‘He was with General Da Bormida?’
‘Yes—he was with Da Bormida. There were three columns, you remember. He was with the column that seemed for a time to be successful. I only got the full account last week from a brother-officer, who was a prisoner till the end of June. Emilio, like all the rest, thought the position was carried—that it was a victory. He raised his helmet and shouted,
Viva il Re! Viva l’Italia!
And then all in a moment the Scioans were on them like a flood. They were all carried away. Emilio rallied his men again and again under a hail of bullets. Several heard him say: “Courage, lads—courage! Your Captain dies with you!
Avanti! avanti! Viva l’Italia!
” Then at last he was frightfully wounded, and perhaps you may have heard in the village’—again the mother turned her face away—’ that he said to a
caporale
beside him, who came from this district, whom he knew at home—“Federigo, take your gun and finish it.” He was afraid—my beloved!—of falling into the hands of the enemy. Already they had passed some wounded, horribly mutilated. The
caporale
refused. “I can’t do that,
Eccellenza
,” he said; “but we will transport you or die with you!” Then again there was a gleam of victory. He thought the enemy were repulsed. A brother-officer saw him being carried along by two soldiers, and Emilio beckoned to him. “You must be my Confessor!” he said, smiling. And he gave him some messages for me and Teresa—some directions about his affairs. Then he asked: “It is victory—isn’t it? We have won, after all?” And the other—who knew—couldn’t bear to tell him the truth. He said, “Yes.” And Emilio said, “You swear it?” “I swear.” And the boy made the sign of the cross—said again,
Viva l’Italia!
—and died…. They buried him that night under a little thicket. My God! I thank Thee that he did not lie on that accursed plain!’
She raised her handkerchief to hide her trembling lips. Eleanor said nothing. Her face was bowed upon her hands, which lay on the Contessa’s knee.
‘His was not a very happy temperament,’ said the poor mother presently.’ He was always anxious and scrupulous. I sometimes thought he had been too much influenced by Leopardi; he was always quoting him. That is the way with many of our young men. Yet Emilio was a Christian—a sincere believer. It would have been better if he had married. But he gave all his affection to me and Teresa—and to this place and the people. I was to carry on his work—but I am an old woman—and very tired. Why should the young go before their time?... Yet I have no bitterness about the war. It was a ghastly mistake—and it has humiliated us as a nation. But nations are made by their blunderings as much as by their successes. Emilio would not have grudged his life. He always thought that Italy had been “made too quick,” as they say—that our day of trial and weakness was not done…. But,
Gesu mio!
—if he had not left me so much of life.’
Eleanor raised her head.
‘I, too,’ she said, almost in a whisper—‘I, too, have lost a son. But he was a little fellow.’
The Contessa looked at her in astonishment and burst into tears.
‘Then we are two miserable women!’ she said, wildly.
Eleanor clung to her—but with a sharp sense of unfitness and unworthiness. She felt herself a hypocrite. In thought and imagination her boy now was but a hovering shadow compared to Manisty. It was not this sacred mother-love that was destroying her own life.
As they drove home through the evening freshness, Eleanor’s mind pursued its endless and solitary struggle.
Lucy sat beside her. Every now and then Eleanor’s furtive guilty look sought the girl’s face. Sometimes a flying terror would grip her by the heart. Was Lucy graver—paler? Were there some new lines round the sweet eyes? That serene and virgin beauty—had it suffered the first withering touch since Eleanor had known it first? And if so, whose hand? whose fault?
Once or twice her heart failed within her; foreseeing a remorse that was no sooner imagined than it was denied, scouted, hurried out of sight.
That brave, large-brained woman with whom she had just been talking; there was something in the atmosphere which the Contessa’s personality shed round it, that made Eleanor doubly conscious of the fever in her own blood. As in Father Benecke’s case, so here; she could only feel herself humiliated and dumb before these highest griefs—the griefs that ennoble and enthrone.
That night she woke from a troubled sleep with a stifled cry of horror. In her dreams she had been wrestling with Manisty, trying to thrust him back with all the frenzied force of her weak hands. But he had wrenched himself from her hold. She saw him striding past her—aglow, triumphant. And that dim white form awaiting him—and the young arms outstretched!
‘No, no! False! She doesn’t—doesn’t love him!’ her heart cried, throwing all its fiercest life into the cry. She sat up in bed trembling and haggard. Then she stole into the next room. Lucy lay deeply, peacefully asleep. Eleanor sank down beside her, hungrily watching her. ‘How could she sleep like that—if—if she cared?’ asked her wild thoughts, and she comforted herself, smiling at her own remorse. Once she touched the girl’s hand with her lips, feeling towards her a rush of tenderness that came like dew on the heat of the soul. Then she crept back to bed, and cried, and cried—through the golden mounting of the dawn.
CHAPTER
XIX
The days passed on. Between Eleanor and Lucy there had grown up a close, intense, and yet most painful affection. Neither gave the other her full confidence, and on Eleanor’s side the consciousness both of the futility and the enormity of what she had done only increased with time, embittering the resistance of a will which was still fierce and unbroken.
Meanwhile she often observed her companion with a quick and torturing curiosity. What was it that Manisty had found so irresistible, when all her own subtler arts had failed?
Lucy was in some ways very simple, primitive even, as Manisty had called her. Eleanor knew that her type was no longer common in a modern America that sends all its girls to college, and ransacks the world for an experience. But at the same time the depth and force of her nature promised rich developments in the future. She was still a daughter of New England, with many traits now fast disappearing; but for her, too, there was beginning that cosmopolitan transformation to which the women of her race lend themselves so readily.
And it was Manisty’s influence that was at work! Eleanor’s miserable eyes discerned it in a hundred ways. Half the interests and questions on which Manisty’s mind had been fixed for so long were becoming familiar to Lucy. They got books regularly from Rome, and Eleanor had been often puzzled by Lucy’s selections—till one day the key to them flashed across her.
The girl indeed was making her way, fast and silently, into quite new regions of thought and feeling. She read, and she thought. She observed the people of the village; she even frequented their humble church, though she would never go with Eleanor to Sunday Mass. There some deep, unconquerable instinct held her back.
All through, indeed, her personal beliefs and habits—Evangelical, unselfish, strong, and a little stern—seemed to be quite unchanged. But they were differently tinged, and would be in time differently presented. Nor would they ever, of themselves, divide her from Manisty. Eleanor saw that clearly enough. Lucy could hold opinion passionately, unreasonably even; but she was not of the sort that makes life depend upon opinion. Her true nature was large, tolerant, patient. The deepest forces in it were forces of feeling, and no intellectual difference would ever be able to deny them their natural outlet.
Meanwhile Lucy seemed to herself the most hopelessly backward and ignorant person, particularly in Eleanor’s company.
‘Oh! I am just a dunce,’ she said one day to Eleanor, with a smile and sigh, after some questions as to her childhood and bringing up. ‘They ought to have sent me to college. All the girls I knew went. But then Uncle Ben would have been quite alone. So I just had to get along.’
‘But you know what many girls don’t know.’
Lucy gave a shrug.
‘I know some Latin and Greek, and other things that Uncle Ben could teach me. But oh! what a simpleton I used to feel in Boston!’
‘You were behind the age?
Lucy laughed.
‘I didn’t seem to have anything to do with the age, or the age with me. You see, I was slow, and everybody else was quick. But an American that isn’t quick’s got no right to exist. You’re bound to have heard the last thing, and read the last book, or people just want to know why you’re there!’
‘Why should people call you slow?’ said Eleanor, in that voice which Lucy often found so difficult to understand, because of the strange note of hostility which, for no reason at all, would sometimes penetrate through the sweetness. ‘It’s absurd. How quickly you’ve picked up Italian—and frocks!—and a hundred things.’
She smiled, and stroked the brown head beside her.
Lucy coloured, bent over her work, and did not reply.
Generally they passed their mornings in the
loggia
reading and working. Lucy was a dexterous needle-woman, and a fine piece of embroidery had made much progress since their arrival at Torre Amiata. Secretly she wondered whether she was to finish it there. Eleanor now shrank from the least mention of change; and Lucy, having opened her generous arms to this burden, did not know when she would be allowed to put it down. She carried it, indeed, very tenderly—with a love that was half eager remorse. Still, before long Uncle Ben must remonstrate in earnest. And the Porters, whom she had treated so strangely? They were certainly going back to America in September, if not before. And must she not go with them?
And would the heat at Torre Amiata be bearable for the sensitive Northerner after July? Already they spent many hours of the day in their shuttered and closed rooms, and Eleanor was whiter than the convolvulus which covered the new-mown hayfields.
What a darling—what a kind and chivalrous darling was Uncle Ben! She had asked him to trust her, and he had done it nobly, though it was evident from his letters that he was anxious and disturbed. ‘I cannot tell you everything,’ she had written, ‘or I should be betraying a confidence; but I am doing what I feel to be right—what I am sure you would consent to my doing if you knew. Mrs. Burgoyne is
very
frail—and she clings to me. I can’t explain to you how or why—but so it is. For the present I must look after her. This place is beautiful; the heat not yet too great; and you shall hear every week. Only, please, tell other people that I wish you to forward letters, and cannot long be certain of my address.’
And he:
‘Dear child, this is very mysterious. I don’t like it. It would be absurd to pretend that I did. But I haven’t trusted my Lucy for fourteen years in order to begin to persecute her now because she can’t tell me a secret. Only I give you warning that if you don’t write to me every week, my generosity, as you call it, will break down—and I shall be for sending out a search party right away…. Do you want money? I must say that I hope July will see the end of your adventure.’
Would it? Lucy found her mind full of anxious thoughts as Eleanor read aloud to her.
Presently she discovered that a skein of silk she wanted for her work was not in her basket. She turned to look also in her old inlaid workbox, which stood on a small table beside her. But it was not there.
‘Please wait a moment,’ she said to her companion. ‘I am afraid I must get my silk.’
She stood up hastily, and her movement upset the rickety cane table. With a crash her workbox fell to the ground, and its contents rolled all over the
loggia
. She gave a cry of dismay.
‘Oh! my terra-cottas!—my poor terra-cottas!’
Eleanor started, and rose too, involuntarily, to her feet. There on the ground lay all the little Nemi fragments which Manisty had given to Lucy, and which had been stowed away, each carefully wrapped in tissue paper, in the well of her old workbox.
Eleanor assisted to pick them up, rather silently. The note of keen distress in Lucy’s voice rang in her ears.
‘They are not much hurt, luckily,’ she said.
And indeed, thanks to the tissue paper, there were only a few small chips and bruises to bemoan when Lucy at last had gathered them all safely into her lap. Still, chips and bruises in the case of delicate Graeco-Roman terra-cottas are more than enough to make their owner smart, and Lucy bent over them with a very flushed and rueful face, examining and wrapping them up again.
‘Cotton-wool would be better,’ she said anxiously. ‘How have you put your two away?’
Directly the words were out of her mouth she felt that they had been better unspoken.
A deep flush stained Eleanor’s thin face.
‘I am afraid I haven’t taken much care of them,’ she said hurriedly.
They were both silent for a little. But while Lucy still had her lap full of her treasures, Eleanor again stood up.
‘I will go in and rest for an hour before
dejeuner
. I
think
I might go to sleep.’
She had passed a very broken night, and Lucy looked at her with tender concern. She quickly but carefully laid aside her terra-cottas, that she might go in with Eleanor and ‘settle her’ comfortably.
But when she was left to rest in her carefully darkened room, and Lucy had gone back to the
loggia
, Eleanor got no wink of sleep. She lay in an anguish of memory, living over again that last night at the villa—thinking of Manisty in the dark garden and her own ungovernable impulse.
Presently a slight sound reached her from the
loggia
. She turned her head quickly. A sob?—from Lucy?
Her heart stood still. Noiselessly she slipped to her feet. The door between her and the
loggia
had been left ajar for air. It was partially glazed, with shutters of plain green wood outside, and inside a muslin blind. Eleanor approached it.
Through the chink of the door she saw Lucy plainly. The girl had been sitting almost with her back to the door, but she had turned so that her profile and hands were visible.