Eleanor | Page 2

in fact he was of about middle
height. But the head, face and shoulders were all remarkably large and
powerful; the colouring--curly black hair, grey eyes, dark
complexion--singularly vivid; and the lines of the brow, the long nose,
the energetic mouth, in their mingled force and perfection, had made
the stimulus of many an artist before now. For Edward Manisty was
one of those men of note whose portraits the world likes to paint: and
this 'Olympian head' of his was well known in many a French and
English studio, through a fine drawing of it made by Legros when
Manisty was still a youth at Oxford. 'Begun by David--and finished by
Rembrandt': so a young French painter had once described Edward
Manisty.
The final effect of this discord, however, was an effect of power--of
personality--of something that claimed and held attention. So at least it
was described by Manisty's friends. Manisty's enemies, of whom the
world contained no small number, had other words for it. But women in
general took the more complimentary view.
The two women now in his company were clearly much affected by the
force--wilfulness--extravagance--for one might call it by any of these
names--that breathed from the man before them. Miss Manisty, his aunt,
followed his movements with her small blinking eyes, timidly uneasy,
but yet visibly conscious all the time that she had done nothing that any
reasonable man could rationally complain of; while in the manner
towards him of his widowed cousin Mrs. Burgoyne, in the few words
of banter or remonstrance that she threw him on the subject of his
aunt's expected visitor, there was an indulgence, a deference even, that
his irritation scarcely deserved.
'At least, give me some account of this girl'--he said, breaking in upon
his aunt's explanations. 'I have really not given her a

thought--and--good heavens!--she will be here, you say, in half an hour.
Is she young--stupid--pretty? Has she any experience--any
conversation?'
'I read you Adèle's letter on Monday,' said Miss Manisty, in a tone of
patience--'and I told you then all I knew--but I noticed you didn't listen.
I only saw her myself for a few hours at Boston. I remember she was
rather good-looking--but very shy, and not a bit like all the other girls
one was seeing. Her clothes were odd, and dowdy, and too old for her
altogether,--which struck me as curious, for the American girls, even
the country ones, have such a natural turn for dressing themselves. Her
Boston cousins didn't like it, and they tried to buy her things--but she
was difficult to manage--and they had to give it up. Still they were very
fond of her, I remember. Only she didn't let them show it much. Her
manners were much stiffer than theirs. They said she was very
countrified and simple--that she had been brought up quite alone by
their old uncle, in a little country town--and hardly ever went away
from home.'
'And Edward never saw her?' inquired Mrs. Burgoyne, with a motion of
the head towards Manisty.
'No. He was at Chicago just those days. But you never saw anything
like the kindness of the cousins! Luncheons and dinners!'--Miss
Manisty raised her little gouty hands--'my dear--when we left Boston I
never wanted to eat again. It would be simply indecent if we did
nothing for this girl. English people are so ungrateful this side of the
water. It makes me hot when I think of all they do for us.'
The small lady's blanched and wrinkled face reddened a little with a
colour which became her. Manisty, lost in irritable reflection,
apparently took no notice.
'But why did they send her out all alone?' said Mrs. Burgoyne. 'Couldn't
they have found some family for her to travel with?'
'Well, it was a series of accidents. She did come over with some Boston
people--the Porters--we knew very well. And they hadn't been three

days in London before one of the daughters developed meningitis, and
was at the point of death. And of course they could go nowhere and see
nothing--and poor Lucy Foster felt herself in the way. Then she was to
have joined some other people in Italy, and they changed their plans.
And at last I got a letter from Mrs. Porter--in despair--asking me if I
knew of anyone in Rome who would take her in and chaperon her. And
then--well, then you know the rest.'
And the speaker nodded again, still more significantly, towards her
nephew.
'No, not all,' said Mrs. Burgoyne, laughing. 'I remember he
telegraphed.'
'Yes. He wouldn't even wait for me to write. No--"Of course we must
have the girl!" he said. "She can join us at the villa. And they'll want to
know, so I'll wire." And out he went. And then that evening I