Her
face was turned away from him and hidden against the cushion; her black
hair streamed over the white folds of her wrapper: one arm was beneath her,
the other hung helplessly over her knee.
He went up to her and called her name in an agony.
She moved slightly, made an effort to rouse herself and raised her hand.
But the hand fell again, and the word half-formed upon her lips died away.
Nothing could be more piteous, more disarmed. Yet even her disarray and
helplessness were lovely; she was noble in her defeat; her very abandonment
breathed youth and purity; the man's wildly surging thoughts sank abashed.
But words escaped him--words giving irrevocable shape to feeling. For he
saw that she could not hear.
'Lucy!--Lucy--dear, beautiful Lucy!'
He hung over her in an ardent silence, his eyes breathing a respect that
was the very soul of passion, his hand not daring to touch even a fold of
her dress. Meanwhile the door leading to the little passage-room opened
noiselessly. Eleanor Burgoyne entered. Manisty was not aware of it. He bent
above Lucy in a tender absorption speaking to her as he might have spoken
to a child, calling to her, comforting and rousing her. His deep voice had
an enchanter's sweetness; and gradually it wooed her back to life.
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