Eleanor Part 13

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

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

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

She laughed shyly--a low musical sound that suddenly gave him, as it seemed, a new impression of her.

'You call the old priest an "idea"?'

Both had the same vision of the most portly and substantial of figures.

Manisty smiled unwillingly.

'The old priest is merely the symbol.'

She shook her head obstinately.

'He is all they know anything about. He gives orders, and they obey. Soon it will be some one else's turn to give them the orders--'

'Till the time comes for them to give orders themselves?--Well, what is there to object to in that?' He scanned her severely. 'What does it mean but that they are parts of a great system, properly organised, to a great end? Show me anything better?'

She coloured.

'It is better, isn't it, that--sometimes--one should give oneself orders?'

she said in a low voice.

Manisty laughed.

'Liberty to make a fool of oneself--in short. No doubt,--that's the great modern panacea.' He paused, staring at her without being conscious of it, with his absent brilliant eyes. Then he broke out--'Well! so you despise my little priests! Did you ever think of inquiring, however, which wears best--their notion of human life, which after all has weathered 1900 years, and is as strong and prevailing as it ever was--or the sort of notion that their enemies here go to work upon? Look into the history of this Abyssinian war--everybody free to make fools of themselves, in Rome or Africa--and doing it magnificently! Private judgment--private aims everywhere--from Crispi to the smallest lieutenant. Result--universal wreck and muddle--thousands of lives thrown away--a nation brought to shame.

Then look about you at what's going on--here--this week--on these hills.

It's Holy Week. They're all fasting--they're all going to ma.s.s--the people working in the fields, our servants, the bright little priests. To-morrow's Holy Thursday. From now till Sunday, n.o.body here will eat anything but a little bread and a few olives. The bells will cease to-morrow. If a single church-bell rang in Rome--over this plain, and these mountains--through the whole of Italy--from ma.s.s to-morrow till ma.s.s on Sat.u.r.day--a whole nation would feel pain and outrage. Then on Sat.u.r.day--marvellous symbol!--listen for the bells. You will hear them all loosed together, as soon as the Sanctus begins--all over Italy. And on Sunday--watch the churches. If it isn't Matthew Arnold's "One common wave of thought and joy--Lifting mankind amain,"--what is it? To me, it's what keeps the human machine running. Make the comparison!--it will repay you. My little m.u.f.fs of priests with their silly obedience won't come so badly out of it.'

Unconsciously he had taken a seat beside her, and was looking at her with a sharp imperious air. She dimly understood that he was not talking to her but to a much larger audience, that he was still in fact in the grip of "the book." But that he should have anyway addressed so many consecutive sentences to her excited her after these many days of absolute neglect and indifference on his part; she felt a certain tremor of pulse. Instead, however, of diminis.h.i.+ng self-command, it bestowed it.

'Well, if that's the only way of running the machine--the Catholic way I mean,'--her words came out a little hurried and breathless--'I don't see how _we_ exist.'

'You? America?'

She nodded.

'_Do_ you exist?--in any sense that matters?'

He laughed as he spoke; but his tone provoked her. She threw up her head a little, suddenly grave.

'Of course we know that you dislike us.'

He showed a certain embarra.s.sment.

'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 amus.e.m.e.nt playing round his lips. It was the indulgence of the politician and man of affairs towards the little backwoods girl who was setting him to rights.

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

And lifting his hat with the somewhat stately and excessive manner, which he could always subst.i.tute at the shortest notice for _brusquerie_ or inattention, he went his way.

Lucy Foster was left with a red cheek. She watched him till he had pa.s.sed into the shadow of the avenue leading to the house; then with an impetuous movement she took up a book which had been lying beside her on the bench, and began to read it with a peculiar ardour--almost pa.s.sion. It was the life of one of the heroes of the Garibaldian expedition of 1860-61.

For of late she had been surrounding herself--by the help of a library in Rome to which the Manistys had access--with the books of the Italian _Risorgimento_, that great movement, that heroic making of a nation, in which our fathers felt so pa.s.sionate an interest, which has grown so dim and far away now, not only in the mind of a younger England, but even in that of a younger Italy.

But to Lucy--reading the story with the plain of Rome, and St. Peter's in sight, her wits quickened by the perpetual challenge of Manisty's talk with Mrs. Burgoyne, or any chance visitor,--Cavour, Garibaldi, Mazzini; all the striking figures and all the main stages in the great epic; the blind, mad, hopeless outbreaks of '48; the hangings and shootings and bottomless despairs of '49; the sullen calm of those waiting years from '49 to '58; the ecstasy of Magenta and Solferino, and the fierce disappointment of Villafranca; the wild golden days of Sicily in 1860; the plucking of Venice like a ripe fruit in '66; of Rome, in 1870; all the deliriums of freedom, vengeance, union--these immortal names and pa.s.sions and actions, were thrilling through the girl's fresh poetic sense, and capturing all her sympathies. Had Italy indeed been 'made too quick'? Was all the vast struggle, and these martyred lives for nothing--all to end like a choked river in death and corruption? Well, if so, whose fault was it, but the priests'?--of that black, intriguing, traitorous Italy, headed by the Papacy, which except for one brief moment in the forties, had upheld every tyranny, and drenched every liberty in blood, had been the supporter of the Austrian and the Bourbon, and was now again tearing to pieces the Italy that so many brave men had died to make?

The priests!--the Church!--Why!--she wondered, as she read the story of Charles Albert, and Metternich and the Naples Bourbons, that Italy still dared to let the ignorant, persecuting brood live and thrive in her midst at all! Especially was it a marvel to her that any Jesuit might still walk Italian streets, that a nation could ever forgive or forget such crimes against her inmost life as had been the crimes of the Jesuits. She would stand at the end of the terrace, her hands behind her clasping her book, her eyes fixed on the distant dome amid the stone-pines. Her book opened with the experiences of a Neapolitan boy at school in Naples during the priest-ridden years of the twenties, when Austrian bayonets, after the rising of '21, had replaced Bourbons and Jesuits in power, and crushed the life out of the young striving liberty of '21, as a cruel boy may crush and strangle a fledgling bird. 'What did we learn,' cried the author of the memoir--'from that monkish education which dwarfed both our mind and body?

How many have I seen in later life groaning over their own ignorance, and pouring maledictions on the seminary or the college, where they had wasted so many years and had learnt nothing!'

'That monkish education which dwarfed both our mind and body'--

Lucy would repeat the words to herself--throwing them out as a challenge to that great dome hovering amid the sunny haze. That old man there, among his Cardinals--she thought of him with a young horror and revolt; yet not without a certain tremor of the imagination. Well!--in a few days--Sunday week--she was to see him, and judge for herself.

Meanwhile visitors were almost shut out. The villa sank into a convent-like quiet; for in a week, ten days, the book was perhaps to be finished. Miss Manisty, as the crisis approached, kept a vigilant eye on Mrs. Burgoyne.

She was in constant dread of a delicate woman's collapse; and after the sittings in the library had lasted a certain time she had now the courage to break in upon them, and drive Manisty's Egeria out of her cave to rest and to the garden.

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

'Oh! how tired you must be!' she would say, springing up. 'Let me make a place for you here under the trees.'

'No, no. Let us move about. I am tired of sitting.'

And they would pace up and down the terrace and the olive-garden beyond, while Mrs. Burgoyne leant upon Lucy's arm, chatting and laughing with an evident relief from tension which only betrayed the mental and physical fatigue behind.

Lucy wondered to see how exquisite, how dainty, she would emerge from these wrestles with hard work. Her fresh white or pale dresses, the few jewels half-hidden at her wrists or throat, the curled or piled ma.s.ses of the fair hair, were never less than perfection, it seemed to Lucy; she was never more the woman of fas.h.i.+on and the great world than when she came out from a morning's toil that would have left its disturbing mark on a strong man, her eyes s.h.i.+ning under the stress and ardour of those 'ideas,' as to which it was good to talk with her.

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

In the case of Lucy Foster, however, her fine tact soon discovered that caresses were best left alone. They were natural to herself, and once or twice as the April days went by, she ventured to kiss the girl's fresh cheek, or to slip an arm round her waist. But Lucy took it awkwardly. When she was kissed she flushed, and stood pa.s.sive; and all her personal ways were a little stiff and austere. After one of these demonstrations indeed Mrs. Burgoyne generally found herself repaid in some other form, by some small thoughtfulness on Lucy's part--the placing of a stool, the fetching of a cloak--or merely perhaps by a new softness in the girl's open look.

And Eleanor never once thought of resenting her lack of response. There was even a kind of charm in it. The prevailing American type in Rome that winter had been a demonstrative type.

Lucy's manner in comparison was like a cool and bracing air. 'And when she does kiss!' Eleanor would say to herself--'it will be with all her heart.

One can see that.'

Meanwhile Mrs. Burgoyne took occasional note of the Mazzinian literature that lay about. She would turn the books over and read their t.i.tles, her eyes sparkling with a little gentle mischief, as she divined the girl's disapproval of her host and his views. But she never argued with Lucy. She was too tired of the subject, too eager to seek relief in talking of the birds and the view, of people and _chiffons_.