Eleanor (55 page)

Meanwhile for Lucy Foster alone, Manisty was not agreeable. He rose formally when she appeared; he placed her chair; he paid her all necessary courtesies. But his conversation never included her. Her coming generally coincided—after she was ceremoniously provided for—with an outbreak of talk between him and Eleanor, or between him and Benecke, more eager, animated and interesting than before. But Lucy had no part in it. It was not the early neglect and incivility of the villa; it was something infinitely colder and more wounding; the frigidity of disillusion and resentment, of kindness rebuffed and withdrawn.

Lucy said nothing. She went about her day’s work as usual, making all arrangements for their departure, devoting herself to Eleanor. Every now and then she was forced to consult with Manisty as to arrangements for the journey. They spoke as mere acquaintances and no more than was necessary; while she, when she was alone, would spend much time in a silent abstraction, thinking of her uncle, of the duties to which she was returning, and the lines of her future life. Perhaps in the winter she might do some teaching. Several people in Greyridge had said they would employ her.

And, all the time, during the night hours when she was thus wrestling down her heart, Manisty was often pacing the forest paths, in an orgie of smoke and misery, cursing the incidents of the day, raging, doubting, suffering—as no woman had yet made him suffer. The more truly he despaired, the more he desired her. The strength of the moral life in her was a revelation, a challenge to all the forces of his own being. He was not accustomed to have to consider such things in women. It added to her a wealth, a rarity, which made the conquest of her the only object worth pursuing in a life swept bare for the moment of all other passions and zests. She loved him! Eleanor knew it; Eleanor declared it. Yet in ten days’ time she would say,—‘Good bye, Mr. Manisty’—with that calm brow which he already foresaw as an outrage and offence to love. Ah! for some means to cloud those dear eyes—to make her weep, and let him see the tears!

CHAPTER
XXV

‘Hullo, Manisty!—is that you? Is this the place?’

The speaker was Reggie Brooklyn, who was dismounting from his bicycle at the door of the convent, followed by a clattering mob of village children, who had pursued him down the hill.

‘I say, what a weird place!’ said Reggie, looking about him,—‘and at the other end of nowhere. What on earth made Eleanor come here?’

Ho looked at Manisty in perplexity, wiping the perspiration from his brow, which frowned beneath his fair curls.

‘We were hero last year,’ said Manisty, ‘on that little tour we made with the D.‘s. Eleanor liked it then. She came here when the heat began, she thought it would be cool.’

‘You didn’t know where she was ten days ago,’ said the boy, looking at him queerly. ‘And General Muir didn’t know, for I heard from some one who had seen him last week.’

Manisty laughed.

‘All the same, she is here now,’ he said drily.

‘And Miss Foster is here too?’

Manisty nodded.

‘And you say that Eleanor is ill?’

The young man had still the same hostile, suspicious air.

Manisty, who had been poking at the ground with his stick, looked up. Brooklyn made a step backward.

‘
Very
ill,’ he said, with a face of consternation. ‘And nobody knew?’

‘She would not let us know,’ said Manisty slowly. Then he added, with the authority of the older man, the man in charge—‘now we are doing all we can. We start on Friday and pick up a nurse at Genoa. When we get home, of course she will have the best advice. Very often she is wonderfully bright and like herself. Oh! we shall pull her round. But you mustn’t tire her. Don’t stay too long.’

They walked into the convent together, Brooklyn all impatience, Manisty moody and ill at ease.

‘Reggie!—well met!’ It was Eleanor’s gayest voice, from the vine-leafed shadows of the
loggia
. Brooklyn sat down beside her, gazing at her with his troubled blue eyes. Manisty descended to the walled garden, and walked up and down there smoking, a prey to disagreeable thoughts.

After half an hour or so Reggie came down to the convent gate to look out for the ricketty diligence which had undertaken to bring his bag from Orvieto.

Here he was overtaken by Lucy Foster, who seemed to have hurried after him.

‘How do you do, Mr. Brooklyn?’ He turned sharply, and let her see a countenance singularly discomposed.

They looked at each other a moment in silence. He noted with amazement her growth in beauty, in expression. But the sadness of the mouth and eyes tortured him afresh.

‘What is the matter with her?’ he said abruptly, dropping her timidly offered hand.

‘An old illness—mostly the heart,’ she said, with difficulty. ‘But I think the lungs are wrong too.’

‘Why did she come here—why did you let her?’

The roughness of his tone, the burning of his eyes made her draw back.

‘It seemed the best thing to do,’ she said, after a pause. ‘Of course, it was only done because she wished it.’

‘Her people disapproved strongly!’

‘She would not consider that.’

‘And here in this rough place—in this heat—how have you been able to look after her?’ said the young man passionately.

‘We have done what we could,’ said the girl humbly. ‘The Contessa Guerrini has been very kind. We constantly tried to persuade her to let us take her home; but she couldn’t bring herself to move.’

‘It was madness,’ he said, between his teeth. ‘And now—she looks as though she were going to die!’

He gave a groan of angry grief. Lucy turned aside, leaning her arm against the convent gateway, and her face upon it. The attitude was very touching; but Brooklyn only stared at her in a blind wrath. ‘What did you ever come for?’—was his thought—‘making mischief!—and robbing Eleanor of her due!—It was a bad bargain she wanted,—but she might have been allowed to have him in peace. What did you come meddling for?’

At that moment the door of the walled garden opened. Manisty came out into the courtyard. Brooklyn looked from him to Lucy with a tight lip, a fierce and flashing eye.

He watched them meet. He saw Lucy’s quick change of attitude, the return of hardness and composure. Manisty approached her. They discussed some arrangement for the journey, in the cold tones of mere acquaintance. Not a sign of intimacy in manner or words; beyond the forced intimacy of those who have for the moment a common task.

When the short dialogue was over, Manisty mumbled something to Brooklyn to the effect that Father Benecke had some dinner for him at the house at the foot of the hill. But he did not wait for the young man’s company. He hurried off with the slouching and yet swinging gait characteristic of him, his shoulders bent as it were under the weight of his great head. The young man and the girl looked after him. Then Reggie turned impulsively.

‘I suppose it was that beastly book—partly—that knocked her up. What’s he done with it?’

‘He has given it up, I believe. I heard him say so to Eleanor.’

‘And now I suppose he will condescend to go back to politics?’

‘I know nothing of Mr. Manisty’s affairs.’

The young man threw her a glance first of distrust—then of something milder and more friendly. They turned back to the convent together, Lucy answering his questions as to the place, the people, the Contessa, and so forth.

A step, quick and gentle, overtook them.

It was Father Benecke who stopped and greeted them; a venerable figure, as he bared his white head, and stood for a moment talking to Brooklyn under the great sycamore of the courtyard. He had now resumed his clerical dress; not, indeed, the soutane; but the common round collar, and long black coat of the non-Catholic countries. The little fact, perhaps, was typical of a general steadying and settling of his fortunes after the anguish of his great catastrophe.

Lucy hardly spoke to him. His manner was soft and deprecating. And Miss Foster stood apart as though she liked neither it nor him. When he left them, to enter, the Convent, Reggie broke out:—

And how does
he
come to be here? I declare it’s the most extraordinary tangle! What’s he doing in there?’

He nodded towards the building, which seemed to be still holding the sunlight of the day, so golden-white it shone under the evening sky, and against the engirdling forest.

‘Every night—almost—he comes to read with Eleanor.’

The young man stared.

‘I say—is she—is she going to become a Catholic?’

Lucy smiled.

‘You forget—don’t you? They’ve excommunicated Father Benecke.’

‘My word!—Yes!—I forgot. My chief was awfully excited about it. Well, I’m sure he’s well quit of them!’—said the young man fervently. ‘They’re doing their level best to pull this country about everybody’s ears. And they’ll be the first to suffer—thank heaven!—if they do upset the coach. And so it was Benecke that brought Manisty here?’

Lucy’s movement rebuked him; made him feel himself an impertinent.

‘I believe so,’ she said coldly. ‘Good-night, Mr. Brooklyn. I must go in. There!—that’s the stage coming down hill.’

He went to tell the driver to set down his bag at the house by the bridge, and then he walked down the hill after the little rumbling carriage, his hands thrust into the pockets of his blue flannel coat.

‘She’s not going to marry him!—I’ll bet anything she’s not! She’s a girl of the right sort—she’s a brick, she is!’—he said to himself in a miserable, a savage exultation, kicking the stones of the road furiously down hill, after the disappearing diligence. ‘So that’s how a woman looks when her heart’s broken
my God—Eleanor!—my poor, poor Eleanor!’

And before he knew what had happened to him, the young fellow found himself sitting in the darkness by the roadside, grappling with honest tears, that astonished and scandalised himself.

Next day he was still more bewildered by the position of affairs. Eleanor was apparently so much better that he was disposed to throw scorn on his own burst of grief under the starlight. That was the first impression. Then she was apparently in Manisty’s charge. Manisty sat with her, strolled with her, read to her from morning till night. Never had their relations been more intimate, more affectionate. That was the second impression.

Nevertheless, that some great change had taken place—above all in Eleanor—became abundantly evident to the young man’s quickened perception, before another twenty-four hours had passed away. And with this new sense returned the sense of irreparable tragedy. Eleanor stood alone—aloof from them all. The more unremitting, the more delicate was Manisty’s care, the more tender was Lucy’s devotion, the more plainly was Brooklyn aware of a pathetic, a mysterious isolation which seemed already to bring the chill of death into their little company.

The boy’s pain flowed back upon him, ten-fold augmented. For seven or eight years he had seen in Eleanor Burgoyne the woman of ideal distinction by whom he judged all other women. The notion of falling in love with her would have seemed to him ridiculous. But his wife, whenever he could indulge himself in such a luxury, must be like her. Meanwhile he was most naively, most boyishly devoted to her.

The sight of her now, environed as it were by the new and awful possibilities which her state suggested, was a touch upon the young man’s nature, which seemed to throw all its energies into a fiery fusion,—concentrating them upon a changed and poignant affection, which rapidly absorbed his whole being. His pity for her was almost intolerable, his bitterness towards Manisty almost beyond his control. All very well for him now to be the guardian of her decline! Whatever might be the truth about the American girl, it was plain enough that while she could still reckon on the hopes and chances of the living, Eleanor had wasted her heart and powers on an egotist, only to reap ingratitude, and the deadly fruit of ‘benefits forgot.’

What chafed him most was that he had so little time with her; that Manisty was always there. At last, two days after his arrival, he got an hour to himself while Manisty and Father Benecke were walking, and Lucy was with the Contessa.

He began to question her eagerly as to the future. With whom was she to pass the remainder of the year—and where?

‘With my father and Aunt Pattie of course,’ said Eleanor, smiling. ‘It will be Scotland I suppose till November—then London.’

He was silent for a few moments, the colour flooding his smooth fair face. Then he took her hand firmly, and with words and gestures that became him well, he solemnly asked her to marry him. He was not fit to tie her shoes; but he could take care of her; he could be her courier, her travelling companion, her nurse, her slave. He implored her to listen to him. What was her father to her—he asked her plainly—when had he ever considered her, as she should be considered? Let her only trust herself to him. Never, never should she repent that she had done him such an inconceivable honour. Hang the diplomatic service! He had some money; with her own it would be enough. He would take her to Egypt or the Cape. That would revive her.