'It is so strange, Father—that you should be here!'
The priest did not answer immediately. He walked with a curiously uncertain gait. Eleanor noticed that his soutane was dusty and torn, and that he was unshaven. The peculiar and touching charm that had once arisen from the contrast between the large-limbed strength which he inherited from a race of Suabian peasants, and an extraordinary delicacy of feature and skin, a childish brightness and sweetness in the eyes, had suffered eclipse. He was dulled and broken. One might have said almost that he had become a mere ungainly, ill-kept old man, red-eyed for lack of sleep, and disorganised by some bitter distress.
'You remember—what I told you and Mr. Manisty, at Marinata?' he said at last, with difficulty.
'Perfectly. You withdrew your letter?'
'I withdrew it. Then I came down here. I have an old friend—a Canon of
Orvieto. He told me once of this place.'
Eleanor looked at him with a sudden return of all her natural kindness and compassion.
'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 tremulous formality. 'You will be wishing to return to your apartment I heard that two English ladies were expected—but I never thought—'
'How could you?' said Eleanor hurriedly. 'I am not in any hurry. It is very early still. Will you not tell me more of what has happened to you? You would'—she turned away her head—'you would have told Mr. Manisty?'