, the more he desired her. The strength of the moral life in herwas a revelation, a challenge to all the forces of his own being. He wasnot accustomed to have to consider such things in women. It added to hera wealth, a rarity, which made the conquest of her the only object worthpursuing in a life swept bare for the moment of all other passions andzests. She loved him! Eleanor knew it; Eleanor declared it. Yet in tendays' time she would say, --'Good bye, Mr. Manisty'--with that calm browwhich he already foresaw as an outrage and offence to love. Ah! for somemeans to cloud those dear eyes--to make her weep, and let him see thetears!

CHAPTER XXV

'Hullo, Manisty!--is that you? Is this the place?'

The speaker was Reggie Brooklyn, who was dismounting from his bicycle atthe 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 theother 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 hero last year, ' said Manisty, 'on that little tour we made withthe D. 's. Eleanor liked it then. She came here when the heat began, shethought it would be cool. '

'You didn't know where she was ten days ago, ' said the boy, looking at himqueerly. 'And General Muir didn't know, for I heard from some one who hadseen 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 theauthority of the older man, the man in charge--'now we are doing all wecan. We start on Friday and pick up a nurse at Genoa. When we get home, ofcourse she will have the best advice. Very often she is wonderfully brightand 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, Manistymoody and ill at ease. 

'Reggie!--well met!' It was Eleanor's gayest voice, from the vine-leafedshadows of the _loggia_. Brooklyn sat down beside her, gazing at her withhis troubled blue eyes. Manisty descended to the walled garden, and walkedup and down there smoking, a prey to disagreeable thoughts. 

After half an hour or so Reggie came down to the convent gate to look outfor the ricketty diligence which had undertaken to bring his bag fromOrvieto. 

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 acountenance singularly discomposed. 

They looked at each other a moment in silence. He noted with amazement hergrowth in beauty, in expression. But the sadness of the mouth and eyestortured him afresh. 

'What is the matter with her?' he said abruptly, dropping her timidlyoffered hand. 

'An old illness--mostly the heart, ' she said, with difficulty. 'But I thinkthe 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, itwas 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 lookafter her?' said the young man passionately. 

'We have done what we could, ' said the girl humbly. 'The Contessa Guerrinihas been very kind. We constantly tried to persuade her to let us take herhome; but she couldn't bring herself to move. '

'It was madness, ' he said, between his teeth. 'And now--she looks as thoughshe were going to die!'

He gave a groan of angry grief. Lucy turned aside, leaning her arm againstthe 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 comefor?'--was his thought--'making mischief!--and robbing Eleanor of herdue!--It was a bad bargain she wanted, --but she might have been allowed tohave him in peace. What did you come meddling for?'

At that moment the door of the walled garden opened. Manisty came out intothe courtyard. Brooklyn looked from him to Lucy with a tight lip, a fierceand flashing eye. 

He watched them meet. He saw Lucy's quick change of attitude, the returnof hardness and composure. Manisty approached her. They discussed somearrangement for the journey, in the cold tones of mere acquaintance. Not asign of intimacy in manner or words; beyond the forced intimacy of thosewho have for the moment a common task. 

When the short dialogue was over, Manisty mumbled something to Brooklynto the effect that Father Benecke had some dinner for him at the house atthe foot of the hill. But he did not wait for the young man's company. Hehurried 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 youngman and the girl looked after him. Then Reggie turned impulsively. 

'I suppose it was that beastly book--partly--that knocked her up. What's hedone 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 somethingmilder and more friendly. They turned back to the convent together, Lucyanswering his questions as to the place, the people, the Contessa, and soforth. 

A step, quick and gentle, overtook them. 

It was Father Benecke who stopped and greeted them; a venerable figure, ashe bared his white head, and stood for a moment talking to Brooklyn underthe great sycamore of the courtyard. He had now resumed his clerical dress;not, indeed, the soutane; but the common round collar, and long black coatof the non-Catholic countries. The little fact, perhaps, was typical of ageneral steadying and settling of his fortunes after the anguish of hisgreat catastrophe. 

Lucy hardly spoke to him. His manner was soft and deprecating. And MissFoster stood apart as though she liked neither it nor him. When he leftthem, to enter, the Convent, Reggie broke out:--

And how does _he_ come to be here? I declare it's the most extraordinarytangle! What's he doing in there?'

He nodded towards the building, which seemed to be still holding thesunlight of the day, so golden-white it shone under the evening sky, andagainst 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'msure he's well quit of them!'--said the young man fervently. 'They're doingtheir level best to pull this country about everybody's ears. And they'llbe the first to suffer--thank heaven!--if they do upset the coach. And soit 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, hishands 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 agirl of the right sort--she's a brick, she is!'--he said to himself in amiserable, a savage exultation, kicking the stones of the road furiouslydown hill, after the disappearing diligence. 'So that's how a woman lookswhen 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 himselfsitting in the darkness by the roadside, grappling with honest tears, thatastonished and scandalised himself. 

 * * * * *

Next day he was still more bewildered by the position of affairs. Eleanorwas apparently so much better that he was disposed to throw scorn on hisown burst of grief under the starlight. That was the first impression. Thenshe was apparently in Manisty's charge. Manisty sat with her, strolled withher, read to her from morning till night. Never had their relations beenmore intimate, more affectionate. That was the second impression. 

Nevertheless, that some great change had taken place--above all inEleanor--became abundantly evident to the young man's quickened perception, before another twenty-four hours had passed away. And with this new sensereturned the sense of irreparable tragedy. Eleanor stood alone--aloof fromthem all. The more unremitting, the more delicate was Manisty's care, themore tender was Lucy's devotion, the more plainly was Brooklyn aware of apathetic, a mysterious isolation which seemed already to bring the chill ofdeath into their little company. 

The boy's pain flowed back upon him, ten-fold augmented. For seven oreight years he had seen in Eleanor Burgoyne the woman of ideal distinctionby whom he judged all other women. The notion of falling in love withher would have seemed to him ridiculous. But his wife, whenever he couldindulge himself in such a luxury, must be like her. Meanwhile he was mostnaïvely, most boyishly devoted to her. 

The sight of her now, environed as it were by the new and awfulpossibilities which her state suggested, was a touch upon the youngman's nature, which seemed to throw all its energies into a fieryfusion, --concentrating them upon a changed and poignant affection, whichrapidly absorbed his whole being. His pity for her was almost intolerable, his bitterness towards Manisty almost beyond his control. All very wellfor him now to be the guardian of her decline! Whatever might be the truthabout the American girl, it was plain enough that while she could stillreckon on the hopes and chances of the living, Eleanor had wasted her heartand 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 Manistywas always there. At last, two days after his arrival, he got an hour tohimself while Manisty and Father Benecke were walking, and Lucy was withthe Contessa. 

He began to question her eagerly as to the future. With whom was she topass the remainder of the year--and where?

'With my father and Aunt Pattie of course, ' said Eleanor, smiling. 'It willbe 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 himwell, 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 travellingcompanion, her nurse, her slave. He implored her to listen to him. Whatwas her father to her--he asked her plainly--when had he ever consideredher, 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 beenough. 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. 'Youremind me of that pretty story--don't you remember?--only it was the otherway about--of Lord Giffard and Lady Dufferin. He was dying--and she marriedhim--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 atlast, pushing him away from her in her agitation. 

Then reaching out from her sofa, she opened a drawer in a little tablebeside her, and took out a double photograph-case, folded together. Sheopened it and held it out to him. 

'There!--help me bring those two together, Reggie--and I'll give you evenmore 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 ustalk. '

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Manisty and Father Benecke were climbing the long hill, on thereturn from their walk. There had been no full confidence between thesetwo. Manisty's pride would not allow it. There was too sharp humiliationat present in the thought of that assurance with which he had spoken toBenecke by the river-side. 

He chose, therefore, when they were alone, rather to talk to the priestof his own affairs, of his probable acceptance of the Old Catholic offerswhich had been made him. Benecke did not resent the perfunctory manner ofhis talk, the half-mind that he gave to it. The priest's shrewd humilitymade no claims. He understood perfectly that the catastrophe of his ownlife could have no vital interest for a man absorbed as Manisty was thenabsorbed. He submitted to its being made a topic, a _passe-temps_. 

Moreover, he forgave, he had always forgiven Manisty's dominant attitudetowards the forces which had trampled on himself. Often he had felt himselfthe shipwrecked sailor sinking in the waves, while Manisty as the coolspectator was hobnobbing with the wreckers on the shore. But nothing ofthis affected his love for the man. He loved him as Vanbrugh Neal hadloved him; because of a certain charm, a certain indestructible youth andirresponsibility at the very heart of him, which redeemed half his errors. 

'Ah! my dear friend, ' Manisty was saying as they neared the top of thehill--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 greatdeal of you. It might have been much worse. '

'They are very kind. But one transplants badly at sixty-six, ' said thepriest mildly, thinking perhaps of his little home in the street of hisBavarian town, of the pupils he should see no more, of the old sister whohad deserted him. 

'_Your_ book has been the success, ' said Manisty, impatiently. 'For yousaid 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; thefacts have been too many for me. No matter. It was an adventure like anyother. 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 battleall the better for the experience! _Allons donc_!--"To-morrow to freshwoods and pastures new!"'

The priest looked at his handsome reckless air, with a mixture ofindulgence 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 priestrealised profoundly his own meaner, obscurer destiny. The humble servantof a heavenly _patria_, of an unfathomable truth, is no match for theseintellectual soldiers of fortune. He does not judge them; he often feelstowards them a strange forbearance. But he would sooner die than changeparts!

 * * * * *

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 vanityheld him at arm's length; Miss Foster could not forgive him. But thepriest knew Eleanor's heart; and what else he did not know he divined. Allrested with the American girl, with the wounded tenderness, the uprightindependence of a nature, which, as the priest frankly confessed tohimself, 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 haveprecipitated 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 theother? Were Manisty's the hands in which to place a personality so nobleand so trusting as that of the young girl?

But these qualms did not last long. As we have seen he had an invincibletenderness for Manisty. And in his priestly view women were the adjunctsand helpers of men. Woman is born to trouble; and the risks that she musttake grow with her. Why fret about the less or more? His own spiritualcourage 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 aChristian insensibility--he answered for Lucy. 

Why suppose that she would shrink, or ought to shrink? Eve's burden isanyway enormous; and the generous heart scorns a grudging foresight. 

As to Mrs. Burgoyne--ah! there at least he might be sure that he had notdared 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 sosweet have the gift to show. In a few hours, as it seemed to him, she hadpassed from fevered anguish into a state which held him often spellboundbefore 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 sustainedher, he had been fighting his own way back to the sure ground of spiritualhope and confidence. God had not withdrawn from him the divine message! Hewas 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 Brooklyncoming down. The young man's face was pale and strained. The priest askedhim a question, but he ran past without an answer. 

Eleanor was alone on the _loggia_. It was past eight o'clock, and the treesin the courtyard and along the road were alive with fire-flies. Overheadwas the clear incomparable sky, faintly pricked with the first stars. Someone was singing 'Santa Lucia' in the distance; and there was thetwanging 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 hislittle book and was trusting entirely to memory, Eleanor said, with asudden 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 aclergyman--a very stern, imaginative, exacting man--who prepared me forconfirmation. Suddenly I see the procession of the Cross; the Lord infront, with the Crown of Thorns dripping with blood; the thieves following;the crowd, the daughters of Jerusalem. Nothing but that--but always veryvivid, the colours as bright as the colours of a Van Eyck--and bringingwith it an extraordinary sense of misery and anguish--of everythingthat one wants to forget and refuse in life. The man to whom I trace itwas a saint, but a forbidding one. He made me afraid of him; afraid ofChristianity. I believed, but I never loved. And when his influence waswithdrawn, I threw it all behind me, in a great hurry. But this impressionremained--like a nightmare. I remember the day I was presented; there, inthe midst of all the feathers and veils and coronets, was the vision, --andthe tumult of ghastly and crushing thoughts that spread from it. I rememberhating Christianity that day; and its influence in the world. 

'Last night, just before the dawn, I looked out; and there was the visionagain, sweeping over the forests, and up into the clouds that hung overMonte 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. Andmy own soul seemed to be rapt into the procession--the dim and endlessprocession of all times and nations--and to pass away with it, --I knew notwhere.... 

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, --youcan'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 ifwe wake up in it after all! If not, the dream will have had its own usehere. 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 tothe 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, andhe traced that sudden rigidity in her dim face which meant that she wasdefending herself against emotion. 

'It is all true, my friend, ' he said, bending over her, --'the gospel ofChrist. You would be happier if you could accept it simply. '

She opened her eyes, smiling, but she did not reply. She was always eagerthat he should read and talk to her, and she rarely argued. But he neverfelt that intellectually he had much hold upon her. Her mind seemed tohim to be moving elusively in a sphere remote and characteristic, wherehe could seldom follow. _Anima naturaliter Christiana_; yet with a moststoic readiness to face the great uncertainties, the least flatteringpossibilities of existence: so she often appeared to him. 

Presently she dragged herself higher in her chair to look at the moonrising above the eastern mass of the convent. 

'It all gives me such extraordinary pleasure!' she said, as thoughin wonder--'The moon--the fire-flies--those beautiful woods--yourkindness--Lucy in her white dress, when I see her there at the door. I knowhow short it must be; and a few weeks ago I enjoyed nothing. What mysteryare we part of?--that moves and changes without our will. I was muchtouched, Father, by all you said to me that great, great day; but I was notconscious of yielding to you; nor afterwards. Then, one night, I went tosleep in one mind; I woke up in another. The "grace of God, " you think?--orthe natural welling back of the river, little by little, to its naturalbed? After all I never wilfully hurt or defied anybody before--that I canremember. But what are "grace" and "nature" more than words? There is aLife, --which our life perpetually touches and guesses at--like a childfingering 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 youby talking. '

'You don't weary me. Ah!'--her voice leapt--'what _is_ true--is the "dyingto live" of Christianity. One moment, you have the weight of the worldupon 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 chemicalexperiment. Let me go on--go on!' she said, with mystical intensity. 'Ifthe clue is anywhere it is there, --so far my mind goes with you. Otherraces 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!_'--shesaid 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 thegreat world of Rome, and of his long conflict there. 

Form after form appeared to him of those men, stupid or acute, holy orworldly, learned or ignorant, who at the heart of Catholicism are engagedin that amazing struggle with knowledge which perhaps represents the onlycondition under which knowledge--the awful and irresistible--can in thelong run safely incorporate itself with the dense mass of human life. Hethought 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 bestof his nature, another through the worst. He saw himself sitting sideby side with one of the most-eminent theologians of the Roman Church;he recalled the little man, black-haired, lively, corpulent, a trifleunderhung, with a pleasant lisp and a merry eye; he remembered theincredible conversation, the sense of difficulty and shame under which hehad argued some of the common-places of biology and primitive history, aseducated Europe understands them; the half patronising, half impatientglibness of the other. --

'Oh! you know better, my son, than I how to argue these things; you aremore learned, of course. But it is only a matter for the Catechism afterall. 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 asevident to me as the sun in heaven would make me still unhappier. The fatethat threatens me is frightful. _Aber ich kann nicht anders_. The truthholds 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 hearall that my opponents say. But my heart stands firm. '

'My son, the tribunal of the Pope is the tribunal of Christ. You arejudged; submit! If not, I am sorry--regret deeply--but the consequence iscertain. '

And then his own voice, in its last wrestle--

'The penalty that approaches me appears to me more terrible the nearer itcomes. 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 meyet 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 strokefor truth!--

What was it which had undone him--which was now strangling the mental andmoral life of half Christendom!

Was it the _certainty_ of the Roman Church; that conception of life whichstakes the all of life upon the carnal and outward; upon a date, anauthorship, 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 allthe rest of us, in that particular victory, for which he hoped!

 * * * * *

Late that night, when all their visitors were gone, Eleanor showedunusual animation. She left her sofa; she walked up and down their littlesitting-room, giving directions to Marie about the journey home; and atlast she informed them with a gaiety that made mock of their oppositionthat she had made all arrangements to start very early the followingmorning to visit the doctor in Orvieto who had attended her in June. Lucyprotested and implored, but soon found that everything was settled, andEleanor was determined. She was to go alone with Marie, in the Contessa'scarriage, starting almost with the dawn so as to avoid the heat: to spendthe hot noon under shelter at Orvieto; and to return in the evening. Lucypressed at least to go with her. So it appeared had the Contessa. ButEleanor 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 courtyardwaiting for her. He had spent a dull and purposeless day, which for a manof his character and in his predicament had been hard to bear. His patiencewas ebbing; his disappointment and despair were fast getting beyondcontrol. All this Eleanor saw in his face as she dismounted. 

Lucy, who had been watching for her all the afternoon, was at the momentfor some reason or other with Reggie in the village. 

Eleanor, with her hand on Marie's arm, tottered across the courtyard. Atthe 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 verylight. '

Struck with sudden emotion he threw his arms round her. She yielded likea tired child. He, who had instinctively prepared himself for a certainweight, was aghast at the ease with which he lifted her. Her head, in itspretty black hat, fell against his breast. Her eyes closed. He wondered ifshe had fainted. 

He carried her to her room, and laid her on the sofa there. Then he sawthat she had not fainted, and that her eyes followed him. As he was aboutto leave her to Marie, who was moving about in Lucy's room next door, shetouched him on the arm. 

'You may speak again--to-morrow, ' she said, nodding at him with a friendlysmile. 

His face in its sudden flash of animation reflected the permission. Hepressed her hand tenderly. 

'Was your doctor useful to you?'

'Oh yes; it is hard to think as much of a prescription in Italian as inEnglish--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 knowsas 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 hisneck. There must be impressions that outlast all others. I shall manage toput them all away at the end--but that. '

When Lucy came in, she declared she was not very much exhausted. As to thedoctor she was silent. 

But that night, when Lucy had been for some time in bed, and was stillsleepless with anxiety and sorrow, the door opened and Eleanor appeared. She was in her usual white wrapper, and her fair hair, now much touchedwith 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 tablewhich 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 tobreak 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 shookher off. 

'No--no! Let us have it out. Do you see?' She let the wrapper slip from hershoulders. She showed the dark hollows under the wasted collar-bones, theknife-like shoulders, the absolute disappearance of all that had once madethe difference between grace and emaciation. She held up her hands beforethe girl's terrified eyes. The skin was still white and delicate, otherwisethey were the hands of a skeleton. 

'You can look at _that_, ' she said fiercely, under her breath--'and theninsult me by refusing to marry the man you love, because you choose toremember that I was once in love with him! It is an outrage to associatesuch thoughts with me--as though one should make a rival of someone in hershroud. It hurts and tortures me every hour to know that you have suchnotions in your mind. It holds me back from peace--it chains me down to theflesh, and to earth. '

'Eleanor!' cried the girl in entreaty, catching at her hands. But Eleanorstood firm. 

'Tell me, ' she said peremptorily--'answer me truly, as one must answerpeople in my state--you do love him? If I had not been here--if I had notstood in your way--you would have allowed him his chance--you would havemarried 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 broughtpain to you. '

'Yes, dear, you can, ' cried Eleanor, throwing herself on her knees andfolding the girl in her arms. 'You can! It is no fault of his that I amlike this--none--none! The doctor told me this afternoon that the respitelast year was only apparent. The mischief has always been there--theend quite certain. All my dreams and disappointments and foolish woman'snotions 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 saidimpatiently--persuading, haranguing herself no less than Lucy--'not anounce of it! But a love that suffers so--in his suffering and yours! Alove 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 someclothes, and gradually persuaded her to go back to her own room. Whenshe was in bed again, utterly exhausted, Lucy's face--bathed intears--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. Thegreat slopes of wood were in a deep and misty shadow; the river, shrunk toa thread again, scarcely chattered with its stones. A fresh wind wanderedthrough 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 primallabours. The children and the mothers and the dogs were up; the peasantsamong the vines; the men with their peaked hats, the women shrouded fromthe sun under the heavy folds of their cotton head-gear; turned and smiledas she passed by. They liked the Signorina, and they were accustomed to herearly 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 thistime, 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 acheered mind. 

Meanwhile Lucy pushed her way into the fastnesses of the Sassetto. In itsvery heart she found a green-overgrown spot where the rocks made a sort ofnatural chair; one great block leaning forward overhead; a flat seat, andmossy arms on either side. 

Here she seated herself. The winding path ran above her head. She could beperceived 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 alaugh that was not gay, while her fingers pulled at a tuft of hart's-tonguethat grew in a crevice beside her. 

And then in a flash she looked on into her destiny. She thought of Manistywith a yearning, passionate heart, and yet with a kind of terror; of therich, incalculable, undisciplined nature, with all its capricious andself-willed power, its fastidious demands, its practical weakness; theman's brilliance and his folly. She envisaged herself laden with theresponsibility 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 wasridiculous he should stoop to her. The next she felt, as it were, theweight of his life upon her hands, and told herself that she could not bearit. 

And then--and then--it was all very well, but if she had not come--ifEleanor had never seen her--

Her head fell back into a mossy corner of the rock. Her eyes were blindwith tears. From the hill came the rumble of an ox-waggon with the shoutsof the drivers. 

But another sound was nearer; the sound of a man's step upon the path. Anexclamation--a leap--and before she could replace the hat she had takenoff, or hide the traces of her tears, Manisty was beside her. 

She sat up, staring at him in a bewildered silence. He too wassilent, --only she saw the labouring of his breath. 

But at last--

'I will not force myself upon you, ' he said, in a voice haughty andself-restrained, that barely reached her ears. 'I will go at once if youbid 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 mylips--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 atraitor to listen?'

'And how could I not?' she cried, with a sudden sob. And then she found herspeech; her heart unveiled itself. 

'If I had never, never come!--It is my fault that she is dying--only, onlymy fault!'

And she turned away from him to hide her face and eyes against the rock, insuch an agony of feeling that he almost despaired. 

He controlled himself sharply, putting aside passion, collecting histhoughts for dear life. 

'You are the most innocent, the most true of tender friends. It is in hername 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 betweenus!'

He was struck with horror, realising in what a grip this sane and simplenature must feel itself before it could break into such expression. Whatcould 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 thinkthat 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, --itis quite true that it might have happened. Would it have made Eleanorhappy? You saw me at the villa--as I am. You know well, that even as afriend, I constantly disappointed her. There seemed to be a fate upon uswhich made me torment and wound her when I least intended it. I don'tdefend myself, --and Heaven knows I don't blame Eleanor! I have alwaysbelieved that these things are mysterious, predestined--matters oftemperament deeper than our will. I was deeply, sincerely attached toEleanor--yet!--when you came--after those first few weeks--the falsity ofthe whole position flashed upon me. And there was the book. It seemed to mesometimes 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 andselfish fool! We have all got into a horrible coil--and I can't pose beforeyou 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 himwell. 

Her lips moved piteously, in words that he could not hear. But her handslay passive in his grasp; and he hastened on. 

'Ever since that Nemi evening, Lucy, I have been a new creature. I willtell you no lies. I won't say that I never loved any woman before you. Iwill have no secrets from you--you shall know all, if you want to know. ButI do say that every passion I ever knew in my first youth seems to me now amere 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 achance, Lucy. Oh! my dear--don't turn from me! It's Eleanor's voice speaksin 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 ofthat 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 setout. The day dawned on me like a day of consecration. The sun was anothersun--the earth reborn. I took up my pilgrimage again--looking for Lucy--asI have looked for her the last six weeks. And everything led me right--thebreeze and the woods and the birds. They were all in league with me. Theypitied me--they told me where Lucy was--'

The low, rushing words ceased a moment. Manisty looked at her, took bothher hands again. 

'But they couldn't tell me'--he murmured--'how to please her--how to makeher 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 hardlybreathed till she said, with a trembling mouth, and a little sob now andthen between the words--

'It is all so strange to me--so strange and so--so doubtful! If there wereonly someone here from my own people, --someone who could advise me! Is itwise for you--for us both? You know I'm so different from you--and you'llfind it out perhaps, more and more. And if you did--and were discontentedwith me--I can't be sure that I could always fit myself to you. I wasbrought up so that--that--I can't always be as easy and pleasant as othergirls. My mother--she stood by herself often--and I with her. She was agrand nature--but I'm sure you would have thought her extravagant--andperhaps hard. And often I feel as though I didn't know myself, --what theremight 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 ofhis, in which her whole being seemed held. 

What was it Manisty saw in her troubled face that she could no longerconceal? He made no attempt to answer her words; there was another languagebetween them. He gave a cry. He put forth a tender violence; and Lucyyielded. She found herself in his arms; and all was said. 

Yet when she withdrew herself, she was in tears. She took his hand andkissed it wildly, hardly knowing what she was doing. But her heart turnedto Eleanor; and it was Eleanor's voice in her ears that alone commanded andabsolved her. 

 * * * * *

As they strolled home, Manisty's mood was of the wildest and gayest. Hewould hear of no despair about his cousin. 

'We will take her home--you and I. We will get the very best advice. Itisn't--it shan't be as bad as you think!'

And out of mere reaction from her weeks of anguish, she believed him, shehoped again. Then he turned to speculate on the voyage to America he mustnow make, on his first interviews with Greyridge and Uncle Ben. 

'Shall I make a good impression? How shall I be received? I am certain yougave your uncle the worst accounts of me. '

'I guess Uncle Ben will judge for himself, ' she said, reddening; thankfulall the same to remember that among her uncle's reticent, old-fashionedways none was more marked than his habit of destroying all but aninfinitesimal fraction of his letters. 'He read all those speeches ofyours, 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. 'MustI now go barefoot to the tomb of Washington?'

She looked at him with a little smile, that showed him once more the Lucyof the villa. 

'You do seem to make mistakes, don't you?' she said gently. But thenher hand nestled shyly into his; and without words, her heart vowed thetrue woman's vow to love him and stand by him always, for better forworse, through error and success, through fame or failure. In truth herinexperience had analysed the man to whom she had pledged herself farbetter than he imagined. Did her love for him indeed rest partly on asecret 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 commonrestlessness. 

Eleanor had discarded her sofa. She moved about the _loggia_, now lookingdown the road, now gathering a bunch of rose-pink oleanders for her whitedress. The _frou-frou_ of her soft skirts; her happy agitation; the flushon her cheek;--neither of the men who were her companions ever forgot themafterwards. 

Manisty, it appeared, had taken coffee with Father Benecke at six, and hadthen strolled up the Sassetto path with his cigarette. Lucy had been outsince the first church bells. Father Benecke reported his meeting with heron 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 glorioustuft of carnations in that pot in the cloisters. Ask Mamma Doni if we mayhave them. _Ecco_--take her a _lira_ for the baby. I must have them for thetable. '

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 onthe bright table, and the patterns of the brick floor. 

'There--there they are!--Reggie!--Father!--leave me a minute! Quick--intothe garden! We will call you directly. '

And Reggie, looking back with a gulp from the garden-stairs, saw herleaning over the _loggia_, waving her handkerchief; the figure in its lightdress, tossed a little by the morning breeze, the soft muslin and laceeddying round it. 

They mounted. Lucy entered first. 

She stood on the threshold a moment, looking at Eleanor with a sweet andpiteous appeal. Then her young foot ran, her arms opened; and with thetender dignity of a mother rejoicing over her child Eleanor received her onher breast. 

 * * * * *

By easy stages Manisty and Lucy took Mrs. Burgoyne to England. At the endof August Lucy returned to the States with her friends; and in October sheand Manisty were married. 

Mrs. Burgoyne lived through the autumn; and in November she hungered sopitifully 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, wholavished on her last days all that care and affection could bestow. 

Eleanor drove out once more towards the Alban hills; she looked once moreon the slopes of Marinata and the white crown of Monte Cavo; the Romansunshine shed round her once more its rich incomparable light. In DecemberManisty and Lucy were expected; but a week before they came she died. 

A German Old Catholic priest journeyed from a little town in Switzerland toher burial; and a few days later the two beings she had loved stood besideher grave. They had many and strong reasons to remember her; but for onereason above all others, for her wild flight to Torre Amiata, theonly selfish action of her whole life, was she--at least, in Lucy'sheart--through all the years that followed the more passionately, the moretragically enthroned. 

FINIS