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Title: The Emancipated

Author: George Gissing

Release Date: August, 2003  [Etext #4311]
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Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)

George Gissing

The Emancipated





PART I





CHAPTER I

NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT




By a window looking from Posillipo upon the Bay of Naples sat an
English lady, engaged in letter-writing. She was only in her
four-and-twentieth year, but her attire of subdued mourning
indicated widowhood already at the stage when it is permitted to
make quiet suggestion of freedom rather than distressful reference
to loss; the dress, however, was severely plain, and its grey
coldness, which would well have harmonized with an English sky in
this month of November, looked alien in the southern sunlight. There
was no mistaking her nationality; the absorption, the troubled
earnestness with which she bent over her writing, were peculiar to a
cast of features such as can be found only in our familiar island; a
physiognomy not quite pure in outline, vigorous in general effect
and in detail delicate; a proud young face, full of character and
capacity, beautiful in chaste control. Sorrowful it was not, but its
paleness and thinness expressed something more than imperfect health
of body; the blue-grey eyes, when they wandered for a moment in an
effort of recollection, had a look of weariness, even of ennui; the
lips moved as if in nervous impatience until she had found the
phrase or the thought for which her pen waited. Save for these
intervals, she wrote with quick decision, in a large clear hand,
never underlining, but frequently supplying the emphasis of heavy
stroke in her penning of a word. At the end of her letters came a
signature excellent in individuality: "Miriam Baske."

The furniture of her room was modern, and of the kind demanded by
wealthy _forestieri_ in the lodgings they condescend to occupy. On
the variegated tiles of the floor were strewn rugs and carpets; the
drapery was bright, without much reference to taste in the ordering
of hues; a handsome stove served at present to support leafy plants,
a row of which also stood on the balcony before the window. Round
the ceiling ran a painted border of foliage and flowers. The chief
ornament of the walls was a large and indifferent copy of Raphael's
"St. Cecilia;" there were, too, several _gouache_ drawings of local
scenery: a fiery night-view of Vesuvius, a panorama of the Bay, and
a very blue Blue Grotto. The whole was blithe, sunny, Neapolitan;
sufficiently unlike a sitting-room in Redheck House, Bartles,
Lancashire, which Mrs. Baske had in her mind as she wrote.

A few English books lay here and there, volumes of unattractive
binding, and presenting titles little suggestive of a holiday in
Campania; works which it would be misleading to call theological;
the feeblest modern echoes of fierce old Puritans, half shame-faced
modifications of logic which, at all events, was wont to conceal no
consequence of its savage premises. More noticeable were some
architectural plans unrolled upon a settee; the uppermost
represented the elevation of a building designed for religious
purposes, painfully recognizable by all who know the conventicles of
sectarian England. On the blank space beneath the drawing were a few
comments, lightly pencilled.

Having finished and addressed some half a dozen brief letters, Mrs.
Baske brooded for several minutes before she began to write on the
next sheet of paper. It was intended for her sister-in-law, a lady
of middle age, who shared in the occupancy of Redheck House. At
length she penned the introductory formula, but again became absent,
and sat gazing at the branches of a pine-tree which stood in strong
relief against cloudless blue. A sigh, an impatient gesture, and she
went on with her task.

"It is very kind of you to be so active in attending to the things
which you know I have at heart. You say I shall find everything as I
could wish it on my return, but you cannot think what a stranger to
Bartles I already feel. It will soon be six months Since I lived my
real life there; during my illness I might as well have been absent,
then came those weeks in the Isle of Wight, and now this exile. I
feel it as exile, bitterly. To be sure Naples is beautiful, but it
does not interest me. You need not envy me the bright sky, for it
gives me no pleasure. There is so much to pain and sadden; so much
that makes me angry. On Sunday I was miserable. The Spences are as
kind as any one could be, but--I won't write about it; no doubt
you understand me.

"What do you think ought to be done about Mrs. Ackworth and her
daughter? It is shameful, after all they have received from me. Will
you tell them that I am gravely displeased to hear of their
absenting themselves from chapel. I have a very good mind to write
to Mr. Higginson and beg him to suspend the girl from his employment
until she becomes regular in her attendance at worship. Perhaps that
would seem malicious, but she and her mother ought to be punished in
some way. Speak to them very sternly.

"I do not understand how young Brooks has dared to tell you I
promised him work in the greenhouse. He is irreclaimable; the worst
character that ever came under my notice; he shall not set foot on
the premises. If he is in want, he has only himself to blame. I do
not like to think of his wife suffering, but it is the attribute of
sins such as his that they involve the innocent with the guilty; and
then she has shown herself so wretchedly weak. Try, however, to help
her secretly if her distress becomes too acute.

"It was impertinent in Mrs. Walker to make such reference to me in
public. This is the result of my absence and helplessness. I shall
write to her--two lines."

A flush had risen to her cheek, and in adding the last two words she
all but pierced through the thin note-paper. Then her hand trembled
so much that she was obliged to pause. At the same moment there
sounded a tap at the door, and, on Mrs. Baske's giving permission, a
lady entered. This was Mrs. Spence, a cousin of the young widow; she
and her husband had an apartment here in the Villa Sannazaro, and
were able to devote certain rooms to the convenience of their
relative during her stay at Naples. Her age was about thirty; she
had a graceful figure, a manner of much refinement, and a bright,
gentle, intellectual face, which just now bore an announcement of
news.

"They have arrived!"

"Already?" replied the other, in a tone of civil interest.

"They decided not to break the journey after Genoa. Cecily and Mrs.
Lessingham are too tired to do anything but get settled in their
rooms, but Mr. Mallard has come to tell us."

Miriam laid down her pen, and asked in the same voice as before:

"Shall I come?"

"If you are not too busy." And Mrs. Spence added, with a smile, "I
should think you must have a certain curiosity to see each other,
after so long an acquaintance at secondhand."

"I will come in a moment."

Mrs. Spence left the room. For a minute Miriam sat reflecting, then
rose. In moving towards the door she chanced to see her image in a
mirror--two of a large size adorned the room--and it checked her
step; she regarded herself gravely, and passed a smoothing hand over
the dark hair above her temples.

By a corridor she reached her friends' sitting-room, where Mrs.
Spence sat in the company of two gentlemen. The elder of these was
Edward Spence. His bearded face, studious of cast and
small-featured, spoke a placid, self-commanding character; a
lingering smile, and the pleasant wrinkles about his brow, told of a
mind familiar with many by-ways of fancy and reflection. His
companion, a man of five-and-thirty, had a far more striking
countenance. His complexion was of the kind which used to be called
adust--burnt up with inner fires; his visage was long and somewhat
harshly designed, very apt, it would seem, to the expression of
hitter ironies or stern resentments, but at present bright with
friendly pleasure. He had a heavy moustache, but no beard; his hair
tumbled in disorder. To matters of costume he evidently gave little
thought, for his clothes, though of the kind a gentleman would wear
in travelling, had seen their best days, and the waistcoat even
lacked one of its buttons; his black necktie was knotted into an
indescribable shape, and the ends hung loose.

Him Mrs. Spence at once presented to her cousin as "Mr. Mallard." He
bowed ungracefully; then, with a manner naturally frank but
constrained by obvious shyness, took the hand Miriam held to him.

"We are scarcely strangers, Mr. Mallard," she said in a
self-possessed tone, regarding him with steady eyes.

"Miss Doran has spoken of you frequently on the journey," he
replied, knitting his brows into a scowl as he smiled and returned
her look. "Your illness made her very anxious. You are much better,
I hope?"

"Much, thank you."

Allowance made for the difference of quality in their voices, Mrs.
Baske and Mallard resembled each other in speech. They had the same
grave note, the same decision.

"They must be very tired after their journey," Miriam added, seating
herself.

"Miss Doran seems scarcely so at all; but Mrs. Lessingham is rather
over-wearied, I'm afraid."

"Why didn't you break the journey at Florence or Rome?" asked Mrs.
Spence.

"I proposed it, but other counsels prevailed. All through Italy Miss
Doran was distracted between desire to get to Naples and misery at
not being able to see the towns we passed. At last she buried
herself in the 'Revue des Deux Mondes,' and refused even to look out
of the window."

"I suppose we may go and see her in the morning?" said Miriam.

"My express instructions are," replied Mallard, "that you are on no
account to go. They will come here quite early. Miss Doran begged
hard to come with me now, but I wouldn't allow it."

"Is it the one instance in which your authority has prevailed?"
inquired Spence. "You seem to declare it in a tone of triumph."

"Well," replied the other, with a grim smile, leaning forward in his
chair, "I don't undertake to lay down rules for the young lady of
eighteen as I could for the child of twelve. But my age and sobriety
of character still ensure me respect."

He glanced at Mrs. Baske, and their eyes met. Miriam smiled rather
coldly, but continued to observe him after he had looked away again.

"You met them at Genoa?" she asked presently, in her tone of
habitual reserve.

"Yes. I came by sea from London, and had a couple of days to wait
for their arrival from Paris."

"And I suppose you also are staying at Mrs. Gluck's?"

"Oh no! I have a room at old quarters of mine high up in the town,
Vico Brancaccio. I shall only be in Naples a few days."

"How's that ?" inquired Spence.

"I'm going to work at Amalfi and Paestum."

"Then, as usual, we shall see nothing of you," said Mrs. Spence.
"Pray, do you dine at Mrs. Gluck's this evening?"

"By no means."

"May we, then, have the pleasure of your company? There is no need
to go back to Vico Brancaccio. I am sure Mrs. Baske will excuse you
the torture of uniform."

With a sort of grumble, the invitation was accepted. A little while
after, Spence proposed to his friend a walk before sunset.

"Yes; let us go up the hill," said Mallard, rising abruptly. "I need
movement after the railway."

They left the villa, and Mallard grew less restrained in his
conversation.

"How does Mrs. Baske answer to your expectations?" Spence asked him.

"I had seen her photograph, you know."

"Where?"

"Her brother showed it me--one taken at the time of her marriage."

"What is Elgar doing at present?"

"It's more than a year since we crossed each other," Mallard
replied. "He was then going to the devil as speedily as can in
reason be expected of a man. I happened to encounter him one morning
at Victoria Station, and he seemed to have just slept off a great
deal of heavy drinking. Told me he was going down to Brighton to see
about selling a houseful of furniture there--his own property. I
didn't inquire how or why he came possessed of it. He is beyond
help, I imagine. When he comes to his last penny, he'll probably
blow his brains out; just the fellow to do that kind of thing."

"I suppose he hasn't done it already? His sister has heard nothing
of him for two years at least, and this account of yours is the
latest I have received."

"I should think he still lives, He would be sure to make a _coup de
theatre_ of his exit."

"Poor lad!" said the elder man, with feeling. "I liked him."

"Why, so did I; and I wish it had been in my scope to keep him in
some kind of order. Yes, I liked him much. And as for brains, why, I
have scarcely known a man who so impressed me with a sense of his
ability. But you could see that he was doomed from his cradle.
Strongly like his sister in face."

"I'm afraid the thought of him troubles her a good deal."

"She looks ill."

"Yes; we are uneasy about her," said Spence. Then, with a burst of
impatience: "There's no getting her mind away from that pestilent
Bartles. What do you think she is projecting now? It appears that
the Dissenters of Bartles are troubled concerning their chapel; it
isn't large enough. So Miriam proposes to pull down her own house,
and build them a chapel on the site, of course at her own expense.
The ground being her freehold, she can unfortunately do what she
likes with it; the same with her personal property. The thing has
gone so far that a Manchester firm of architects have prepared
plans; they are lying about in her room here."

Mallard regarded the speaker with humorous wonder.

"And the fact is," pursued Spence, "that such an undertaking as this
will impoverish her. She is not so wealthy as to be able to lay out
thousands of pounds and leave her position unaltered."

"I suppose she lives only for her religious convictions?"

"I don't profess to understand her. Her character is not easily
sounded. But no doubt she has the puritanical spirit in a rather
rare degree. I daily thank the fates that my wife grew up apart from
that branch of the family. Of all the accursed--But this is an
old topic; better not to beat one's self uselessly."

"A Puritan at Naples," mused Mallard. "The situation is
interesting."

"Very. But then she doesn't really live in Naples. From the first
day she has shown herself bent on resisting every influence of the
place. She won't admit that the climate benefits her; she won't
allow an expression of interest in anything Italian to escape her. I
doubt whether we shall ever get her even to Pompeii. One afternoon I
persuaded her to walk up here with me, and tried to make her confess
that this view was beautiful. She grudged making any such admission.
It is her nature to _distrust_ the beautiful."

"To be sure. That is the badge of her persuasion."

"Last Sunday we didn't know whether to compassionate her or to be
angry with her. The Bradshaws are at Mrs. Gluck's. You know them by
name, I think I There again, an interesting study, in a very
different way. Twice in the day she shut herself up with them in
their rooms, and they held a dissident service. The hours she spent
here were passed in the solitude of her own room, lest she should
witness our profane enjoyment of the fine weather. Eleanor refrained
from touching the piano, and at meals kept the gravest countenance,
in mere kindness. I doubt whether that is right. It isn't as though
we were dealing with a woman whose mind is hopelessly--immatured;
she is only a girl still, and I know she has brains if she could be
induced to use them."

"Mrs. Baske has a remarkable face, it seems to me," said Mallard.

"It enrages me to talk of the matter."

They were now on the road which runs along the ridge of Posillipo;
at a point where it is parted only by a low wall from the westward
declivity, they paused and looked towards the setting sun.

"What a noise from Fuorigrotta!" murmured Spence, when he had leaned
for a moment on the wall. "It always amuses me. Only in this part of
the world could so small a place make such a clamour."

They were looking away from Naples. At the foot of the vine-covered
hillside lay the noisy village, or suburb, named from its position
at the outer end of the tunnel which the Romans pierced to make a
shorter way between Naples and Puteoli; thence stretched an
extensive plain, set in a deep amphitheatre of hills, and bounded by
the sea. Vineyards and maizefields, pine-trees and poplars,
diversify its surface, and through the midst of it runs a long,
straight road, dwindling till it reaches the shore at the hamlet of
Bagnoli. Follow the enclosing ridge to the left, to where its slope
cuts athwart plain and sea and sky; there close upon the coast lies
the island rock of Nisida, meeting-place of Cicero and Brutus after
Caesar's death. Turn to the opposite quarter of the plain. First
rises the cliff of Camaldoli, where from their oak-shadowed lawn the
monks look forth upon as fair a prospect as is beheld by man. Lower
hills succeed, hiding Pozzuoli and the inner curve of its bay;
behind them, too, is the nook which shelters Lake Avernus; and at a
little distance, by the further shore, are the ruins of Cumae, first
home of the Greeks upon Italian soil. A long promontory curves round
the gulf; the dark crag at the end of it is Cape Misenum, and a
little on the hither side, obscured in remoteness, lies what once
was Baiae. Beyond the promontory gleams again a blue line of sea.
The low length of Procida is its limit, and behind that, crowning
the view, stands the mountain-height of Ischia.

Over all, the hues of an autumn evening in Campania. From behind a
bulk of cloud, here and there tossed by high wind currents into
fantastic shapes, sprang rays of fire, burning to the zenith.
Between the sea-beach at Bagnoli and the summit of Ischia, tract
followed upon tract of colour that each moment underwent a subtle
change, darkening here, there fading into exquisite transparencies
of distance, till by degrees the islands lost projection and became
mere films against the declining day. The plain was ruddy with dead
vine-leaves, and golden with the decaying foliage of the poplars;
Camaldoli and its neighbour heights stood gorgeously enrobed. In
itself, a picture so beautiful that the eye wearied with delight; in
its memories, a source of solemn joy, inexhaustible for ever.

"I suppose," said Mallard, in the undertone of reflection, "the
pagan associations of Naples are a great obstacle to Mrs. Baske's
enjoyment of the scenery."

"She admits that."

"By-the-bye, what are likely to be the relations between her and
Miss Doran?"

"I have wondered. They seem to keep on terms of easy correspondence.
But doesn't Cecily herself throw any light on that point?"

Mallard made a pause before answering.

"You must remember that I know very little of her. I have never
spoken more intimately with her than you yourself have. Naturally,
since she has ceased to be a child, I have kept my distance. In
fact, I shall be heartily glad when the next three years are over,
and we can shake hands with a definite good-bye."

"What irritates you?" inquired Spence, with a smile which recognized
a phase of his friend's character.

"The fact of my position. A nice thing for a fellow like me to have
charge of a fortune! It oppresses me--the sense of responsibility;
I want to get the weight off my shoulders. What the deuce did her
father mean by burdening me in this way?"

"He foresaw nothing of the kind," said Spence, amused. "Only the
unlikely event of Trench's death left you sole trustee. If Doran
purposed anything at all--why, who knows what it may have been?"

Mallard refused to meet the other's look; his eyes were fixed on the
horizon.

"All the same, the event was possible, and he should have chosen
another man of business. It's worse than being rich on my own
account. I have dreams of a national repudiation of debt; I imagine
dock-companies failing and banks stopping payment. It disturbs my
work; I am tired of it. Why can't I transfer the affair to some
trustworthy and competent person; yourself, for instance? Why didn't
Doran select you, to begin with--the natural man to associate with
Trench?"

"Who never opened a book save his ledger; who was the model of a
reputable dealer in calicoes; who--"

"I apologize," growled Mallard. "But you know in what sense I
spoke."

"Pray, what has Cecily become since I saw her in London?" asked the
other, after a pause, during which he smiled his own interpretation
of Mallard's humour.

"A very superior young person, I assure you," was the reply, gravely
spoken. "Miss Doran is a young woman of her time; she ranks with the
emancipated; she is as far above the Girton girl as that interesting
creature is above the product of an establishment for young ladies.
Miss Doran has no prejudices, and, in the vulgar sense of the word,
no principles. She is familiar with the Latin classics and with the
Parisian feuilletons; she knows all about the newest religion, and
can tell you Sarcey's opinion of the newest play. Miss Doran will
discuss with you the merits of Sarah Bernhardt in 'La Dame aux
Camelias,' or the literary theories of the brothers Goncourt. I am
not sure that she knows much about Shakespeare, but her appreciation
of Baudelaire is exquisite. I don't think she is naturally very
cruel, but she can plead convincingly the cause of vivisection. Miss
Doran--"

Spence interrupted him with a burst of laughter.

"All which, my dear fellow, simply means that you--"

Mallard, in his turn, interrupted gruffly.

"Precisely: that I am the wrong man to hold even the position of
steward to one so advanced. What have I to do with heiresses and
fashionable ladies? I have my work to get on with, and it shall not
suffer from the intrusion of idlers."

"I see you direct your diatribe half against Mrs. Lessingham. How
has she annoyed you?"

"Annoyed me? You never were more mistaken. It's with myself that I
am annoyed."

"On what account?"

"For being so absurd as to question sometimes whether my
responsibility doesn't extend beyond stock and share. I ask myself
whether Doran--who so befriended me, and put such trust in me, and
paid me so well in advance for the duties I was to undertake--
didn't take it for granted that I should exercise some influence in
the matter of his daughter's education? Is she growing up what he
would have wished her to be? And if--"

"Why, it's no easy thing to say what views he had on this subject.
The lax man, we know, is often enough severe with his own womankind.
But as you have given me no description of what Cecily really is, I
can offer no judgment. Wait till I have seen her. Doubtless she
fulfils her promise of being beautiful?"

"Yes; there is no denying her beauty."

"As for her _modonite_, why, Mr. Ross Mallard is a singular person
to take exception on that score."

"I don't know about that. When did I say that the modern woman was
my ideal?"

"When had you ever a good word for the system which makes of woman a
dummy and a kill-joy?"

"That has nothing to do with the question," replied Mallard,
preserving a tone of gruff impartiality. "Have I been faithful to my
stewardship? When I consented to Cecily's--to Miss Doran's passing
from Mrs. Elgar's care to that of Mrs. Lessingham, was I doing
right?"

"Mallard, you are a curious instance of the Puritan conscience
surviving in a man whose intellect is liberated. The note of your
character, including your artistic character, is this
conscientiousness. Without it, you would have had worldly success
long ago. Without it, you wouldn't talk nonsense of Cecily Doran.
Had you rather she were co. operating with Mrs. Baske in a scheme to
rebuild all the chapels in Lancashire?"

"There is a medium."

"Why, yes. A neither this nor that, an insipid refinement, a taste
for culture moderated by reverence for Mrs. Grundy."

"Perhaps you are right. It's only occasionally that I am troubled in
this way. But I heartily wish the three years remaining were over."

"And the 'definite good-bye' spoken. A good phrase, that of yours.
What possessed you to come here just now, if it disturbs you to be
kept in mind of these responsibilities?"

"I should find it hard to tell you. The very sense of
responsibility, I suppose. But, as I said, I am not going to stay in
Naples."

"You'll come and give us a 'definite good-bye' before you leave?"

Mallard said nothing, but turned and began to move on. They passed
one of the sentry-boxes which here along the ridge mark the limits
of Neapolitan excise; a boy-soldier, musket in hand, cast curious
glances at them. After walking in silence for a few minutes, they
began to descend the eastern face of the hill, and before them lay
that portion of the great gulf which pictures have made so familiar.
The landscape was still visible in all its main details, still
softly suffused with warm colours from the west. About the cone of
Vesuvius a darkly purple cloud was gathering; the twin height of
Somma stood clear and of a rich brown. Naples, the many-coloured,
was seen in profile, climbing from the Castel dell' Ovo, around
which the sea slept, to the rock of Sant' Elmo; along the curve of
the Chiaia lights had begun to glimmer. Far withdrawn, the craggy
promontory of Sorrento darkened to profoundest blue; and Capri
veiled itself in mist.





CHAPTER II

CECILY DORAN




Villa Sannazaro had no architectural beauty; it was a building of
considerable size, irregular, in need of external repair. Through
the middle of it ran a great archway, guarded by copies of the two
Molossian hounds which stand before the Hall of Animals in the
Vatican; beneath the arch, on the right-hand side, was the main
entrance to the house. If you passed straight through, you came out
upon a terrace, where grew a magnificent stone-pine and some robust
agaves. The view hence was uninterrupted, embracing the line of the
bay from Posillipo to Cape Minerva. From the parapet bordering the
platform you looked over a descent of twenty feet, into a downward
sloping vineyard. Formerly the residence of an old Neapolitan
family, the villa had gone the way of many such ancestral abodes,
and was now let out among several tenants.

The Spences were established here for the winter. On the occasion of
his marriage, three years ago, Edward Spence relinquished his
connection with a shipping firm, which he represented in Manchester,
and went to live in London; a year and a half later he took his wife
to Italy, where they had since remained. He was not wealthy, but had
means sufficient to his demands and prospects. Thinking for himself
in most matters, he chose to abandon money-making at the juncture
when most men deem it incumbent upon them to press their efforts in
that direction; business was repugnant to him, and he saw no reason
why he should sacrifice his own existence to put a possible family
in more than easy circumstances, He had the inclinations of a
student, but was untroubled by any desire to distinguish himself,
freedom from the demands of the office meant to him the possibility
of living where he chose, and devoting to his books the best part of
the day instead of its fragmentary leisure. His choice in marriage
was most happy. Eleanor Spence had passed her maiden life in
Manchester, but with parents of healthy mind and of more literature
than generally falls to the lot of a commercial family. Pursuing a
natural development, she allied herself with her husband's freedom
of intellect, and found her nature's opportunities in the life which
was to him most suitable. By a rare chance, she was the
broader-minded of the two, the more truly impartial. Her
emancipation from dogma had been so gradual, so unconfused by
external pressure, that from her present standpoint she could look
back with calmness and justice on all the stages she had left
behind. With her cousin Miriam she could sympathize in a way
impossible to Spence, who, by-the-bye, somewhat misrepresented his
wife in the account he gave to Mallard of their Sunday experiences.
Puritanism was familiar to her by more than speculation; in the
compassion with which she regarded Miriam there was no mixture of
contempt, as in her husband's case. On the other hand, she did not
pretend to read completely her con sin's heart and mind; she knew
that there was no simple key to Miriam's character, and the quiet
study of its phases from day to day deeply interested her.

Cecily Doran had been known to Spence from childhood; her father was
his intimate friend. But Eleanor had only made the girl's
acquaintance in London, just after her marriage, when Cecily was
spending a season there with her aunt, Mrs. Lessingham. Mallard's
ward was then little more than fifteen; after several years of weak
health, she had entered upon a vigorous maidenhood, and gave such
promise of free, joyous, aspiring life as could not but strongly
affect the sympathies of a woman like Eleanor. Three years prior to
that, at the time of her father's death, Cecily was living with Mrs.
Elgar, a widow, and her daughter Miriam, the latter on the point of
marrying (at eighteen) one Mr. Baske, a pietistic mill-owner, aged
fifty. It then seemed very doubtful whether Cecily would live to
mature years; she had been motherless from infancy, and the
difficulty with those who brought her up was to repress an activity
of mind which seemed to be one cause of her bodily feebleness. In
those days there was a strong affection between her and Miriam
Elgar, and it showed no sign of diminution in either when, on Mrs.
Elgar's death, a year and a half after Miriam's marriage, Cecily
passed into the care of her father's sister, a lady of moderate
fortune, of parts and attainments, and with a great love of
cosmopolitan life. A few months more and Mrs. Baske was to be a
widow, childless, left in possession of some eight hundred a year,
her house at Bartles, and a local importance to which she was not
indifferent. With the exception of her brother, away in London, she
had no near kin. It would now have been a great solace to her if
Cecily Doran could have been her companion; but the young girl was
in Paris, or Berlin, or St. Petersburg, and, as Miriam was soon to
learn, the material distance between them meant little in comparison
with the spiritual remoteness which resulted from Cecily's education
under Mrs. Lessingham. They corresponded, however, and at first
frequently; but letters grew shorter on both sides, and arrived less
often. The two were now to meet for the first time since Cecily was
a child of fourteen.

The ladies arrived at the villa about eleven o'clock. Miriam had
shown herself indisposed to speak of them, both last evening, when
Mallard was present, and again this morning when alone with her
relatives; at breakfast she was even more taciturn than usual, and
kept her room for an hour after the meal. Then, however, she came to
sit with Eleanor, and remained when the visitors were announced.

Mrs. Lessingham did not answer to the common idea of a strong-minded
woman. At forty-seven she preserved much natural grace of bearing, a
good complexion, pleasantly mobile features. Her dress was in
excellent taste, tending to elaboration, such as becomes a lady who
makes some figure in the world of ease. Little wrinkles at the outer
corners of her eyes assisted her look of placid thought fulness;
when she spoke, these were wont to disappear, and the expression of
her face became an animated intelligence, an eager curiosity, or a
vivacious good-humour, Her lips gave a hint of sarcasm, but this was
reserved for special occasions; as a rule her habit of speech was
suave, much observant of amenities. One might have imagined that she
had enjoyed a calm life, but this was far from being the case. The
daughter of a country solicitor, she married early--for love, and
the issue was disastrous. Above her right temple, just at the roots
of the hair, a scar was discoverable; it was the memento of an
occasion on which her husband aimed a blow at her with a mantelpiece
ornament, and came within an ace of murder. Intimates of the
household said that the provocation was great--that Mrs.
Lessingham's gift of sarcasm had that morning displayed itself much
too brilliantly. Still, the missile was an extreme retort, and on
the whole it could not be wondered at that husband and wife resolved
to live apart in future. Mr. Lessingham was, in fact, an
aristocratic boor, and his wife never puzzled so much over any
intellectual difficulty as she did over the question how, as a girl,
she came to imagine herself enamoured of him. She was not, perhaps,
singular in her concernment with such a personal problem.

"It is six years since I was in Italy," she said, when greetings
were over, and she had seated herself. "Don't you envy me my
companion, Mrs. Spence? If anything could revive one's first
enjoyment, it would be the sight of Cecily's."

Cecily was sitting by Miriam, whose hand she had only just
relinquished. Her anxious and affectionate inquiries moved Miriam to
a smile which seemed rather of indulgence than warm kindness.

"How little we thought where our next meeting would be!" Cecily was
saying, when the eyes of the others turned upon her at her aunt's
remark.

Noble beauty can scarcely be dissociated from harmony of utterance;
voice and visage are the correspondent means whereby spirit
addresses itself to the ear and eye. One who had heard Cecily Doran
speaking where he could not see her, must have turned in that
direction, have listened eagerly for the sounds to repeat
themselves, and then have moved forward to discover the speaker. The
divinest singer may leave one unaffected by the tone of her speech.
Cecily could not sing, but her voice declared her of those who think
in song, whose minds are modulated to the poetry, not to the prose,
of life.

Her enunciation had the peculiar finish which is acquired in
intercourse with the best cosmopolitan society, the best in a worthy
sense. Four years ago, when she left Lancashire, she had a touch of
provincial accent,--Miriam, though she spoke well, was not wholly
free from it,--but now it was impossible to discover by listening
to her from what part of England she came. Mrs. Lessingham, whose
admirable tact and adaptability rendered her unimpeachable in such
details, had devoted herself with artistic zeal to her niece's
training for the world; the pupil's natural aptitude ensured
perfection in the result. Cecily's manner accorded with her
utterance; it had every charm derivable from youth, yet nothing of
immaturity. She was as completely at her ease as Mrs. Lessingham,
and as much more graceful in her self-control as the advantages of
nature made inevitable.

Miriam looked very cold, very severe, very English, by the side of
this brilliant girl. The thinness and pallor of her features became
more noticeable; the provincial faults of her dress were painfully
obvious. Cecily was not robust, but her form lacked no development
appropriate to her years, and its beauty was displayed by Parisian
handiwork. In this respect, too, she had changed remarkably since
Miriam last saw her, when she was such a frail child. Her hair of
dark gold showed itself beneath a hat which Eleanor Spence kept
regarding with frank admiration, so novel it was in style, and so
perfectly suitable to its wearer. Her gloves, her shoes, were no
less perfect; from head to foot nothing was to be found that did not
become her, that was not faultless in its kind.

At the same time, nothing that suggested idle expense or vanity. To
dwell at all upon the subject would be a disproportion, but for the
note of contrast that was struck. In an assembly of well-dressed
people, no one would have remarked Cecily's attire, unless to praise
its quiet distinction. In the Spences' sitting-room it became
another matter; it gave emphasis to differences of character; it
distinguished the atmosphere of Cecily's life from that breathed by
her old friends.

"We are going to read together Goethe's 'Italienische Reise,'"
continued Mrs. Lessingham. "It was of quite infinite value to me
when I first was here. In each town I _tuned_ my thoughts by it, to
use a phrase which sounds like affectation, but has a very real
significance."

"It was much the same with me," observed Spence.

"Yes, but you had the inestimable advantage of knowing the classics.
And Cecily, I am thankful to say, at least has something of Latin;
an ode of Horace, which I look at with fretfulness, yields her its
meaning. Last night, when I was tired and willing to be flattered,
she tried to make me believe it was not yet too late to learn."

"Surely not," said Eleanor, gracefully.

"But Goethe--you remember he says that the desire to see Italy had
become an illness with him. I know so well what that means. Cecily
will never know; the happiness has come before longing for it had
ceased to be a pleasure."

It was not so much affection as pride that her voice expressed when
she referred to her niece; the same in her look, which was less
tender than gratified and admiring. Cecily smiled in return, but was
not wholly attentive; her eyes constantly turned to Miriam,
endeavouring, though vainly, to exchange a glance.

Mrs. Lessingham was well aware of the difficulty of addressing to
Mrs. Baske any remark on natural topics which could engage her
sympathy, yet to ignore her presence was impossible.

"Do you think of seeing Rome and the northern cities when your
health is established?" she inquired, in a voice which skilfully
avoided any presumption of the reply. "Or shall you return by sea?"

"I am not a very good sailor," answered Miriam, with sufficient
suavity, "and I shall probably go back by land. But I don't think I
shall stop anywhere."

"It will be wiser, no doubt," said Mrs. Lessingham, "to leave the
rest of Italy for another visit. To see Naples first, and then go
north, is very much like taking dessert before one's substantial
dinner. I'm a little sorry that Cecily begins here; but it was
better to come and enjoy Naples with her friends this winter. I hope
we shall spend most of our time in Italy for a year or two."

Conversation took its natural course, and presently turned to the
subject--inexhaustible at Naples--of the relative advantages of
this and that situation for an abode. Mrs. Lessingham, turning to
the window, expressed her admiration of the view it afforded.

"I think it is still better from Mrs. Baske's sitting-room," said
Eleanor, who had been watching Cecily, and thought that she might be
glad of an opportunity of private talk with Miriam. And Cecily at
once availed herself of the suggestion.

"Would you let me see it, Miriam?" she asked. "If it is not
troublesome--"

Miriam rose, and they went out together. In silence they passed
along the corridor, and when they had entered her room Miriam walked
at once to the window. Then she half turned, and her eyes fell
before Cecily's earnest gaze.

"I did so wish to be with you in your illness!" said the girl, with
affectionate warmth. "Indeed, I would have come if I could have been
of any use. After all the trouble you used to have with my wretched
headaches and ailments--"

"You never have anything of the kind now," said Miriam, with her
indulgent smile.

"Never. I am in what Mr. Mallard calls aggressive health. But it
shocks me to see how pale you still are Miriam. I thought the voyage
and these ten days at Naples--And you have such a careworn look.
Cannot you throw off your troubles under this sky?"

"You know that the sky matters very little to me, Cecily."

"If I could give you only half my delight! I was awake before dawn
this morning, and it was impossible to lie still I dressed and stood
at the open window. I couldn't see the sun itself as it rose, but I
watched the first beams strike on Capri and the sea; and I tried to
make a drawing of the island as it then looked,--a poor little
daub, but it will be precious in bringing back to my mind all I felt
when I was busy with it. Such feeling I have never known; as if
every nerve in me had received an exquisite new sense. I keep saying
to myself, 'Is this really Naples?' Let us go on to the balcony. Oh,
you _must_ be glad with me!"

Freed from the constraint of formal colloquy, and overcoming the
slight embarrassment caused by what she knew of Miriam's thoughts,
Cecily revealed her nature as it lay beneath the graces with which
education had endowed her. This enthusiasm was no new discovery to
Miriam, but in the early days it had attached itself to far other
things. Cecily seemed to have forgotten that she was ever in
sympathy with the mood which imposed silence on her friend. Her eyes
drank light from the landscape; her beauty was transfigured by
passionate reception of all the influences this scene could exercise
upon heart and mind. She leaned on the railing of the balcony, and
gazed until tears of ecstasy made her sight dim.

"Let us see much of each other whilst we are here," she said
suddenly, turning to Miriam. "I could never have dreamt of our being
together in Italy; it is a happy fate, and gives me all kinds of
hope. We will be often alone together in glorious places. We will
talk it over; that is better than writing. You shall understand me,
Miriam. You shall get as well and strong as I am, and know what I
mean when I speak of the joy of living. We shall be sisters again,
like we used to be."

Miriam smiled and shook her head.

"Tell me about things at home. Is Miss Baske well?"

"Quite well. I have had two letters from her since I was here. She
wished me to give you her love."

"I will write to her. And is old Don still alive?"

"Yes, but very feeble, poor old fellow. He forgets even to be angry
with the baker's boy."

Cecily laughed with a moved playfulness.

"He has forgotten me. I don't like to be forgotten by any one who
ever cared for me."

There was a pause. They came back into the room, and Cecily, with a
look of hesitation, asked quietly,--

"Have you heard of late from Reuben?"

Miriam, with averted eyes, answered simply, "No." Again there was
silence, until Cecily, moving about the room, came to the "St.
Cecilia."

"So my patron saint is always before you. I am glad of that. Where
is the original of this picture, Miriam? I forget."

"I never knew."

"Oh, I wished to speak to you of Mr. Mallard. You met him yesterday.
Had you much conversation?"

"A good deal. He dined with us."

"Did he? I thought it possible. And do you like him?"

"I couldn't say until I knew him better."

"It isn't easy to know him, I think," said Cecily, in a reflective
and perfectly natural tone, smiling thoughtfully. "But he is a very
interesting man, and I wish he would be more friendly with me. I
tried hard to win his confidence on the journey from Genoa, but I
didn't seem to have much success. I fancy"--she laughed--"that
he is still in the habit of regarding me as a little girl, who
wouldn't quite understand him if he spoke of serious things. When I
wished to talk of his painting, he would only joke. That annoyed me
a little, and I tried to let him see that it did, with the result
that he refused to speak of anything for a long time."

"What does Mr. Mallard paint?" Miriam asked, half absently.

"Landscape," was the reply, given with veiled surprise. "Did you
never see anything of his?"

"I remember; the Bradshaws have a picture by him in their
dining-room. They showed it me when I was last in Manchester. I'm
afraid I looked at it very inattentively, for it has never
re-entered my mind from that day to this. But I was ill at the
time."

"His pictures are neglected," said Cecily, "but people who
understand them say they have great value. If he has anything
accepted by the Academy, it is sure to be hung out of sight. I think
he is wrong to exhibit there at all. Academies are foolish things,
and always give most encouragement to the men who are worth least.
When there is talk of such subjects, I never lose an opportunity of
mentioning Mr. Mallard's name, and telling all I can about his work.
Some day I shall, perhaps, be able to help him. I will insist on
every friend of mine who buys pictures at all possessing at least
one of Mr. Mallard's; then, perhaps, he will condescend to talk with
me of serious things."

She added the last sentence merrily, meeting Miriam's look with the
frankest eyes.

"Does Mrs. Lessingham hold the same opinion?" Miriam inquired.

"Oh yes! Aunt, of course, knows far more about art than I do, and
she thinks very highly indeed of Mr. Mallard. Not long ago she met
M. Lambert at a friend's house in Paris--the French critic who has
just been writing about English landscape--and he mentioned Mr.
Mallard with great respect. That was splendid, wasn't it?"

She spoke with joyous spiritedness. However modern, Cecily, it was
clear, had caught nothing of the disease of pococurantism. Into
whatever pleased her or enlisted her sympathies, she threw all the
glad energies of her being. The scornful remark on the Royal Academy
was, one could see, not so much a mere echo of advanced opinion, as
a piece of championship in a friend's cause. The respect with which
she mentioned the name of the French critic, her exultation in his
dictum, were notes of a youthful idealism which interpreted the
world nobly, and took its stand on generous beliefs.

"Mr. Mallard will help you to see Naples, no doubt," said Miriam.

"Indeed, I wish he would. But he distinctly told us that he has no
time. He is going to Amalfi in a few days, to work. I begged him at
least to go to Pompeii with us, but he frowned--as he so often
does--and seemed unwilling to be persuaded; so I said no more.
There again, I feel sure he was afraid of being annoyed by trifling
talk in such places. But one mustn't judge an artist like other men.
To be sure, anything I could say or think would be trivial compared
with what is in _his_ mind."

"But isn't it rather discourteous?" Miriam observed impartially.

"Oh, I could never think of it in that way! An artist is privileged;
he must defend his time and his sensibilities. The common terms of
society have no application to him. Don't you feel that, Miriam?"

"I know so little of art and artists. But such a claim seems to me
very strange."

Cecily laughed.

"This is one of a thousand things we will talk about. Art is the
grandest thing in the world; it means everything that is strong and
beautiful--statues, pictures, poetry, music. How could one live
without art? The artist is born a prince among men. What has he to
do with the rules by which common people must direct their lives?
Before long, you will feel this as deeply as I do, Miriam. We are in
Italy, Italy!"

"Shall we go back to the others?" Miriam suggested, in a voice which
contrasted curiously with that exultant cry.

"Yes; it is time."

Cecily's eyes fell on the plans of the chapel, which were still
lying open.

"What is this?" she asked. "Something in Naples? Oh no!"

"It's nothing," said Miriam, carelessly. "Come, Cecily."

The visitors took their leave just as the midday cannon boomed from
Sant' Elmo. They had promised to come and dine in a day or two.
After their departure, Miriam showed as little disposition to make
comments as she had to indulge in expectation before their arrival.
Eleanor and her husband put less restraint upon themselves.

"Heavens!" cried Spence, when they were alone; "what astounding
capacity of growth was in that child!"

"She is a swift and beautiful creature!" said Eleanor, in a warm
undertone characteristic of her when she expressed admiration.

"I wish I could have overheard the interview in Miriam's room."

"I never felt more curiosity about anything. Pity one is not a
psychological artist. I should have stolen to the keyhole and
committed eavesdropping with a glow of self-approval."

"I half understand our friend Mallard."

"So do I, Ned."

They looked at each other and smiled significantly.

That evening Spence again had a walk with the artist. He returned to
the villa alone, and only just in time to dress for dinner. Guests
were expected, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw of Manchester, old
acquaintances of the Spences and of Miriam. When it had become known
that Mrs. Baske, advised to pass the winter in a mild climate, was
about to accept an invitation from her cousin and go by sea to
Naples, the Bradshaws, to the astonishment of all their friends,
offered to accompany her. It was the first time that either of them
had left England, and they seemed most unlikely people to be
suddenly affected with a zeal for foreign travel. Miriam gladly
welcomed their proposal, and. it was put into execution.

When Spence entered the room his friends had already arrived. Mr.
Bradshaw stood in the attitude familiar to him when on his own
hearthrug, his back turned to that part of the wall where in England
would have been a fireplace, and one hand thrust into the pocket of
his evening coat.

"I tell you what it is, Spence!" he exclaimed, "I'm very much afraid
I shall be committing an assault. Certainly I shall if I don't soon
learn some good racy Italian. I must make out a little list of
sentences, and get you or Mrs. Spence to translate them. Such as 'Do
you take me for a fool?' or 'Be off, you scoundrel!' or 'I'll break
every bone in your body!' That's the kind of thing practically
needed in Naples, I find."

"Been in conflict with coachmen again?" asked Spence, laughing.

"Slightly! Never got into such a helpless rage in my life. Two
fellows kept up with me this afternoon for a couple of miles or so.
Now, what makes me so mad is the assumption of these blackguards
that I don't know my own mind. I go out for a stroll, and the first
cabby I pass wants to take me to Pozzuoli or Vesuvius--or Jericho,
for aught I know. It's no use showing him that I haven't the
slightest intention of going to any such place. What the deuce! does
the fellow suppose he can persuade me or badger me into doing what
I've no mind to do? Does he take me for an ass? It's the insult of
the thing that riles me! The same if I look in at a shop window; out
rushes a gabbling swindler, and wants to drag me in--"

"Only to _take_ you in, Mr. Bradshaw," interjected Eleanor.

"Good! To take me in, with a vengeance. Why, if I've a mind to buy,
shan't I go in of my own accord? And isn't it a sure and certain
thing that I shall never spend a halfpenny with a scoundrel who
attacks me like that?"

"How can you expect foreigners to reason, Jacob?" exclaimed Mrs.
Bradshaw.

"You should take these things as compliments," remarked Spence.
"They see an Englishman coming along, and as a matter of course they
consider him a person of wealth and leisure, who will be grateful to
any one for suggesting how he can kill time. Having nothing in the
world to do but enjoy himself, why shouldn't the English lord drive
to Baiae and back, just to get an appetite?"

"Lord, eh?" growled Mr. Bradshaw, rising on his toes, and smiling
with a certain satisfaction.

Threescore years all but two sat lightly on Jacob Bush Bradshaw. His
cheek was ruddy, his eyes had the lustre of health; in the wrinkled
forehead you saw activity of brain, and on his lips the stubborn
independence of a Lancashire employer of labour. Prosperity had set
its mark upon him, that peculiarly English prosperity which is so
intimately associated with spotless linen, with a good cut of
clothes, with scant but valuable jewellery, with the absence of any
perfume save that which suggests the morning tub. He was a
manufacturer of silk. The provincial accent notwithstanding, his
conversation on general subjects soon declared him a man of logical
mind and of much homely information. A sufficient self-esteem allied
itself with his force of character, but robust amiability prevented
this from becoming offensive; he had the sense of humour, and
enjoyed a laugh at himself as well as at other people. Though his
life had been absorbed in the pursuit of solid gain, he was no
scorner of the attainments which lay beyond his own scope, and in
these latter years, now that the fierce struggle was decided in his
favour, he often gave proof of a liberal curiosity. With regard to
art and learning, he had the intelligence to be aware of his own
defects; where he did not enjoy, he at least knew that he ought to
have done so, and he had a suspicion that herein also progress could
be made by stubborn effort, as in the material world. Finding
himself abroad, he had set himself to observe and learn, with
results now and then not a little amusing. The consciousness of
wealth disposed him to intellectual generosity; standing on so firm
a pedestal, he did not mind admitting that others might have a wider
outlook. Italy was an impecunious country; personally and
patriotically he had a pleasure in recognizing the fact, and this
made it easier for him to concede the points of superiority which he
had heard attributed to her. Jacob was rigidly sincere; he had no
touch of the snobbery which shows itself in sham admiration. If he
liked a thing he said so, and strongly; if he felt no liking where
his guide-book directed him to be enthusiastic, he kept silence and
cudgelled his brains.

Equally ingenuous was his wife, but with results that argued a
shallower nature. Mrs. Bradshaw had the heartiest and frankest
contempt for all things foreign; in Italy she deemed herself among a
people so inferior to the English that even to discuss the relative
merits of the two nations would have been ludicrous. Life "abroad"
she could not take as a serious thing; it amused or disgusted her,
as the case might be--never occasioned her a grave thought. The
proposal of this excursion, when first made to her, she received
with mockery; when she saw that her husband meant something more
than a joke, she took time to consider, and at length accepted the
notion as a freak which possibly would be entertaining, and might at
all events be indulged after a lifetime of sobriety. Entertainment
she found in abundance. Though natural beauty made little if any
appeal to her, she interested herself greatly in Vesuvius, regarding
it as a serio-comic phenomenon which could only exist in a country
inhabited by childish triflers. Her memory was storing all manner of
Italian absurdities--everything being an absurdity which differed
from English habit and custom--to furnish her with matter for
mirthful talk when she got safely back to Manchester and
civilization. With respect to the things which Jacob was
constraining himself to study--antiquities, sculptures, paintings,
stored in the Naples museum--her attitude was one of jocose
indifference or of half-tolerant contempt. Puritanism diluted with
worldliness and a measure of common sense directed her views of art
in general. Works such as the Farnese Hercules and the group about
the Bull she looked upon much as she regarded the wall-scribbling of
some dirty-minded urchin; the robust matron is not horrified by such
indecencies, but to be sure will not stand and examine them. "Oh,
come along, Jacob!" she exclaimed to her husband, when, at their
first visit to the Museum, he went to work at the antiques with his
Murray. "I've no patience you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

The Bradshaws were staying at the _pension_ selected by Mrs.
Lessingham. Naturally the conversation at dinner turned much on that
lady and her niece. With Cecily's father Mr. Bradshaw had been well
acquainted, but Cecily herself he had not seen since her childhood,
and his astonishment at meeting her as Miss Doran was great.

"What kind of society do they live among?" he asked of Spence.
"Tip-top people, I suppose?"

"Not exactly what we understand by tip-top in England. Mrs.
Lessingham's family connections are aristocratic, but she prefers
the society of authors, artists--that kind of thing."

"Queer people for a young girl to make friends of, eh?"

"Well, there's Mallard, for instance."

"Ah, Mallard, to be sure."

Mrs. Bradshaw looked at her hostess and smiled knowingly.

"Miss Doran is rather fond of talking about Mr. Mallard," she
remarked. "Did you notice that, Miriam?"

"Yes, I did."

Jacob broke the silence.

"How does he get on with his painting?" he asked--and it sounded
very much as though the reference were to a man busy on the front
door.

"He's never likely to be very popular," replied Spence, adapting his
remarks to the level of his guests' understanding. "There was
something of his in this year's Academy, and it sold at a tolerable
price."

"That thing of his that I bought, you remember--I find people
don't see much in it. They complain that the colour's so dull. But
then, as I always say, what else could you expect on a bit of
Yorkshire moor in winter? Is he going to paint anything here? Now,
if he'd do me a bit of the bay, with Vesuvius smoking."

"That would be something like!" assented Mrs. Bradshaw.

When the ladies had left the dining-room, Mr. Bradshaw, over his
cigarette, reverted to the subject of Cecily.

"I suppose the lass has had a first-rate education?"

"Of the very newest fashion for girls. I am told she reads Latin."

"By Jove!" cried the other, with sudden animation. "That reminds me
of something I wanted to talk about. When I was leaving Manchester,
I got together a few hooks, you know, that were likely to be useful
over here. My friend Lomax, the bookseller, suggested them. 'Got a
classical dictionary?' says he. 'Not I!' As you know, my schooling
never went much beyond the three R's, and hanged if I knew what a
classical dictionary was. 'Better take one,' says Lomax. 'You'll
want to look up your gods and goddesses.' So I took it, and I've
been looking into it these last few days."

"Well?"

Jacob had a comical look of perplexity and indignation. He thumped
the table.

"Do you mean to tell me that's the kind of stuff boys are set to
learn at school?"

"A good deal of it comes in."

"Then all I can say is, no wonder the colleges turn out such a lot
of young blackguards. Why, man, I could scarcely believe my eyes!
You mean to say that, if I'd had a son, he'd have been brought up on
that kind of literature, and without me knowing anything about it?
Why, I've locked the book up; I was ashamed to let it lay on the
table."

"It's the old Lempriere, I suppose," said Spence, vastly amused.
"The new dictionaries are toned down a good deal; they weren't so
squeamish in the old days."

"But the lads still read the books these things come out of, eh?"

"Oh yes. It has always been one of the most laughable
inconsistencies in English morality. Anything you could find in the
dictionary is milk for babes compared with several Greek plays that
have to be read for examinations."

"It fair caps me, Spence! Classical education that is, eh? That's
what parsons are bred on? And, by the Lord, you say they're
beginning it with girls?"

"Very zealously."

"Nay--!"

Jacob threw up his arms, and abandoned the effort to express
himself.

Later, when the guests were gone, Spence remembered this, and, to
Eleanor's surprise, he broke into uproarious laughter.

"One of the best jokes I ever heard! A fresh, first-hand judgment on
the morality of the Classics by a plain-minded English man of
business." He told the story. "And Bradshaw's perfectly right;
that's the best of it."





CHAPTER III

THE BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA




The year was 1878. A tourist searching his Baedeker for a genteel
but not oppressively aristocratic _pension_ in the open parts of
Naples would have found himself directed by an asterisk to the
establishment kept by Mrs. Gluck on the Mergellina;--frequented by
English and Germans, and very comfortable. The recommendation was a
just one. Mrs. Gluck enjoyed the advantage of having lived as many
years in England as she had in Germany; her predilections leaned, if
anything, to the English side, and the arrival of a "nice" English
family always put her in excellent spirits. She then exhibited
herself as an Anglicized matron, perfectly familiar with all the
requirements, great and little, of her guests, and, when minutiae
were once settled, capable of meeting ladies and gentlemen on terms
of equality in her drawing-room or at her table, where she always
presided. Indeed, there was much true refinement in Mrs. Gluck. You
had not been long in her house before she found an opportunity of
letting you know that she prided herself on connection with the
family of the great musician, and under her roof there was generally
some one who played or sang well. It was her dire that all who sat
at her dinner-table--the English people, at all events--should
be in evening dress. She herself had no little art in adorning
herself so as to appear, what she was, a lady, and yet not to
conflict with the ladies whose presence honoured her.

In the drawing-room, a few days after the arrival of Mrs. Lessingham
and her niece, several members of the house hold were assembled in
readiness for the second dinner-bell. There was Frau Wohlgemuth, a
middle-aged lady with severe brows, utilizing spare moments over a
German work on Greek sculpture. Certain plates in the book had
caught the eye of Mrs. Bradshaw, with the result that she regarded
this innocent student as a person of most doubtful character, who,
if in ignorance admitted to a respectable boardinghouse, should
certainly have been got rid of as soon as the nature of her reading
had been discovered. Frau Wohlgemuth had once or twice been
astonished at the severe look fixed upon her by the buxom English
lady, but happily would never receive an explanation of this silent
animus. Then there was Fraulein Kriel, who had unwillingly incurred
even more of Mrs. Bradshaw's displeasure, in that she, an unmarried
person, had actually looked over the volume together with its
possessor, not so much as blushing when she found herself observed
by strangers. The remaining persons were an English family, a mother
and three daughters, their name Denyer.

Mrs. Denyer was florid, vivacious, and of a certain size. She had
seen much of the world, and prided herself on cosmopolitanism; the
one thing with which she could not dispense was intellectual
society. This would be her second winter at Naples, but she gave her
acquaintances to understand that Italy was by no means the country
of her choice; she preferred the northern latitudes, because there
the intellectual atmosphere was more bracing. But for her daughters'
sake she abode here: "You know, my gills _adore_ Italy."

Of these young ladies, the two elder--Barbara and Made line were
their seductive names--had good looks. Barbara, perhaps twenty-two
years old, was rather colourless, somewhat too slim, altogether a
trifle limp; but she had a commendable taste in dress. Madeline, a
couple of years younger, presented a more healthy physique and a
less common comeliness, but in the matter of costume she lacked her
sister's discretion. Her colours were ill-matched, her ornaments
awkwardly worn; even her hair sought more freedom than was
consistent with grace. The youngest girl, Zillah, who was about
nineteen, had been less kindly dealt with by nature; like Barbara,
she was of very light complexion, and this accentuated her
plainness. She aimed at no compensation in attire, unless it were
that her sober garments exhibited perfect neatness and complete
inoffensiveness. Zillah's was a good face, in spite of its
unattractive features; she had a peculiarly earnest look, a
reflective manner, and much conscientiousness of speech.

Common to the three was a resolve to be modern, advanced, and
emancipated, or perish in the attempt. Every one who spoke with them
must understand that they were no every-day young ladies, imbued
with notions and prejudices recognized as feminine, frittering away
their lives amid the follies of the drawing-room and of the
circulating library. Culture was their pursuit, heterodoxy their
pride. If indeed it were true, as Mrs. Bradshaw somewhat
acrimoniously declared, that they were all desperately bent on
capturing husbands, then assuredly the poor girls went about their
enterprise with singular lack of prudence.

Each had her _role_. Barbara's was to pose as the adorer of Italy,
the enthusiastic glorifier of Italian unity. She spoke Italian
feebly, but, with English people, never lost an opportunity of
babbling its phrases. Speak to her of Rome, and before long she was
sure to murmur rapturously, "Roma capitale d'Italia!"--the
watch-word of antipapal victory. Of English writers she loved, or
affected to love, those only who had found inspiration south of the
Alps. The proud mother repeated a story of Barbara's going up to the
wall of Casa Guidi and kissing it. In her view, the modern Italians
could do no wrong; they were divinely regenerate. She praised their
architecture.

Madeline--whom her sisters addressed affectionately as "Mad"--
professed a wider intellectual scope; less given to the melting mood
than Barbara, less naive in her enthusiasms, she took for her
province aesthetic criticism in its totality, and shone rather in
censure than in laudation. French she read passably; German she had
talked so much of studying that it was her belief she had acquired
it; Greek and Latin were beyond her scope, but from modern essayists
who wrote in the flamboyant style she had gathered enough knowledge
of these literatures to be able to discourse of them with a very
fluent inaccuracy. With all schools of painting she was, of course,
quite familiar; the great masters--vulgarly so known--interested
her but moderately, and to praise them was, in her eyes, to incur a
suspicion of philistinism. From her preceptors in this sphere, she
had learnt certain names, old and new, which stood for more
exquisite virtues, and the frequent mention of them with a happy
vagueness made her conversation very impressive to the generality of
people. The same in music. It goes without saying that Madeline was
an indifferentist in politics and on social questions; at the
introduction of such topics, she smiled.

Zillah's position was one of more difficulty. With nothing of her
sisters' superficial cleverness, with a mind that worked slowly, and
a memory irretentive, she had a genuine desire to instruct herself,
and that in a solid way. She alone studied with real persistence,
and, by the irony of fate, she alone continually exposed her
ignorance, committed gross blunders, was guilty of deplorable lapses
of memory. Her unhappy lot kept her in a constant state of
nervousness and shame. She had no worldly tact, no command of her
modest resources, yet her zeal to support the credit of the family
was always driving her into hurried speech, sure to end in some
disastrous pitfall. Conscious of aesthetic defects, Zillah had
chosen for her speciality the study of the history of civilization.
But for being a Denyer, she might have been content to say that she
studied history, and in that case her life might also have been
solaced by the companionship of readable books; but, as modernism
would have it, she could not be content to base her historical
inquiries on anything less than strata of geology and biological
elements, with the result that she toiled day by day at perky little
primers and compendia, and only learnt one chapter that it might be
driven out of her head by the next. Equally out of deference to her
sisters, she smothered her impulses to conventional piety, and made
believe that her spiritual life supported itself on the postulates
of science. As a result of all which, the poor girl was not very
happy, but in that again did she not give proof of belonging to her
time?

There existed a Mr. Denyer, but this gentleman was very seldom
indeed in the bosom of his family. Letters--and remittances--
came from him from the most surprising quarters of the globe. His
profession was that of speculator at large, and, with small
encouragement of any kind, he toiled unceasingly to support his wife
and daughters in their elegant leisure. At one time he was eagerly
engaged in a project for making starch from potatoes in the south of
Ireland. When this failed, he utilized a knowledge of Spanish--
casually picked up, like all his acquirements--and was next heard
of at Veer Cruz, where he dealt in cochineal, indigo, sarsaparilla,
and logwood. Yellow fever interfered with his activity, and after a
brief sojourn with his family in the United States, where they had
joined him with the idea of making a definite settlement, he heard
of something promising in Egypt, and thither repaired. A spare,
vivacious, pathetically sanguine man, always speaking of the day
when he would "settle down" in enjoyment of a moderate fortune, and
most obviously doomed never to settle at all, save in the final home
of mortality.

Mrs. Lessingham and her niece entered the room. On Cecily, as usual,
all eyes were more or less openly directed. Her evening dress was
simple--though with the simplicity not to be commanded by every
one who wills--and her demeanour very far from exacting general
homage; but her birthright of distinction could not be laid aside,
and the suave Mrs. Gluck was not singular in recognizing that here
was such a guest as did not every day grace her _pension_. Barbara
and Madeline Denyer never looked at her without secret pangs. In
appearance, however, they were very friendly, and Cecily had met
their overtures from the first with the simple goodwill natural to
her. She went and seated herself by Madeline, who had on her lap a
little portfolio.

"These are the drawings of which I spoke," said Madeline, half
opening the portfolio.

"Mr. Marsh's? Oh, I shall be glad to see them!"

"Of course, we ought to have daylight, but we'll look at them again
to-morrow. You can form an idea of their character."

They were small water-colours, the work--as each declared in
fantastic signature--of one Clifford Marsh, spoken of by the
Denyers, and by Madeline in particular, as a personal friend. He was
expected to arrive any day in Naples. The subjects, Cecily had been
informed, were natural scenery; the style, impressionist.
Impressionism was no novel term to Cecily, and in Paris she had had
her attention intelligently directed to good work in that kind; she
knew, of course, that, like every other style, it must be judged
with reference to its success in achieving the end proposed. But the
first glance at the first of Mr. Marsh's productions perplexed her.
A study on the Roman Campagna, said Madeline. It might just as well,
for all Cecily could determine, have been a study of cloud-forms, or
of a storm at sea, or of anything. or of nothing; nor did there seem
to be any cogent reason why it should be looked at one way up rather
than the other. Was this genius, or impudence?

"You don't know the Campagna, yet," remarked Madeline, finding that
the other kept silence. "Of course, you can't appreciate the
marvellous truthfulness of this impression; but it gives you new
emotions, doesn't it?"

Mrs. Lessingham would have permitted herself to reply with a pointed
affirmative. Cecily was too considerate of others' feelings for
that, yet had not the habit of smooth falsehood.

"I am not very familiar with this kind of work," she said. "Please
let me just look and think, and tell me your own thoughts about
each."

Madeline was not displeased. Already she had discovered that in most
directions Miss Doran altogether exceeded her own reach, and that it
was not safe to talk conscious nonsense to her. The tone of modesty
seemed unaffected, and, as Madeline had reasons for trying to
believe in Clifford Marsh, it gratified her to feel that here at
length she might tread firmly and hold her own. The examination of
the drawings proceeded, with the result that Cecily's original
misgiving was strongly confirmed. What would Ross Mallard say?
Mallard's own work was not of the impressionist school, and he might
suffer prejudice to direct him; but she had a conviction of how his
remarks would sound were this portfolio submitted to him. Genius--
scarcely. And if not, then assuredly the other thing, and that in
flagrant degree.

Most happily, the dinner-bell came with its peremptory interruption.

"I must see them again to-morrow," said Cecily, in her pleasantest
voice.

At table, the ladies were in a majority. Mr. Bradshaw was the only
man past middle life. Next in age to him came Mr. Musselwhite, who
looked about forty, and whose aquiline nose, high forehead, light
bushy whiskers, and air of vacant satisfaction, marked him as the
aristocrat of the assembly. This gentleman suffered under a truly
aristocratic affliction--the ever-reviving difficulty of passing
his day. Mild in demeanour, easy in the discharge of petty social
obligations, perfectly inoffensive, he came and went like a vivified
statue of gentlemanly _ennui_. Every morning there arrived for him a
consignment of English newspapers; these were taken to his bedroom
at nine o'clock, together with a cup of chocolate. They presumably
occupied him until he appeared in the drawing-room, just before the
hour of luncheon, when, in spite of the freshness of his morning
attire, he seemed already burdened by the blank of time, always
sitting down to the meal with an audible sigh of gratitude.
Invariably he addressed to his neighbour a remark on the direction
of the smoke from Vesuvius. If the neighbour happened to be
uninformed in things Neapolitan, Mr. Musselwhite seized the occasion
to explain at length the meteorologic significance of these varying
fumes. Luncheon over, he rose like one who is summoned to a painful
duty; in fact, the great task of the day was before him--the
struggle with time until the hour of dinner. You would meet him
sauntering sadly about the gardens of the Villa Nazionale, often
looking at his watch, which he always regulated by the cannon of
Sant' Elmo: or gazing with lack-lustre eye at a shop-window in the
Toledo; or sitting with a little glass of Marsala before him in one
of the fashionable _cafes_, sunk in despondency. But when at length
he appeared at the dinner-table, once more fresh from his toilet,
then did a gleam of animation transform his countenance; for the
victory was won; yet again was old time defeated. Then he would
discourse his best. Two topics were his: the weather, and "my
brother the baronet's place in Lincolnshire." The manner of his
monologue on this second and more fruitful subject was really
touching. When so fortunate as to have a new listener, he began by
telling him or her that he was his father's fourth son, and
consequently third brother to Sir Grant Musselwhite--"who goes in
so much for model-farming, you know." At the hereditary "place in
Lincolnshire" he had spent the bloom of his life, which he now
looked back upon with tender regrets. He did not mention the fact
that, at the age of five-and-twenty, he had been beguiled from that
Arcadia by wily persons who took advantage of his innocent youth,
who initiated him into the metropolitan mysteries which sadden the
soul and deplete the pocket, who finally abandoned him upon the
shoal of a youngest brother's allowance when his father passed away
from the place in Lincolnshire, and young Sir Grant, reigning in the
old baronet's stead, deemed himself generous in making the family
scapegrace any provision at all. Yet such were the outlines of Mr.
Musselwhite's history. Had he been the commonplace spendthrift, one
knows pretty well on what lines his subsequent life would have run;
but poor Mr. Musselwhite was at heart a domestic creature. Exiled
from his home, he wandered in melancholy, year after year, round a
circle of continental resorts, never seeking relief in dissipation,
never discovering a rational pursuit, imagining to himself that he
atoned for the disreputable past in keeping far from the track of
his distinguished relatives.

Ah, that place in Lincolnshire! To the listener's mind it became one
of the most imposing of English ancestral abodes. The house was of
indescribable magnitude and splendour. It had a remarkable "turret,"
whence, across many miles of plain, Lincoln Cathedral could be
discovered by the naked eye; it had an interminable drive from the
lodge to the stately portico; it had gardens of fabulous fertility;
it had stables which would have served a cavalry regiment In what
region were the kine of Sir Grant Musselwhite unknown to fame? Who
had not heard of his dairy-produce? Three stories was Mr.
Musselwhite in the habit or telling, scintillating fragments of his
blissful youth; one was of a fox-cub and a terrier; another of a
heifer that went mad; the third, and the most thrilling, of a
dismissed coachman who turned burglar, and in the dead of night
fired shots at old Sir Grant and his sons. In relating these
anecdotes, his eye grew moist and his throat swelled.

Mr. Musselwhite's place at table was next to Barbara Denyer. So long
as Miss Denyer was new, or comparatively new, to her neighbour's
reminiscences, all went well between them. Barbara condescended to
show interest in the place in Lincolnshire; she put pertinent
questions; she smiled or looked appropriately serious in listening
to the three stories. But this could not go on indefinitely, and for
more than a week now conversation between the two had been a trying
matter. For Mr. Musselwhite to sustain a dialogue on such topics as
Barbara had made her own was impossible, and he had no faculty even
for the commonest kind of impersonal talk. He devoted himself to his
dinner in amiable silence, enjoying the consciousness that nearly an
hour of occupation was before him, and that bed-time lay at no
hopeless distance.

Moreover, there was a boy--yet it is doubtful whether he should be
so described; for, though he numbered rather less than sixteen
years, experience had already made him _blase_. He sat beside his
mother, a Mrs. Strangwich. For Master Strangwich the ordinary
sources of youthful satisfaction did not exist; he talked with the
mature on terms of something more than equality, and always gave
them the impression that they had still much to learn. This
objectionable youth had long since been everywhere and seen
everything. The _naivete_ of finding pleasure in novel circumstances
moved him to a pitying surprise. Speak of the glories of the Bay of
Naples, and he would remark, with hands in pockets and head thrown
back, that he thought a good deal more of the Golden Horn. If
climate came up for discussion, he gave an impartial vote, based on
much personal observation, in favour of Southern California. His
parents belonged to the race of modern nomads, those curious beings
who are reviving an early stage of civilization as an ingenious
expedient for employing money and time which they have not
intelligence enough to spend in a settled habitat. It was already
noticed in the _pension_ that Master Strangwich paid somewhat marked
attentions to Madeline Denyer; there was no knowing what might come
about if their acquaintance should be prolonged for a few weeks.

But Madeline had at present something else to think about than the
condescending favour of Master Strangwich. As the guests entered the
dining-room, Mrs. Gluck informed Mrs. Denyer that the English artist
who was looked for had just arrived, and would in a few minutes join
the company. "Mr. Marsh is here," said Mrs. Denyer aloud to her
daughters, in a tone of no particular satisfaction. Madeline glanced
at Miss Doran, who, however, did not seem to have heard the remark.

And, whilst the guests were still busy with their soup, Mr. Clifford
Marsh presented himself. Within the doorway he stood for a moment
surveying the room; with placid eye he selected Mrs. Denyer, and
approached her just to shake hands; her three daughters received
from him the same attention. Words Mr. Marsh had none, but he smiled
as smiles the man conscious of attracting merited observation.
Indeed, it was impossible not to regard Mr. Marsh with curiosity.
His attire was very conventional in itself, but somehow did not look
like the evening uniform of common men: it sat upon him with an
artistic freedom, and seemed the garb of a man superior to his
surroundings. The artist was slight, pale, rather feminine of
feature; he had delicate hands, which he managed to display to
advantage; his auburn hair was not long behind, as might have been
expected, but rolled in a magnificent mass upon his brows. Many were
the affectations whereby his countenance rendered itself unceasingly
interesting. At times he wrinkled his forehead down the middle, and
then smiled at vacancy--a humorous sadness; or his eyes became
very wide as he regarded, yet appeared not to see, some particular
person; or his lips drew themselves in, a symbol of meaning
reticence. All this, moreover, not in such degrees as to make him
patently ridiculous; by no means. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw might
exchange frequent glances, and have a difficulty in preserving
decorum; but they were unsophisticated. Mrs. Lessingham smiled,
indeed, when there came a reasonable pretext, but not
contemptuously. Mr. Marsh's aspect, if anything, pleased her; she
liked these avoidances of the commonplace. Cecily did not fail to
inspect the new arrival. She too was well aware that hatred of
vulgarity constrains many persons who are anything but fools to
emphasize their being in odd ways, and it might still--in spite of
the impressionist water-colours--be proved that Mr. Marsh had a
right to vary from the kindly race of men. She hoped he was really a
person of some account; it delighted her to be with such. And then
she suspected that Madeline Denyer had something more than
friendship for Mr. Marsh, and her sympathies were moved.

"What sort of weather did you leave in England?" Mrs. Denyer
inquired, when the artist was seated next to her.

"I came away from London on the third day of absolute darkness,"
replied Mr. Marsh, genially.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Gluck; and at once translated this news
for the benefit of Frau Wohlgemuth, who murmured, "Ach!" and shook
her head.

"The fog is even yet in my throat," proceeded the artist, to whom
most of the guests were listening. "I can still see nothing but
lurid patches of gaslight on a background of solid mephitic fume.
There are fine effects to be caught, there's no denying it; but not
every man has the requisite physique for such studies. As I came
along here from the railway-station, it occurred to me that the
Dante story might have been repeated in my case; the Neapolitans
should have pointed at me and whispered, 'Behold the man who has
been in hell!'"

Cecily was amused; she looked at Madeline and exchanged a friendly
glance with her. At the same time she was becoming aware that Mr.
Marsh, who sat opposite, vouchsafed her the homage of his gaze
rather too frequently and persistently. It was soon manifest to her,
moreover, that Madeline had noted the same thing, and not with
entire equanimity. So Cecily began to converse with Mrs. Lessingham,
and no longer gave heed to the artist's utterances.

She was going to spend an hour with Miriam this evening, without
express invitation. Mr. Bradshaw would drive up the hill with her,
and doubtless Mr. Spence would see her safely home. Thus she saw no
more for the present of the Denyers' friend.

Those ladies had a private sitting-room, and thither, in the course
of the evening, Clifford Marsh repaired. Barbara and Zillah, with
their mother, remained in the drawing room. On opening the door to
which he had been directed, Marsh found Madeline bent over a book.
She raised her eyes carelessly, and said:

"Oh, I hoped it was Barbara."

"I will tell her at once that you wish to speak to her."

"Don't trouble."

"No trouble at all."

He turned away, and at once Madeline rose impatiently from her
chair, speaking with peremptory accent.

"Please do as I request you! Come and sit down."

Marsh obeyed, and more than obeyed. He kicked a stool close to her,
dropped upon it with one leg curled underneath him, and leaned his
head against her shoulder. Madeline remained passive, her features
still showing the resentment his manner had provoked.

"I've come all this way just to see you, Mad, when I've no right to
be here at all."

"Why no right?"

"I told you to prepare yourself for bad news."

"That's a very annoying habit of yours. I hate to be kept in
suspense in that way. Why can't you always say at once what you
mean? Father does the same thing constantly in his letters. I'm sure
we've quite enough anxiety from him; I don't see why you should
increase it."

Without otherwise moving, he put his arm about her.

"What is it, Clifford? Tell me, and be quick."

"It's soon told, Mad. My step-father informs me that he will
continue the usual allowance until my twenty-sixth birthday--
eighteenth of February next, you know--and no longer than that.
After then, I must look out for myself."

Madeline wrinkled her brows.

"What's the reason?" she asked, after a pause.

"The old trouble. He says I've had quite long enough to make my way
as an artist, if I'm going to make it at all. In his opinion, I am
simply wasting my time and his money. No cash results; that is to
say, no success. Of course, his view."

The girl kept silence. Marsh shifted his position slightly, so as to
get a view of her face.

"Somebody else's too, I'm half afraid," he murmured dubiously.

Madeline was thinking of a look she had caught on Miss Doran's face
when the portfolio disclosed its contents; of Miss Doran's silence;
of certain other person' looks and silence--or worse than silence.
The knitting of her brows became deeper; Marsh felt an uneasy
movement in her frame.

"Speak plainly," he said. "It's far better."

"It's very hot, Clifford. Sit on a chair; we can talk better."

"I understand."

He moved a little away from her, and looked round the room with a
smile of disillusion.

"You needn't insult me," said Madeline, but not with the former
petulance; "Often enough you have done that, and yet I don't think I
have given you cause."

Still crouching upon the stool, he clasped his hands over his knee,
jerked his head back--a frequent movement, to settle his hair--
and smiled with increase of bitterness.

"I meant no insult," he said, "either now or at other times, though
you are always ready to interpret me in that way. I merely hint at
the truth, which would sound disagreeable in plain terms."

"You mean, of course, that I think of nothing--have never thought
of anything--but your material prospects?"

"Why didn't you marry me a year ago, Mad?"

"Because I should have been mad indeed to have done so. You admit it
would have caused your step-father at once to stop his allowance.
And pray what would have become of us?"

"Exactly. See your faith in me, brought to the touchstone!"

"I suppose the present day would have seen you as it now does?"

"Yes, if you had embarrassed me with lack of confidence. Decidedly
not, if you had been to me the wife an artist needs. My future has
lain in your power to make or mar. You have chosen to keep me in
perpetual anxiety, and now you take a suitable opportunity to
overthrow me altogether; or rather, you try to. We will see how
things go when I am free to pursue my course untroubled."

"Do so, by all manner of means!" exclaimed Madeline, her voice
trembling. "Perhaps I shall prove to have been your friend in this
way, at all events. As your wife in London lodgings on the third
floor, I confess it is very unlikely I should have aided you. I
haven't the least belief in projects of that kind. At best, you
would have been forced into some kind of paltry work just to support
me--and where would be the good of our marriage? You know
perfectly well that lots of men have been degraded in this way. They
take a wife to be their Muse, and she becomes the millstone about
their neck; then they hate her--and I don't blame them. What's the
good of saying one moment that you know your work can never appeal
to the multitude, and the next, affecting to believe that our
marriage would make you miraculously successful?"

"Then it would have been better to part before this."

"No doubt--as it turns out."

"Why do you speak bitterly? I am stating an obvious fact."

"If I remember rightly, you had some sort of idea that the fact of
our engagement might help you. That didn't seem to me impossible. It
is a very different thing from marriage on nothing a year."

"You have no faith in me; you never had. And how _could_ you believe
in what you don't understand? I see now what I have been forced to
suspect--that your character is just as practical as that of other
women. Your talk of art is nothing more than talk. You think, in
truth, of pounds, shillings and pence."

"I think of them a good deal," said Madeline, "and I should be an
idiot if I didn't. What is art if the artist has nothing to live on?
Pray, what are _you_ going to do henceforth? Shall you scorn the
mention of pounds, shillings and pence? Come to see me when you have
had no dinner to-day, and are feeling very uncertain about breakfast
in the morning, and I will say, 'Pooh! your talk about art was after
all nothing but talk; you are a sham!'"

Marsh's leg began to ache. He rose and moved about the room.
Madeline at length turned her eyes to him; he was brooding
genuinely, and not for effect. Her glance discerned this.

"Well, and what _are_ you going to do, ill fact?" she asked.

"I'm hanged if I know, Mad; and there's the truth."

He turned and regarded her with wide eyes, seriously perceptive of a
blank horizon.

"I've asked him to let me have half the money, but he refuses even
that. His object is, of course, to compel me into the life of a
Philistine. I believe the fellow thinks it's kindness; I know my
mother does. She, of course, has as little faith in me as you have."

Madeline did not resent this. She regarded the floor for a minute,
and, without raising her eyes, said:

"Come here, Clifford."

He approached. Still without raising her eyes, she again spoke.

"Do you believe in yourself?"

The words were impressive. Marsh gave a start, uttered an impatient
sound, and half turned away.

"Do you believe in yourself, Clifford?"

"Of course I do!" came from him blusterously.

"Very well. In that case, struggle on. If you care for the kind of
help you once said I could give you. I will try to give it still.
Paint something that will sell, and go on with the other work at the
same time."

"Something that will sell!" he exclaimed, with disgust. "I can't, so
there's an end of it."

"And an end of your artist life, it seems to me. Unless you have any
other plan?"

"I wondered whether you could suggest any."

Madeline shook her head slowly. They both brooded in a cheerless
way. When the girl again spoke, it was in an undertone, as if not
quite sure that she wished to be heard.

"I had rather you were an artist than anything else, Clifford."

Marsh decided not to hear. He thrust his hands deeper into his
pockets, and trod about the floor heavily. Madeline made another
remark.

"I suppose the kind of work that is proposed for you would leave you
no time for art?"

"Pooh! of course not. Who was ever Philistine and artist at the same
time?"

"Well, it's a bad job. I wish I could help you. I wish I had money.

"If you had, _I_ shouldn't benefit by it," was the exasperated
reply.

"Will you please to do what you were going to do at first, and tell
Barbara I wish to speak to her?"

"Yes, I will."

His temper grew worse. In his weakness he really had thought it
likely that Madeline would suggest something hopeful. Men of his
stamp constantly entertain unreasonable expectations, and are angry
when the unreason is forced upon their consciousness.

"One word before you go, please," said Madeline, standing up and
speaking with emphasis. "After what you said just now, this is, of
course, our last interview of this kind. When we meet again--and I
think it would be gentlemanly in you to go and live somewhere
else--you are Mr. Marsh, and I, if you please, am Miss Denyer."

"I will bear it in mind."

"Thank you." He still lingered near the door. "Be good enough to
leave me."

He made an effort and left the room. When the door had closed,
Madeline heaved a deep sigh, and was for some minutes in a brown, if
not a black, study. Then she shivered a little, sighed again, and
again took up the volume she had been reading. It was Daudet's "Les
Femmes d'Artistes."

Not long after, all the Denyers were reunited in their sitting-room.
Mrs. Denyer had brought up an open letter.

"From your father again," she said, addressing the girls conjointly.
"I am sure he wears me out. This is worse than the last. 'The fact
of the matter is, I must warn you very seriously that I can't supply
you with as much as I have been doing. I repeat that I am serious
this time. It's a horrible bore, and a good deal worse than a bore.
If I could keep your remittances the same by doing on less myself, I
would, but there's no possibility of that. I shall be in Alexandria
in ten days, and perhaps Colossi will have some money for me, but I
can't count on it. Things have gone deuced badly, and are likely to
go even worse, as far as I can see. Do think about getting less
expensive quarters. I wish to heaven poor little Mad could get
married! Hasn't Marsh any prospects yet?'"

"That's all at an end," remarked Madeline, interrupting. "We've just
come to an understanding."

Mrs. Denyer stared.

"You've broken off?"

"Mr. Marsh's allowance is to be stopped. His prospects are worse
than ever. What's the good of keeping up our engagement?"

There was a confused colloquy between all four. Barbara shrugged her
fair shoulders; Zillah looked very gravely and pitifully at
Madeline. Madeline herself seemed the least concerned.

"I won't have this!" cried Mrs. Denyer, finally. "His step-father is
willing to give him a position in business, and he must accept it;
then the marriage can be soon."

"The marriage will decidedly _not_ be soon, mother!" replied
Madeline, haughtily. "I shall judge for myself in this, at all
events."

"You are a silly, empty-headed girl!" retorted her mother, with
swelling bosom and reddening face. "You have quarrelled on some
simpleton's question, no doubt. He will accept his step-father's
offer; we know that well enough. He ought to have done so a year
ago, and our difficulties would have been lightened. Your father
means what he says?"

"Wolf!" cried Barbara, petulantly.

"Well, I can see that the wolf has come at last, in good earnest. My
girl, you'll have to become more serious Barbara, _you_ at all
events, cannot afford to trifle."

"I am no trifler!" cried the enthusiast for Italian unity and
regeneracy.

"Let us have proof of that, then." Mrs. Denyer looked at her
meaningly.

"Mother," said Zillah, earnestly, "do let me write to Mrs.
Stonehouse, and beg her to find me a place as nursery governess. I
can manage that, I feel sure."

"I'll think about it, dear. But, Madeline, I insist on your putting
an end to this ridiculous state of things. You will _order_ him to
take the position offered."

"Mother, I can do nothing of the kind. if necessary, I'll go for a
governess as well."

Thereupon Zillah wept, protesting that such desecration was
impossible. The scene prolonged itself to midnight. On the morrow,
with the exception of Mrs. Denyer's resolve to subdue Marsh, all was
forgotten, and the Denyer family pursued their old course, putting
off decided action until there should come another cry of "Wolf!"





CHAPTER IV

MIRIAM'S BROTHER




But for the aid of his wife's more sympathetic insight, Edward
Spence would have continued to interpret Miriam's cheerless frame of
mind as a mere result of impatience at being removed from the
familiar scenes of her religious activity, and of disquietude amid
uncongenial surroundings. "A Puritan at Naples"--that was the
phrase which represented her to his imagination; his liking for the
picturesque and suggestive led him to regard her solely in that
light. No strain of modern humanitarianism complicated Miriam's
character. One had not to take into account a possible melancholy
produced by the contrast between her life of ease in the South, and
the squalor of laborious multitudes under a sky of mill-smoke and
English fog. Of the new philanthropy she spoke, if at all, with
angry scorn, holding it to be based on rationalism, radicalism,
positivism, or whatsoever name embodied the conflict between the
children of this world and the children of light. Far from Miriam
any desire to abolish the misery which was among the divinely
appointed conditions of this preliminary existence. No; she was
uncomfortable, and content that others should be so, for
discomfort's sake. It fretted her that the Sunday in Naples could
not be as universally dolorous as it was at Bartles. It revolted her
to hear happy voices in a country abandoned to heathendom.

"Whenever I see her looking at old Vesuvius," said Spence to
Eleanor, his eye twinkling, "I feel sure that she muses on the
possibility of another tremendous outbreak. She regards him in a
friendly way; he is the minister of vengeance."

Eleanor's discernment was not long in bringing her to a modification
of this estimate.

"I am convinced, Ned, that her thoughts are not so constantly at
Bartles as we imagine. In any case, I begin to understand what she
suffers from most. It is want of occupation for her mind. She is
crushed with _ennui_."

"This is irreverence. As well attribute _ennui_ to the Prophet
Jeremiah meditating woes to come."

"I allow you your joke, but I am right for all that. She has nothing
to think about that profoundly interests her; her books are all but
as sapless to her as to you or me. She is sinking into melancholia."

"But, my dear girl, the chapel!"

"She only pretends to think of it. Miriam is becoming a hypocrite I
have noted several little signs of it since Cecily came. She
poses--and in wretchedness. Please to recollect that her age is
four-and-twenty."

"I do so frequently, and marvel at human nature."

"I do so, and without marvelling at all, for I see human nature
justifying itself. I'll tell you what I am going to do, I shall
propose to her to begin and read Dante."

"The 'Inferno.' Why, yes."

"And I shall craftily introduce to her attention one or two wicked
and worldly little books, such as, 'The Improvisatore,' and the
'Golden Treasury,' and so on. Any such attempts at first would have
been premature; but I think the time has come."

Miriam knew no language but her own, and Eleanor by no means
purposed inviting her to a course of grammar and exercise. She
herself, with her husband's assistance, had learned to read Italian
in the only rational way for mature-minded persons--simply taking
the text and a close translation, and glancing from time to time at
a skeleton accidence. This, of course, will not do in the case of
fools, but Miriam Baske, all appearances notwithstanding, did not
belong to that category. On hearing her cousin's proposition, she at
first smiled coldly; but she did not reject it, and in a day or two
they had made a fair beginning of the 'Inferno.' Such a beginning,
indeed, as surprised Eleanor, who was not yet made aware that Miriam
worked at the book in private with feverish energy--drank at the
fountain like one perishing of thirst. Andersen's exquisite story
was not so readily accepted, yet this too before long showed a
book-marker. And Miriam's countenance brightened; she could not
conceal this effect. Her step was a little lighter, and her speech
became more natural.

A relapse was to be expected; it came at the bidding of sirocco. One
morning the heavens lowered, grey, rolling; it might have been
England. Vesuvius, heavily laden at first with a cloud like that on
Olympus when the gods are wrathful, by degrees passed from vision,
withdrew its form into recesses of dun mists. The angry blue of
Capri faded upon a troubled blending of sea and sky; everywhere the
horizon contracted and grew mournful; rain began to fall.

Miriam sank as the heavens darkened. The strength of which she had
lately been conscious forsook her; all her body was oppressed with
languor, her mind miserably void. No book made appeal to her, and
the sight of those which she had bought from home was intolerable.
She lay upon a couch, her limbs torpid, burdensome. Eleanor's
company was worse than useless.

"Please leave me alone," she said at length. "The sound of your
voice irritates inc."

An hour went by, and no one disturbed her mood. Her languor was on
the confines of sleep, when a knock at the door caused her to stir
impatiently and half raise herself. It was her maid who entered,
holding a note.

"A gentleman has called, ma'am. He wished me to give you this."

Miriam glanced at the address, and at once stood up, only her pale
face witnessing the lack of energy of a moment ago.

"Is he waiting?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The note was of two or three lines:--"Will you let me see you? Of
course I mean alone. It's a long time since we saw each other.--R.
E."

"I will see him in this room."

The footstep of the maid as she came back along the tiled corridor
was accompanied by one much heavier. Miriam kept her eyes turned to
the door; her look was of pained expectancy and of sternness. She
stood close by the window, as if purposely drawing as far away as
possible. The visitor was introduced, and the door closed behind
him.

He too, stood still, as far from Miriam as might be. His age seemed
to be seven- or eight-and-twenty, and the cast of his features so
strongly resembled Miriam's that there was no doubt of his being her
brother. Yet he had more beauty as a man than she as a woman. Her
traits were in him developed so as to lose severity and attain a
kind of vigour, which at first sight promised a rich and generous
nature; his excellent forehead and dark imaginative eyes indicated a
mind anything but likely to bear the trammels in which Miriam had
grown up. In the attitude with which he waited for his sister to
speak there was both pride and shame; his look fell before hers, but
the constrained smile on his lips was one of self-esteem at issue
with adversity. He wore the dress of a gentleman, but it was
disorderly. His light overcoat hung unbuttoned, and in his hand he
crushed together a bat of soft felt.

"Why have you come to see me, Reuben?" Miriam asked at length,
speaking with difficulty and in an offended Lone.

"Why shouldn't I, Miriam?" he returned quietly, stepping nearer to
her. "Till a few days ago I knew nothing of the illness you have
had, or I should, at all events, have written. When I heard you had
come to Naples, I--well, I followed. I might as well be here as
anywhere else, and I felt a wish to see you."

"Why should you wish to see me? What does it matter to you whether I
am well or ill?"

"Yes, it matters, though of course you find it hard to believe."

"Very, when I remember the words with which you last parted from me.
If I was hateful to you then, how am I less so now?"

"A man in anger, and especially one of my nature, often says more
than he means. It was never _you_ that were hateful to me, though
your beliefs and your circumstances might madden me into saying such
a thing."

"My beliefs, as I told you then, are a part of myself--_are_
myself."

She said it with irritable insistence--an accent which would
doubtless have been significant in the ears of Eleanor Spence.

"I don't wish to speak of that. Have you recovered your health,
Miriam?"

"I am better."

He came nearer again, throwing his hat aside.

"Will you let me sit down? I've had a long journey in third-class,
and I feel tired. Such weather as this doesn't help to make me
cheerful. I imagined Naples with a rather different sky."

Miriam motioned towards a chair, and looked drearily from the window
at the dreary sea. Neither spoke again for two or three minutes.
Reuben Elgar surveyed the room, but inattentively.

"What is it you want of me?" Miriam asked, facing him abruptly.

"Want? You hint that I have come to ask you for money?"

"I shouldn't have thought it impossible. If you were in need--you
spoke of a third-class journey--I am, at all events, the natural
person for your thoughts to turn to."

Reuben laughed dispiritedly.

"No, no, Miriam; I haven't quite got to that. You are the very last
person I should think of in such a case."

"Why?"

"Simply because I am not quite so contemptible as you think me. I
don't quarrel with my sister, and come back after some years to make
it up just because I want to make a demand on her purse."

"You haven't accustomed me to credit you with high motives, Reuben."

"No. And I have never succeeded in making you understand me. I
suppose it's hopeless that you ever will. We are too different. You
regard me as a vulgar reprobate, who by some odd freak of nature
happens to be akin to you. I can picture so well what your
imagination makes of me. All the instances of debauchery and general
blackguardism that the commerce of life has forced upon your
knowledge go towards completing the ideal. It's a pity. I have
always felt that you and I might have been a great deal to each
other if you had had a reasonable education. I remember you as a
child rebelling against the idiocies of your training, before your
brain and soul had utterly yielded; then you were my sister, and
even then, if it had been possible, I would have dragged you away
and saved you."

"I thank Heaven," said Miriam, "that my childhood was in other hands
than yours!"

"Yes; and it is very bitter to me to hear you say so."

Miriam kept silence, but looked at him less disdain fully.

"I suppose," he said, "the people you are staying with have much the
same horror of my name as you have."

"You speak as loosely as you think. The Spences can scarcely respect
you."

"You purpose remaining with them all the winter?"

"It is quite uncertain. With what intentions have you come here? Do
you wish me to speak of you to the Spences or not?"

He still kept looking about the room. Perhaps upon him too the
baleful southern wind was exercising its influence, for he sat
listlessly when he was not speaking, and had a weary look.

"You may speak of me or not, as you like. I don't see that
anything's to be gained by my meeting them; but I'll do just as you
please."

"You mean to stay in Naples?"

"A short time. I've never been here before, and, as I said, I may as
well be here as anywhere else."

"When did you last see Mr. Mallard?"

"Mallard? Why, what makes you speak of him?"

"You made his acquaintance, I think, not long after you last saw
me."

"Ha! I understand. That was why he sought me out. You and your
friends sent him to me as a companion likely to 'do me good.'"

"I knew nothing of Mr. Mallard then--nothing personally. But be
doesn't seem to be the kind of man whose interest you would resent."

"Then you know him?" Reuben asked, in a tone of some pleasure.

"He is in Naples at present."

"I'm delighted to hear it. Mallard is an excellent fellow, in his
own way, Somehow I've lost sight of him for a long time. He's
painting here, I suppose? Where can I find him?"

"I don't know his address, but I can at once get it for you. You are
sure that he will welcome you?"

"Why not? Have you spoken to him about me?"

"No," Miriam replied distantly.

"Why shouldn't he welcome me, then? We were very good friends. Do
you attribute to him such judgments as your own?"

His way of speaking was subject to abrupt changes. When, as in this
instance, he broke forth impulsively, there was a corresponding
gleam in his fine eyes and a nervous tension in all his frame. His
voice had an extraordinary power of conveying scornful passion; at
such moments he seemed to reveal a profound and strong nature.

"I am very slightly acquainted with Mr. Mallard," Miriam answered,
with the cold austerity which was the counterpart in her of Reuben's
fiery impulsiveness, "but I understand that he is considered
trustworthy and honourable by people of like character."

Elgar rose from his chair, and in doing so all but flung it down.

"Trustworthy and honourable! Why, so is many a greengrocer. How the
artist would be flattered to hear this estimate of his personality!
The honourable Mallard! I must tell him that."

"You will not dare to repeat words from my lips!" exclaimed Miriam,
sternly. "You have sunk lower even than I thought."

"What limit, then, did you put to my debasement? In what direction
had I still a scrap of trustworthiness and honour left?"

"Tell me that yourself, instead of talking to no purpose in this
frenzied way. Why do you come here, if you only wish to renew our
old differences?"

"You were the first to do so."

"Can I pretend to be friendly with you, Reuben? What word of
penitence have you spoken? In what have you amended yourself? Is not
every other sentence you speak a defence of yourself and scorn upon
me?"

"And what right have you to judge me? Of course I defend myself, and
as scornfully as you like, when I am despised and condemned by one
who knows as little of me as the first stranger I pass on the road.
Cannot you come forward with a face like a sister's, and leave my
faults for my own conscience? _You_ judge me! What do you, with your
nun's experiences, your heart chilled, your paltry view of the world
through a chapel window, know of a man whose passions boil in him
like the fire in yonder mountain? I should subdue my passions.
Excellent text for a copy book in a girls' school! I should be
another man than I am; I should remould myself; I should cool my
brain with doctrine. With a bullet, if you like; say that, and you
will tell the truth. But with the truth you have nothing to do; too
long ago you were taught that you must never face that. Do you deal
as truthfully with yourself as I with my own heart? I wonder, I
wonder."

Miriam's eyes had fallen. She stood quite motionless, with a face of
suffering.

"You want me to confess my sins?" Reuben continued, walking about in
uncontrollable excitement. "What is your chapel formula? Find one
comprehensive enough, and let me repeat it after you; only mind that
it includes hypocrisy, for the sake of the confession. I tell you I
am conscious of no sins. Of follies, of ignorances, of miseries--
as many as you please. And to what account should they all go? Was I
so admirably guided in childhood and boyhood that my subsequent life
is not to be explained? It succeeded in your case, my poor sister.
Oh, nobly! Don't be afraid that I shall outrage you by saying all I
think. But just think of _me_ as a result of Jewish education
applied to an English lad, and one whose temperament was plain
enough to eyes of ordinary penetration. My very name! Your name,
too! You it has made a Jew in soul; upon me it weighs like a curse
as often as I think of it. It symbolizes all that is making my life
a brutal failure--a failure--a failure!"

He threw himself upon the couch and became silent, his strength at
an end, even his countenance exhausted of vitality, looking haggard
and almost ignoble. Miriam stirred at length, for the first time,
and gazed steadily at him.

"Reuben, let us have an end of this," she said, in a voice half
choked. "Stay or go as you will; but I shall utter no more
reproaches. You must make of your life what you can. As you say, I
don't understand you. Perhaps the mere fact of my being a woman is
enough to make that impossible. Only don't throw your scorn at me
for believing what you can't believe. Talk quietly; avoid those
subjects; tell me, if you wish to, what you are doing or think of
doing."

"You should have spoken like this earlier, Miriam. It would have
spared my memory its most wretched burden."

"How?"

"You know quite well that I valued your affection, and that it had
no little importance in my life. Instead of still having my sister,
I had only the memory of her anger and injustice, and of my own
cursed temper."

"I had no influence for good."

"Perhaps not in the common sense of the words. I am not going to
talk humbug about a woman's power to make a man angelic; that will
do for third-rate novels and plays. But I shouldn't have thrown
myself away as I have done if you had cared to know what I was
doing."

"Did I not care, Reuben?"

"If so, you thought it was your duty not to show it. You thought
harshness was the only proper treatment for a case such as mine. I
had had too much of that."

"What did you mean just now by speaking as though you were poor?"

"I have been poor for a long time--poor compared with what I was.
Most of my money has gone--on the fool's way. I haven't come here
to lament over it. It's one of my rules never, if I can help it, to
think of the past. What has been, has been; and what will be, will
be. When I fume and rage like an idiot, that's only the blood in me
getting the better of the brain; an example of the fault that always
wrecks me. Do you think I cannot see myself? Just now, I couldn't
keep back the insensate words--insensate because useless--but I
judged myself all the time as distinctly as I do now it's over."

"Your money gone, Reuben?" murmured his sister, in consternation.

"You might have foreseen that. Come and sit down by me, Miriam. I am
tired and wretched. Where is the sun? Surely one may have sunshine
at Naples!"

He was now idly fretful. Miriam seated herself at his side, and he
took her hand.

"I thought you might perhaps receive me like this at first. I came
only with that hope. I wish you looked better, Miriam. How do you
employ yourself here?"

"I am much out of doors. I get stronger."

"You spoke of old Mallard. I'm glad he is here, really glad. You
know, Mallard's a fellow of no slight account; I should think you
might even like him."

"But yourself, Reuben?"

"No, no; let me rest a little. I'm sick and tired of myself. Let's
talk of old Mallard. And what's become of little Cecily Doran?"

"She is here--with her aunt."

"She here too! By Jove! Well, of course, I shall have nothing to do
with them. Mallard still acting as her guardian, I suppose. Rather a
joke, that. I never could get him to speak on the subject. But I
feel glad you know him. He's a solid fellow, tremendously
conscientious; just the things you would like in a man, no doubt.
Have you seen any of his paintings?"

Miriam shook her head absently, unable to find voice for the topic,
which was remote from her thoughts.

"He's done fine things, great things. I shall look him up, and we'll
drink a bottle of wine together."

He kept stroking Miriam's hand, a white hand with blue veins--a
strong hand, though so delicately fashioned. The touch of the
wedding-ring again gave a new direction to his discursive thoughts.

"After this, shall you go back to that horrible hole in Lancashire?"

"I hope to go back home, certainly."

"Home, home!" he muttered, impatiently. "It has made you ill, poor
girl. Stay in Italy a long time, now you are once here. For you to
he here at all seems a miracle; it gives me hopes."

Miriam did not resent this, in word at all events. She was
submitting again to physical oppression; her head drooped, and her
abstracted gaze was veiled with despondent lassitude. Reuben talked
idly, in loose sentences.

"Do you think of me as old or young, Miriam?" he asked, when both
had kept silence for a while.

"I no longer think of you as older than myself."

"That is natural. I imagined that. In one way I am old enough, but
in another I am only just beginning my life, and have all my
energies fresh. I shall do something yet; can you believe it?"

"Do what?" she asked, wearily.

"Oh, I have plans; all sorts of plans."

He joined his hands together behind his head, and began to stir with
a revival of mental energy.

"But plans of what sort?"

"There is only one direction open to me. My law has of course gone
to--to limbo; it was always an absurdity. Most of my money has
gone the same way, and I'm not sorry for it. If I had never had
anything, I should have set desperately to work long ago. Now I am
bound to work, and you will see the results. Of course, in our days,
there's only one road for a man like me. I shall go in for
literature."

Miriam listened, but made no comment.

"My life hitherto has not been wasted," Elgar pursued, leaning
forward with a new light on his countenance. "I have been gaining
experience. Do you understand? Few men at my age have seen more of
life--the kind of life that is useful as literary material. It's
only quite of late that I have begun to appreciate this, to see all
the possibilities that are in myself. It has taken all this time to
outgrow the miserable misdirection of my boyhood, and to become a
man of my time. Thank the fates, I no longer live in the Pentateuch,
but at the latter end of the nineteenth century. Many a lad has to
work this deliverance for himself nowadays. I don't wish to speak
unkindly any more, Miriam, but I must tell you plain facts. Some
fellows free themselves by dint of hard study. In my case that was
made impossible by all sorts of reasons--temperament mainly, as
you know. I was always a rebel against my fetters; I had not to
learn that liberty was desirable, but how to obtain it, and what use
to make of it. All the disorder through which I have gone was a
struggle towards self-knowledge and understanding of my time. You
and others are wildly in error in calling it dissipation,
profligacy, recklessness, and so on. You at least, Miriam, ought to
have judged me more truly; you, at all events, should not have
classed me with common men."

His eyes were now agleam, and the beauty of his countenance fully
manifest. He held his head in a pose of superb confidence. There was
too much real force in his features to make this seem a
demonstration of idle vanity. Miriam regarded him, and continued to
do so.

"To be sure, my powers are in your eyes valueless," he pursued; "or
rather, your eyes have never been opened to anything of the kind.
The nineteenth century is nothing to you; its special opportunities
and demands and characteristics would revolt you if they were made
clear to your intelligence. If I tell you I am before everything a
man of my time, I suppose this seems only a cynical confession of
all the weaknesses and crimes you have already attributed to me? It
shall not always be so! Why, what are you, after all, Miriam?
Twenty-three, twenty-four--which is it? Why, you are a child
still; your time of education is before you. You are a child come to
Italy to learn what can be made of life!"

She averted her face, but smiled, and not quite so coldly as of
wont. She could not but think of Cecily, whose words a few days ago
had been in spirit so like these, so like them in the ring of
enthusiasm.

"Some day," Elgar went on, exalting himself more and more, "you
shall wonder in looking back on this scene between us--wonder how
you could have been so harsh to me. It is impossible that you and I,
sole brother and sister, should move on constantly diverging paths.
Tell me--you are not really without some kind of faith in my
abilities?"

"You know it has always been my grief that you put the in to no
use."

"Very well. But it remains for you to learn what my powers really
are, and to bring yourself to sympathize with my direction. You are
a child--there is my hope. You shall be taught--yes, yes! Your
obstinacy shall be overcome; you shall be made to see your own
good!"

"And who is to be so kind as to take charge of my education?" Miriam
asked, without looking at him, in an idly contemptuous tone.

"Why not old Mallard?" cried Reuben, breaking suddenly into jest.
"The tutorship of children is in his line."

Miriam showed herself offended.

"Please don't speak of me. I am willing to hear what you purpose for
yourself, but don't mix my name with it."

Elgar resumed the tone of ambition. Whether he had in truth definite
literary schemes could not be gathered from the rhetoric on which he
was borne. His main conviction seemed to be that he embodied the
spirit of his time, and would ere long achieve a work of notable
significance, the fruit of all his experiences. Miriam, though with
no sign of strong interest, gave him her full attention.

"Do you intend to work here?" she asked at length.

"I can't say. At present I am anything but well, and I shall get
what benefit I can from Naples first of all. I suppose the sun will
shine again before long? This sky is depressing."

He stood up, and went to the windows; then came back with uncertain
step.

"You'll tell the Spences I've been?"

"I think I had better. They will know, of course, that I have had a
visitor."

"Should I see them?" he asked, with hesitation.

"Just as you please."

"I shall have to, sooner or later. Why not now?"

Miriam pondered.

"I'll go and see if they are at leisure."

During her absence, Elgar examined the books on the table. He turned
over each one with angry mutterings. The chapel plans were no longer
lying about; only yesterday Miriam had rolled them up and put them
away--temporarily. Before the "St. Cecilia" he stood in thoughtful
observation, and was still there when Miriam returned. She had a
look of uneasiness.

"Miss Doran and her aunt are with Mrs. Spence, Reuben."

"Oh, in that case--" he began carelessly, with a wave of the arm.

"But they will be glad to see you."

"Indeed? I look rather seedy, I'm afraid."

"Take off your overcoat."

"I'm all grimy. I came here straight from the railway."

"Then go into my bedroom and make yourself presentable."

A few moments sufficed for this. As she waited for his return,
Miriam stood with knitted brows, her eyes fixed on the floor. Reuben
reappeared, and she examined him.

"You're bitterly ashamed of me, Miriam."

She made no reply, and at once led the way along the corridor.

Mrs. Spence had met Reuben in London, since her marriage; by
invitation he came to her house, but neglected to repeat the visit.
To Mrs. Lessingham he was personally a stranger. But neither of
these ladies received the honour of much attention from him for the
first few moments after he had entered the room; his eyes and
thoughts were occupied with the wholly unexpected figure of Cecily
Doran. In his recollection, she was a slight, pale, shy little girl,
fond of keeping in corners with a book, and seemingly marked out for
a life of dissenting piety and provincial surroundings. She had
interested him little in those days, and seldom did anything to
bring herself under his notice. He last saw her when she was about
twelve. Now he found himself in the presence of a beautiful woman,
every line of whose countenance told of instruction, thought,
spirit; whose bearing was refined beyond anything he had yet
understood by that word; whose modest revival of old acquaintance
made his hand thrill at her touch, and his heart beat confusedly as
he looked into her eyes. With difficulty he constrained himself to
common social necessities, and made show of conversing with the
elder ladies. He wished to gaze steadily at the girl's face, and
connect past with present; to revive his memory of six years ago,
and convince himself that such development was possible. At the same
time he became aware of a reciprocal curiosity in Cecily. When he
turned towards her she met his glance, and when he spoke she gave
him a smile of pleased attentiveness. The consequence was that he
soon began to speak freely, to pick his words, no balance his
sentences and shun the commonplace.

"I saw Florence and Rome in '76," he replied to a question from Mrs.
Lessingham. "In Rome my travelling companion fell ill, and we
returned without coming further south. It is wrong, however, to say
that I _saw_ anything; my mind was in far too crude a state to
direct my eyes to any purpose. I stared about me a good deal, and
got some notions of topography, and there the matter ended for the
time."

"The benefit came with subsequent reflection, no doubt," said Mrs.
Lessingham, who found one of her greatest pleasures in listening to
the talk of young men with brains. Whenever it was possible, she
gathered such individuals about her and encouraged them to discourse
of themselves, generally quite as much to their satisfaction as to
her own. Already she had invited with some success the confidence of
Mr. Clifford Marsh, who proved interesting, but not unfathomable; he
belonged to a class with which she was tolerably familiar. Reuben
Elgar, she perceived at once, was not without characteristics
linking him to that same group of the new generation, but it seemed
probable that its confines were too narrow for him. There was
comparatively little affectation in his manner, and none in his
aspect; his voice rang with a sincerity which claimed serious
audience, and his eyes had something more than surface gleamings.
Possibly he belonged to the unclassed and the unclassable, in which
case the interest attaching to him was of the highest kind.

"Subsequent reflection," returned Elgar, "has, at all events,
enabled me to see myself as I then was; and I suppose self-knowledge
is the best result of travel."

"If one agrees that self-knowledge is ever a good at all," said the
speculative lady, with her impartial smile.

"To be sure." Elgar looked keenly at her, probing the significance
of the remark. "The happy human being will make each stage of his
journey a phase of more or less sensual enjoyment, delightful at the
time and valuable in memory. The excursion will be his life in
little. I envy him, but I can't imitate him."

"Why envy him?" asked Eleanor.

"Because he is happy; surely a sufficient ground."

"Yet you give the preference to self-knowledge."

"Yes, I do. Because in that direction my own nature tends to develop
itself. But I envy every lower thing in creation. I won't pretend to
say how it is with other people who are forced along an upward path;
in my own case every step is made with a groan, and why shouldn't I
confess it?"

"To do so enhances the merit of progress," observed Mrs. Lessingham,
mischievously.

"Merit? I know nothing of merit. I spoke of myself being _forced_
upwards. If ever I feel that I am slipping back, I shall state it
with just as little admission of shame."

Miriam heard this modern dialogue with grave features. At Bartles,
such talk would have qualified the talker for social
excommunication, and every other pain and penalty Bartles had in its
power to inflict. She observed that Cecily's interest increased. The
girl listened frankly; no sense of anything improper appeared in her
visage. Nay, she was about to interpose a remark.

"Isn't there a hope, Mr. Elgar, that this envy of which you speak
will be one of the things that the upward path leaves behind?"

"I should like to believe it, Miss Doran," he answered, his eyes
kindling at hers. "It's true that I haven't yet gone very far."

"I like so much to believe it that I _do_ believe it," the girl
continued impulsively.

"Your progress in that direction exceeds mine."

"Don't be troubled by the compliment," interjected Eleanor, before
Cecily could speak. "There is no question of merit."

Mrs. Lessingham laughed.

The rain still fell, and the grey heavens showed no breaking.
Shortly after this, Elgar would have risen to take his leave, but
Mrs. Spence begged him to remain and lunch with them. The visitors
from the Mergellina declined a similar invitation.

Edward Spence was passing his morning at the Museum. On his return
at luncheon-time, Eleanor met him with the intelligence that Reuben
Elgar had presented himself, and was now in his sister's room.

"_In forma pauperis_, presumably," said Spence, raising his
eyebrows.

"I can't say, but I fear it isn't impossible. Cecily and her aunt
happened to call this morning, and he had some talk with them."

"Is he very much of a blackguard?" inquired her husband,
disinterestedly.

"Indeed, no. That is to say, externally and in his conversation.
It's a decided improvement on our old impressions of him."

"I'm glad to hear it," was the dry response.

"He has formed himself in some degree. Hints that he is going to
produce literature."

"Of course." Spence laughed merrily. "The last refuge of a
scoundrel."

"I don't like to judge him so harshly, Ned. He has a fine face."

"And is Miriam killing the fatted calf?"

"His arrival seems to embarrass rather than delight her."

"Depend upon it, the fellow has come to propose a convenient
division of her personal property."

When he again appeared, Elgar was in excellent spirits. He met
Spence with irresistible frankness and courtesy; his talk made the
luncheon cheery, and dismissed thought of sirocco. It appeared that
he had as yet no abode; his luggage was at the station. A suggestion
that he should seek quarters under the same roof with Mallard
recommended itself to him.

"I feel like a giant refreshed," he declared, in privately taking
leave of Miriam. "Coming to Naples was an inspiration."

She raised her lips to his for the first time, but said nothing.





CHAPTER V

THE ARTIST ASTRAY




From the Strada di Chiaia, the narrow street winding between immense
houses, all day long congested with the merry tumult of Neapolitan
traffic, where herds of goats and much cows placidly make their way
among vehicles of every possible and impossible description; where
_cocchieri_ crack their whips and belabour their hapless cattle, and
yell their "Ah--h--h! Ah--h--h!"--where teams of horse,
ox, and ass, the three abreast, drag piles of country produce,
jingling their fantastic harness, and primitive carts laden with
red-soaked wine-casks rattle recklessly along; where bare-footed,
girdled, and tonsured monks plod on their no-business, and every
third man one passes is a rotund ecclesiastic, who never in his life
walked at more than a mile an hour; where, at evening, carriages
returning from the Villa Nazionale cram the thoroughfare from side
to side, and make one aware, if one did not previously know it, that
parts of the street have no pedestrians' pavement;--from the
Strada di Chiaia (now doomed, alas! by the exigencies of _lo
sventramento_ and _il risanamento_) turn into the public staircase
and climb through the dusk, with all possible attention to where you
set your foot, past the unmelodious beggars, to the Ponte di Chiaia,
bridge which spans the roadway and looks down upon its crowd and
clamour as into a profound valley; thence proceed uphill on the lava
paving, between fruit-shops and sausage-shops and wine-shops, always
in an atmosphere of fried oil and roasted chestnuts and baked
pine-cones; and presently turn left into a still narrower street,
with tailors and boot-makers and smiths all at work in the open air;
and pass through the Piazzetta Mondragone, and turn again to the
left, but this time downhill; then lose yourself amid filthy little
alleys, where the scent of oil and chestnuts and pine-cones is
stronger than ever; then emerge on a little terrace where there is a
noble view of the bay and of Capri; then turn abruptly between walls
overhung with fig-trees and orange-trees and lemon-trees,--and you
will reach Casa Rolandi.

It is an enormous house, with a great arched entrance admitting to
the inner court, where on the wall is a Madonna's shrine,
lamp-illumined of evenings. A great staircase leads up from floor to
floor. On each story are two tenements, the doors facing each other.
In 1878, one of the apartments at the very top--an ascent equal to
that of a moderate mountain--was in the possession of a certain
Signora Bassano, whose name might be read on a brass plate. This
lady had furnished rooms to let, and here it was that Ross Mallard
established himself for the few days that he proposed to spend at
Naples.

Already he had lingered till the few days were become more than a
fortnight, and still the day of his departure was undetermined. This
was most unwonted waste of time, not easily accounted for by Mallard
himself. A morning of sunny splendour, coming after much cloudiness
and a good deal of rain, plucked him early out of bed, strong in the
resolve that to-morrow should see him on the road to Amalfi. He had
slept well--an exception in the past week--and his mind was open
to the influences of sunlight and reason. Before going forth for
breakfast he had a letter to write, a brief account of himself
addressed to the murky little town of Sowerby Bridge, in Yorkshire.
This finished, he threw open the big windows, stepped out on to the
balcony, and drank deep draughts of air from the sea. In the street
below was passing a flock of she-goats, all ready to be milked, each
with a bell tinkling about her neck. The goat-herd kept summoning
his customers with a long musical whistle. Mallard leaned over and
watched the clean-fleeced, slender, graceful animals with a smile of
pleasure. Then he amused himself with something that was going on in
the house opposite. A woman came out on to a balcony high up, bent
over it, and called, "Annina! Annina!" until the call brought
another woman on to the balcony immediately below; whereupon the
former let down a cord, and her friend, catching the end of it, made
it fast to a basket which contained food covered with a cloth. The
basket was drawn up, the women gossiped and laughed for a while in
pleasant voices, then they disappeared. All around, the familiar
Neapolitan clamour was beginning. Church bells were ringing as they
ring at Naples--a great crash, followed by a rapid succession of
quivering little shakes, then the crash again. Hawkers were crying
fruit and vegetables and fish in rhythmic cadence; a donkey was
braying obstreperously.

Mallard had just taken a light overcoat on his arm, and was ready to
set out, when some one knocked. He turned the key in the door, and
admitted Reuben Elgar.

"I'm off to Pompeii," said Elgar, vivaciously.

"All right. You'll go to the 'Sole'? I shall be there myself
to-morrow evening."

"I'm right to stay several days, so we shall have more talk."

They left the house together, and presently parted with renewed
assurance of meeting again on the morrow.

Mallard went his way thoughtfully, the smile quickly passing from
his face. At a little _caffe_, known to him of old, he made a simple
breakfast, glancing the while over a morning newspaper, and watching
the children who came to fetch their _due soldi_ of coffee in tiny
tins. Then he strolled away and supplemented his meal with a fine
bunch of grapes, bought for a penny at a stall that glowed and was
fragrant with piles of fruit. Heedless of the carriage-drivers who
shouted at him and even dogged him along street after street, he
sauntered in the broad sunshine, plucking his grapes and relishing
them. Coming out by the sea-shore, he stood for a while to watch the
fishermen dragging in their nets--picturesque fellows with swarthy
faces and suntanned legs of admirable outline, hauling slowly in
files at interminable rope, which boys coiled lazily as it came in;
or the oyster-dredgers, poised on the side of their boats over the
blue water. At the foot of the sea-wall tumbled the tideless
breakers; their drowsy music counselled enjoyment of the hour and
carelessness of what might come hereafter.

With no definite purpose, he walked on and on, for the most part
absorbed in thought. He passed through the long _grotta_ of
Posillipo, gloomy, chilly, and dank; then out again into the
sunshine, and along the road to Bagnoli. On walls and stone-heaps
the little lizards darted about, innumerable; in vineyards men were
at work dismantling the vine-props, often singing at their task.
From Bagnoli, still walking merely that a movement of his limbs
might accompany his busy thoughts, he went along by the seashore,
and so at length, still long before midday, had come to Pozzuoli. A
sharp conflict with the swarm of guides who beset the entrance to
the town, and again he escaped into quietness, wandered among narrow
streets, between blue, red, and yellow houses, stopping at times to
look at some sunny upper window hung about with clusters of _sorbe_
and _pomidori_. By this time he had won appetite for a more
substantial meal. In the kind of eating-house that suited his mood,
an obscure _bettola_ probably never yet patronized by Englishman, he
sat down to a dish of maccheroni and a bottle of red wine. At
another table were some boatmen, who, after greeting him, went on
with their lively talk in a dialect of which he could understand but
few words.

Having eaten well and drunk still better, he lit a cigar and
sauntered forth to find a place for dreaming. Chance led him to the
patch of public garden, with its shrubs and young palm-trees, which
looks over the little port. Here, when once he had made it clear to
a succession of rhetorical boatmen that he was not to be tempted on
to the sea, he could sit as idly and as long as he liked, looking
across the sapphire bay and watching the bright sails glide hither
and thither With the help of sunlight and red wine, he could imagine
that time had gone back twenty centuries--that this was not
Pozzuoli, but Puteoli; that over yonder was not Baia, but Baiae;
that the men among the shipping talked to each other in Latin, and
perchance of the perishing Republic.

But Mallard's fancy would not dwell long in remote ages As he
watched the smoke curling up from his cigar, he slipped back into
the world of his active being, and made no effort to obscure the
faces that looked upon him. They were those of his mother and
sisters, thought of whom carried him to the northern island, now
grim, cold, and sunless beneath its lowering sky. These relatives
still lived where his boyhood had been passed, a life strangely
unlike his own, and even alien to his sympathies, but their house
was still all that he could call home. Was it to be always the same?

Fifteen years now, since, at the age of twenty, he painted his first
considerable landscape, a tract of moorland on the borders of
Lancashire and Yorkshire. This was his native ground. At Sowerby
Bridge, a manufacturing town, which, like many others in the same
part of England, makes a blot of ugliness on country in itself
sternly beautiful, his father had settled as the manager of certain
rope-works. Mr. Mallard's state was not unprosperous, for he had
invented a process put in use by his employers, and derived benefit
from it. He was a man of habitual gravity, occasionally severe in
the rule of his household, very seldom unbending to mirth. Though
not particularly robust, he employed his leisure in long walks about
the moors, walks sometimes prolonged till after midnight, sometimes
begun long before dawn. His acquaintances called him unsociable, and
doubt less he was so in the sense that he could not find at Sowerby
Bridge any one for whose society be greatly cared. It was even a
rare thing for him to sit down with his wife and children for more
than a few minutes; if he remained in the house, he kept apart in a
room of his own, musing over, rather than reading, a little
collection of books--one of his favourites being Defoe's "History
of the Devil." He often made ironical remarks, and seemed to have a
grim satisfaction when his hearers missed the point. Then he would
chuckle, and shake his head, and go away muttering.

Young Ross, who made no brilliant figure at school, and showed a
turn for drawing, was sent at seventeen to the factory of Messrs.
Gilstead, Miles and Doran, to become a designer of patterns. The
result was something more than his father had expected, for Mr.
Doran, who had his abode at Sowerby Bridge, quickly discovered that
the lad was meant for far other things, and, by dint of personal
intervention, caused Mr. Mallard to give his son a chance of
becoming an artist.

A remarkable man, this Mr. Doran. By nature a Bohemian, somehow made
into a Yorkshire mill-owner; a strong, active, nobly featured man,
who dressed as no one in the factory regions ever did before or
probably ever will again--his usual appearance suggesting the
common notion of a bushranger; an artist to the core; a purchaser of
pictures by unknown men who had a future--at the sale of his
collection three Robert Cheeles got into the hands of dealers, all
of them now the boasted possessions of great galleries; a passionate
lover of music--he had been known to make the journey to Paris
merely to hear Diodati sing; finally, in common rumour a profligate
whom no prudent householder would admit to the society of his wife
and daughters. However, at the time of young Mallard's coming under
his notice he had been married about a year. Mrs. Doran came from
Manchester; she was very beautiful, but had slight education, and
before long Sowerby Bridge remarked that the husband was too often
away from home.

Doran and the elder Mallard, having once met, were disposed to sec
more of each other; in spite of the difference of social standing,
they became intimates, and Mr. Mallard had at length some one with
whom he found pleasure in conversing. He did not long enjoy the new
experience. In the winter that followed, he died of a cold
contracted on one of his walks when the hills were deep in snow.

Doran remained the firm friend of the family. Local talk had
inspired Mrs. Mallard with a prejudice against him, but substantial
services mitigated this, and the widow was in course of time less
uneasy at her son's being practically under the guardianship of this
singular man of business. Mallard, after preliminary training, was
sent to the studio of a young artist whom Doran greatly admired,
Cullen Banks, then struggling for the recognition he was never to
enjoy, death being beforehand with him. Mrs. Mallard was given to
understand that no expenses were involved save those of the lad's
support in Manchester, where Banks lived, and Mallard himself did
not till long after know that his friend had paid the artist a fee
out of his own pocket. Two things did Mallard learn from Doran
himself which were to have a marked influence on his life--a
belief that only in landscape can a painter of our time hope to do
really great work, and a limitless contempt of the Royal Academy. In
Manchester he made the acquaintance of several people with whom
Doran was familiar, among them Edward Spence, then in the
shipping-office, and Jacob Bush Bradshaw, well on his way to making
a fortune out of silk. On Banks's death, Mallard, now nearly
twenty-one, went to London for a time. His patrimony was modest, but
happily, if the capital remained intact, sufficient to save him from
the cares that degrade and waste a life. His mother and sisters had
also an income adequate to their simple habits.

In the meantime, Mrs. Doran was dead. After giving birth to a
daughter, she fell into miserable health; her husband took her
abroad, and she died in Germany. Thereafter Sowerby Bridge saw no
more of its bugbear; Doran abandoned commerce and became a Bohemian
in earnest--save that his dinner was always assured. He wandered
over Europe; he lived with Bohemian society in every capital; he
kept adding to his collection of pictures (stored in a house at
Woolwich, which he freely lent as an abode to a succession of
ill-to-do artists); and finally he was struck with paralysis whilst
conducting to their home the widow and child of a young painter who
had suddenly died in the Ardennes. The poor woman under his
protection had to become his guardian. He was brought to the house
at Woolwich, and there for several months lay between life and
death. A partial recovery followed, and he was taken to the Isle of
Wight, where, in a short time, a second attack killed him.

His child, Cecily, was twelve years old. For the last five years she
had been living in the care of Mrs. Elgar at Manchester. This lady
was an intimate friend of Mrs. Doran's family, and in entrusting his
child to her, Doran had given a strong illustration of one of the
singularities of his character. Though by no means the debauchee
that Sowerby Bridge declared him, he was not a man of conventional
morality; yet, in the case of people who were in any way entrusted
to his care, he showed a curious severity of practice. Ross Mallard,
for instance; no provincial Puritan could have instructed the lad
more strenuously in the accepted moral code than did Mr. Doran on
taking him from home to live in Manchester. In choosing a wife, he
went to a family of conventional Dissenters; and he desired his
daughter to pass the years of her childhood with people who he knew
would guide her in the very straitest way of Puritan doctrine. What
his theory was in this matter (if he had one) he told nobody. Dying,
he left it to the discretion of the two trustees to appoint a
residence for Cecily, if for any reason she could not remain with
Mrs. Elgar. This occasion soon presented itself, and Cecily passed
into the care of Doran's sister, Mrs. Lessingham, who was just
entered upon a happy widowhood. Mallard, most unexpectedly left sole
trustee, had no choice but to assent to this arrangement; the only
other home possible for the girl was with Miriam at Redbeck House,
but Mr. Baske did not look with favour on that proposal. Hitherto,
Mr. Trench, the elder trustee, who lived in Manchester, had alone
been in personal relations with Mrs. Elgar and little Cecily; even
now Mallard did not make the personal acquaintance of Mrs. Elgar
(otherwise he would doubtless have met Miriam), but saw Mrs.
Lessingham in London, and for the first time met Cecily when she
came to the south in her aunt's care. He knew what an extreme change
would be made in the manner of the girl's education, and it caused
him some mental trouble; but it was clear that Cecily might benefit
greatly in health by travel, and, as for the moral question, Mrs.
Lessingham strongly stirred his sympathies by the dolorous account
she gave of the child's surroundings in the north. Cecily was being
intellectually starved; that seemed clear to Mallard himself after a
little conversation with her. It was wonderful how much she had
already learnt, impelled by sheer inner necessity, of things which
in general she was discouraged from studying. So Cecily left
England, to return only for short intervals, spent in London.
Between that departure and this present meeting, Mallard saw her
only twice; but the girl wrote to him with some regularity. These
letters grew more and more delightful. Cecily addressed herself with
exquisite frankness as to an old friend, old in both senses of the
word; collected, they made a history of her rapidly growing mind
such as the shy artist might have glorified in possessing. In
reality, he did nothing of the kind; he wished the letters would not
come and disturb him in his work. He sent gruff little answers, over
which Cecily laughed, as so characteristic.

Yes, there was a distinct connection between those homely memories
and picturings which took him in thought to Sowerby Bridge, and the
image of Cecily Doran which had caused him to waste all this time in
Naples. They represented two worlds, in both of which he had some
part; but it was only too certain with which of them he was the more
closely linked. What but mere accident put him in contact with the
world which was Cecily's? Through her aunt she had aristocratic
relatives; her wealth made her a natural member of what is called
society; her beauty and her brilliancy marked her to be one of
society's ornaments. What could she possibly be to him, Ross
Mallard, landscape-painter of small if any note, as unaristocratic
in mind and person as any one that breathed? To put the point with
uncompromising plainness, and therefore in all its absurdity, how
could he possibly imagine Cecily Doran called Mrs. Mallard?

The thing was flagrantly, grossly, palpably absurd. He tingled in
the ears in trying to represent to himself how Cecily would think of
it, if by any misfortune it were ever suggested to her.

Then why not, in the name of common sense, cease to ponder such
follies, and get on with the work which waited for him? Why this
fluttering about a flame which scorched him more and more
dangerously? It was not the first time that he had experienced
temptations of this kind; a story of five years ago, its scene in
London, should have reminded him that he could stand a desperate
wrench when convinced that his life's purpose depended upon it. Here
were three years of trusteeship before him--he could not, or would
not, count on her marrying before she came of age. Her letters would
still come; from time to time doubtless he must meet her. It had all
resulted from this confounded journey taken together! Why, knowing
himself sufficiently, did he consent to meet the people at Genoa,
loitering there for a couple of days in expectancy? Why had he come
to Italy at all just now?

The answers to all such angry queries were plain enough. however he
had hitherto tried to avoid them. He was a lonely man like his
father, but not content with loneliness; friendship was always
strong to tempt him, and when the thought of something more than
friendship had been suffered to take hold upon his imagination, it
held with terrible grip, burning, torturing. He had come simply to
meet Cecily; there was the long and short of it. It was a weakness,
such as any man may be guilty of, particularly any artist who groans
in lifelong solitude. Let it he recognized; let it be flung savagely
into the past, like so many others encountered and overcome on his
course.

The other day, when it was rainy and sunless, he had seemed all at
once to find his freedom. In a moment of mental languor, he was able
to view his position clearly, as though some other man were
concerned, and to cry out that he had triumphed; but within the same
hour an event befell which revived all the old trouble and added
new. Reuben Elgar entered his room, coming directly from Villa
Sannazaro, in a state of excitement, talking at once of Cecily Doran
as though his acquaintance with her had been unbroken from the time
when she was in his mother's care to now. Irritation immediately
scattered the thoughts Mallard had been ranging; he could barely
make a show of amicable behaviour; a cold fear began to creep about
his heart. The next morning he woke to a new phase of his conflict,
the end further off than ever. Unable to command thought and
feeling, he preserved at least the control of his action, and could
persevere in the resolve not to see Cecily; to avoid casual meetings
he kept away even from the Spences. He shunned all places likely to
be visited by Cecily, and either sat at home in dull idleness or
strayed about the swarming quarters of the town, trying to entertain
himself with the spectacle of Neapolitan life. To-day the delicious
weather had drawn him forth in a heedless mood. And, indeed, it did
not much matter now whether he met his friends or not; he had spoken
the word--to-morrow he would go his way.

At the very moment of thinking this thought, when his cigar was
nearly finished and he had begun to stretch his limbs, wearied by
remaining in one position. shadows and footsteps approached him. He
looked up, and--

"Mr. Mallard! So we have caught you at last! It only needed this to
complete our enjoyment. Now you will go across to Raise with us."

Cecily, with Mrs. Baske and Spence. She had run eagerly forward, and
her companions were advancing at a more sober pace. Mallard rose
with his grim smile, and of course forgot that it is customary to
doff one's beaver when ladies approach; he took the offered hand,
said "How do you do?" and turned to the others.

"A fair capture!" exclaimed Spence. "Just now, at lunch, we were
speculating on such a chance. The cigar argues a broken fast, I take
it."

"Yes, I have had my maccheroni."

"We are going to take a boat over to Bale. Suppose you come with
us."

"Of course Mr. Mallard will come," said Cecily, her face radiant.
"He can make no pretence of work interrupted."

Already the group was surrounded by boatmen offering their services.
Spence led the way down to the quay, and after much tumult a boat
was selected and a bargain struck, the original demand made by the
artless sailors being of course five times as much as was ever paid
for the transit. They rowed out through the cluster of little craft,
then hoisted a sail, and glided smoothly over the blue water.

"Where is Mrs. Lessingham?" Mallard inquired of Cecily.

"At the Hotel Bristol, with some very disagreeable people who have
just landed on their way from India--a military gentleman, and a
more military lady, and a most military son, relatives of ours. We
spent last evening with them, and I implored to be let off to-day."

Mallard propped himself idly, and from under the shadow of his hat
often looked at her. He had begun to wonder at the unreserved joy
with which she greeted his joining the party. Of course she could
have no slightest suspicion of what was in his mind; one moment's
thought of him in such a light must have altered her behaviour
immediately. Altered in what way? That he in vain tried to imagine;
his knowledge of her did not go far enough. But he could not be
wrong in attributing unconsciousness to her. Moreover, with the
inconsistency of a man in his plight, he resented it. To sit thus,
almost touching him, gazing freely into his face, and yet to be in
complete ignorance of suffering which racked him, seemed
incompatible with fine qualities either of heart or mind. What
rubbish was talked about woman's insight, about her delicate
sympathies!

"Mrs. Spence is very sorry not to see you occasionally, Mr.
Mallard."

It was Miriam who spoke. Mallard was watching Cecily, and now, on
turning his head, he felt sure that Mrs. Baske had been observant of
his countenance. Her eyes fell whilst he was seeking words for a
reply.

"I shall call to see her to-morrow morning," he said, "just to say
good-bye for a time."

"You really go to-morrow?" asked Cecily, with interest, but nothing
more.

"Yes. I hope to see Mrs. Lessingham for a moment also. Can you tell
me when she is likely to be at home?"

"Certainly between two and three, if you could come then."

He waited a little, then looked unexpectedly at Miriam. Again her
eyes were fixed on him, and again they fell with something of
consciousness. Did _she_, perchance, understand him?

His speculations concerning Cecily became comparative. In point of
age, the distance between Cecily and Miriam was of some importance;
the fact that the elder had been a married woman was of still more
account. On the first day of his meeting with Mrs. Baske, he had
thought a good deal about her; since then she had slipped from his
mind, but now he felt his interest reviving. Surely she was as
remote from him as a woman well could be, yet his attitude towards
her had no character of intolerance; he half wished that he could
form a closer acquaintance with her. At present, the thought of calm
conversation with such a woman made a soothing contrast to the riot
excited in him by Cecily. Did she read his mind? For one thing, it
was not impossible that the Spences had spoken freely in her
presence of himself and his odd relations to the girl; there was no
doubting how _they_ regarded him. Possibly he was a frequent subject
of discussion between Eleanor and her cousin. Mature women could
talk with each other freely of these things.

On the other hand, whatever Mrs. Lessingham might have in her mind,
she certainly would not expose it in dialogue with her niece. Cecily
was in an unusual position for a girl of her age; she had, he
believed, no intimate friend; at all events, she had none who also
knew him. Girls, to be sure, had their own way of talking over
delicate points, just as married women had theirs, and with
intimates of the ordinary kind Cecily must have come by now to
consider her guardian as a male creature of flesh and blood. What
did it mean, that she did not?

A question difficult of debate, involving much that the mind is wont
to slur over in natural scruple. Mallard was no slave to the
imbecile convention which supposes a young girl sexless in her
understanding; he could not, in conformity with the school of
hypocritic idealism, regard Cecily as a child of woman's growth. No.
She had the fruits of a modern education; she had a lucid brain; of
late she had mingled and conversed with a variety of men and women,
most of them anything but crassly conventional. It was this very
aspect of her training that had caused him so much doubt. And he
knew by this time what his doubt principally meant; in a measure, it
came of native conscientiousness, of prejudice which testified to
his origin; but, more than that, it signified simple jealousy.
Secretly, he did not like her outlook upon the world to be so
unrestrained; he would have preferred her to view life as a simpler
matter. Partly for this reason did her letters so disturb him. No;
it would have been an insult to imagine her with the moral
sensibilities of a child of twelve.

Was she intellectual at the expense of her emotional being? Was she
guarded by nature against these disturbances? Somewhat ridiculous to
ask that, and then look up at her face effulgent with the joy of
life. She who could not speak without the note of emotion, who so
often gave way to lyrical outbursts of delight, who was so
warm-hearted in her friendship, whose every movement was in glad
harmony with the loveliness of her form,--must surely have the
corresponding capabilities of passion.

After all--and it was fetching a great compass to reach a point so
near at hand--might she not take him at his own profession? Might
she not view him as a man indeed, and one not yet past his youth,
but still as a man who suffered no trivialities to interfere with
the grave objects of his genius? She had so long had him represented
to her in that way--from the very first of their meetings, indeed.
Grant her mature sense and a reflective mind, was that any reason
why she should probe subtly the natural appearance of her friend,
and attribute to him that which he gave no sign of harbouring? Why
must she be mysteriously conscious of his inner being, rather than
take him ingenuously for what he seemed? She had instruction and
wit, but she was only a girl; her experience was as good as nil.
Mallard repeated that to himself as he looked at Mrs. Baske. To a
great extent Cecily did, in fact, inhabit an ideal world. She was
ready to accept the noble as the natural. Untroubled herself, she
could contemplate without scepticism the image of an artist finding
his bliss in solitary toil. This was the ground of the respect she
had for him; disturb this idea, and he became to her quite another
man--one less interesting, and, it might be, less lovable in
either sense of the word.

Spence maintained a conversation with Miriam, chiefly referring to
the characteristics of the scene about them; he ignored her
peculiarities, and talked as though everything must necessarily give
her pleasure. Her face proved that at all events the physical
influences of this day in the open air were beneficial. The soft
breeze had brought a touch of health to her cheek, and languid
inattention no longer marked her gaze at sea and shore; she was
often absent, but never listless. When she spoke, her voice was
subdued and grave; it always caused Mallard to glance in her
direction.

At Baiae they dismissed the boat, purposing to drive back to Naples.
In their ramble among the ruins, Mallard did his best to be at ease
and seem to share Cecily's happiness; in any case, it was better to
talk of the Romans than of personal concerns. When in after-time he
recalled this day, it seemed to him that he had himself been well
contented; it dwelt in his memory with a sunny glow. He saw Cecily's
unsurpassable grace as she walked beside him, and her look of
winning candour turned to him so often, and he fancied that it had
given him pleasure to be with her. And pleasure there was, no doubt,
but inextricably blended with complex miseries. To Cecily his mood
appeared more gracious than she had ever known it; he did not
disdain to converse on topics which presupposed some knowledge on
her part, and there was something of unusual gentleness in his tone
which she liked.

"Some day," she said, "we shall talk of Baiae in London, in a
November fog."

"I hope not."

"But such contrasts help one to get the most out of life," she
rejoined, laughing; "At all events, when some one happens to speak
to me of Mr. Mallard's pictures, I shall win credit by casually
mentioning that I was at Baiae in his company in such-and-such a
year."

"You mean, when I have painted my last!"

"No, no! It would be no pleasure to me to anticipate that time."

"But natural, in talking with a veteran."

It was against his better purpose that he let fall these words; they
contained almost a hint of his hidden self, and he had not yet
allowed anything of the kind to escape him. But the moment proved
too strong.

"A veteran who fortunately gives no sign of turning grey," replied
Cecily, glancing at his hair.

An interruption from Spence put an end to this dangerous dialogue.
Mallard, inwardly growling at himself, resisted the temptation to
further _tete-a-tete_, and in a short time the party went in search
of a conveyance for their return. None offered that would hold four
persons; the ordinary public carriages have convenient room for two
only, and a separation was necessary. Mallard succeeded in catching
Spence's eye, and made him understand with a savage look that he was
to take Cecily with him. This arrangement was effected, and the
first carriage drove off with those two, Cecily exchanging merry
words with an old Italian who had rendered no kind of service, but
came to beg his _mancia_ on the strength of being able to utter a
few sentences in English.

For the first time, Mallard was alone with Mrs. Baske. Miriam had
not concealed surprise at the new adjustment of companionship; she
looked curiously both at Cecily and at Mallard whilst it was going
on. The first remark which the artist addressed to her, when they
had been driving for a few minutes, was perhaps, she thought, an
explanation of the proceeding.

"I shall meet your brother again at Pompeii to-morrow, Mrs. Baske."

"Have you seen much of him since he came!" Miriam asked
constrainedly. She had not met Mallard since Reuben's arrival.

"Oh yes. We have dined together each evening."

Between two such unloquacious persons, dialogue was naturally slow
at first, but they had a long drive before them. Miriam presently
trusted herself to ask,--

"Has he spoken to you at all of his plans--of what he is going to
do when he returns to England?"

"In general terms only. He has literary projects."

"Do you put any faith in them, Mr. Mallard?"

This was a sudden step towards intimacy. As she spoke, Miriam looked
at him in a way that he felt to be appealing. He answered the look
frankly.

"I think he has the power to do something worth doing. Whether his
perseverance will carry him through it, is another question."

"He speaks to me of you in a way that--He seems, I mean, to put
a value on your friendship, and I think you may still influence him.
I am very glad he has met you here."

"I have very little faith in the influence of one person on another,
Mrs. Baske. For ill--yes, that is often seen; but influence of the
kind you suggest is the rarest of things."

"I'm afraid you are right."

She retreated into herself, and, when he looked at her, he saw cold
reserve once more on her countenance. Doubtless she did not choose
to let him know how deeply this question of his power concerned her.
Mallard felt something like compassion; yet not ordinary compassion
either, for at the same time he had a desire to break down this
reserve, and see still more of what she felt. Curious; that evening
when he dined at the villa, he had already become aware of this sort
of attraction in her, an appeal to his sympathies together with the
excitement of his combative spirit--if that expressed it.

"No man," he remarked, "ever did solid work except in his own
strength. One can be encouraged in effort, but the effort must
originate in one's self."

Miriam kept silence. He put a direct question.

"Have you yourself encouraged him to pursue this idea?"

"I have not _dis_couraged him."

"In your brother's case, discouragement would probably be the result
if direct encouragement were withheld."

Again she said nothing, and again Mallard felt a desire to subdue
the pride, or whatever it might be, that had checked the growth of
friendliness between them in its very beginning. He remained mute
for a long time, until they were nearing Pozzuoli, but Miriam showed
no disposition to be the first to speak. At length he said abruptly:

"Shall you go to the San Carlo during the winter?"

"The San Carlo?" she asked inquiringly.

"The opera."

Mallard was in a strange mood. Whenever he looked ahead at Cecily,
he had a miserable longing which crushed his heart down, down; in
struggling against this, he felt that Mrs. Baske's proximity was an
aid, but that it would be still more so if he could move her to any
unusual self-revelation. He had impulses to offend her, to irritate
her prejudices--anything, so she should but be moved. This
question that fell. from him was mild in comparison with some of the
subjects that pressed on his harassed brain.

"I don't go to theatres," Miriam replied distantly.

"That is losing much pleasure."

"The word has very different meanings."

She was roused. Mallard observed with a perverse satisfaction the
scorn implied in this rejoinder. He noted that her features had more
decided beauty than when placid.

"I imagine," he resumed, smiling at her, "that the life of an artist
must seem to you frivolous, if not something worse. I mean an artist
in the sense of a painter."

"I cannot think it the highest kind of life," Miriam replied, also
smiling, but ominously.

"As Miss Doran does," added Mallard, his eyes happening to catch
Cecily's face as it looked backwards, and his tongue speaking
recklessly.

"There are very few subjects on which Miss Doran and I think alike."

He durst not pursue this; in his state of mind, the danger of
committing some flagrant absurdity was too great. The subject
attracted him like an evil temptation, for he desired to have Miriam
speak of Cecily. But he mastered himself.

"The artist's life may be the highest of which a particular man is
capable. For instance, I think it is so in my own case."

Miriam seemed about to keep silence again, but ultimately she spoke.
The voice suggested that upon her too there was a constraint of some
kind.

"On what grounds do you believe that?"

His eyes sought her face rapidly. Was she ironical at his expense?
That would be new light upon her mind, for hitherto she had seemed
to him painfully literal. Irony meant intellect; mere scorn or pride
might signify anything but that. And he was hoping to find reserves
of power in her, such as would rescue her from the imputation of
commonplaceness in her beliefs. Testing her with his eye, he
answered meaningly:

"Not, I admit, on the ground of recognized success."

Miriam made a nervous movement, and her brows contracted. Without
looking at him, she said, in a voice which seemed rather to resent
his interpretation than to be earnest in deprecating it:

"You know, Mr. Mallard, that I meant nothing of the kind."

"Yet I could have understood you, if you had. Naturally you must
wonder a little at a man's passing his life as I do. You interpret
life absolutely; it is your belief that it can have only one
meaning, the same for all, involving certain duties of which there
can be no question, and admitting certain relaxations which have
endured the moral test. A man may not fritter away the years that
are granted him; and that is what I seem to you to be doing, at
best."

"Why should you suppose that I take upon myself to judge you?"

"Forgive me; I think it is one result of your mental habits that you
judge all who differ from you."

This time she clearly was resolved to make no reply. They were
passing through Pozzuoli, and she appeared to forget the discussion
in looking about her. Mallard watched her, but she showed no
consciousness of his gaze.

"Even if the world recognized me as an artist of distinction," he
resumed, "you would still regard me as doubtfully employed. Art does
not seem to you an end of sufficient gravity. Probably you had
rather there were no such thing, if it were practicable."

"There is surely a great responsibility on any one who makes it the
_end_ of life."

This was milder again, and just when he had anticipated the
opposite.

"A responsibility to himself, yes. Well, when I say that I believe
this course is the highest I can follow, I mean that I believe it
employs all my best natural powers as no other would. As for highest
in the absolute sense, that is a different matter. Possibly the life
of a hospital nurse, of a sister of mercy--something of that
kind--comes nearest to the ideal."

She glanced at him, evidently in the same kind of doubt about his
meaning as he had recently felt about hers.

"Why should you speak contemptuously of such people?"

"Contemptuously? I speak sincerely. In a world where pain is the
most obvious fact, the task of mercy must surely take precedence of
most others."

"I am surprised to hear you say this."

It was spoken in the tone most characteristic of her, that of a
proud condescension.

"Why, Mrs. Baske?"

She hesitated a little, but made answer:

"I don't mean that I think you unfeeling, but your interests seem to
be so far from such simple things."

"True."

Again a long silence. The carriage was descending the road from
Pozzuoli; it approached the sea-shore, where the gentle breakers
were beginning to be tinged with evening light. Cecily looked back
and waved her hand.

"When You say that art is an end in itself," Miriam resumed
abruptly, "you claim, I suppose, that it is a way of serving
mankind?"

Mallard was learning the significance of her tones. In this
instance, he knew that the words "serving mankind" were a
contemptuous use of a phrase she had heard, a phrase which
represented the philosophy alien to her own.

"Indeed, I claim nothing of the kind," he replied, laughing. "Art
may, or may not, serve such a purpose; but be assured that the
artist never thinks of his work in that way."

"You make no claim, then, even of usefulness?"

"Most decidedly, none. You little imagine how distasteful the word
is to me in such connection."

"Then how can you say you are employing your best natural powers?"

She had fallen to ingenuous surprise, and Mallard again laughed,
partly at the simplicity of the question, partly because it pleased
him to have brought her to such directness.

"Because," he answered, "this work gives me keener and more lasting
pleasure than any other would. And I am not a man easily pleased
with my own endeavours, Mrs. Baske. I work with little or no hope of
ever satisfying myself--that is another thing. I have heard men
speak of my kind of art as 'the noble pursuit of Truth,' and so on.
I don't care for such phrases; they may mean something, but as a
rule come of the very spirit so opposed to my own--that which
feels it necessary to justify art by bombast. The one object I have
in life is to paint a bit of the world just as I see it. I exhaust
myself in vain toil; I shall never succeed; but I am right to
persevere, I am right to go on pleasing myself."

Miriam listened in astonishment.

"With such views, Mr. Mallard, it is fortunate that you happen to
find pleasure in painting pictures."

"Which, at all events, do people no harm."

She turned upon him suddenly.

"Do you encourage my brother in believing that his duty in life is
to please himself?"

"It has been my effort," he replied gravely.

"I don't understand you," Miriam said, in indignation.

"No, you do not. I mean to say that I believe your brother is not
really pleased with the kind of life he has too long been leading;
that to please himself he must begin serious work of some kind."

"That is playing with words, and on a subject ill-chosen for it."

"Mrs. Baske, do you seriously believe that Reuben Elgar can be made
a man of steady purpose by considerations that have primary
reference to any one or anything but himself?"

She made no answer.

"I am not depreciating him. The same will apply (if you are content
to face the truth) to many a man whom you would esteem. I am sorry
that I have lost your confidence, but that is better than to keep it
by repeating idle formulas that the world's experience has
outgrown."

Miriam pondered, then said quietly:

"We have different thoughts, Mr. Mallard, and speak different
languages."

"But we know a little more of each other than we did. For my part, I
feel it a gain."

During the rest of the drive they scarcely spoke at all; the few
sentences exchanged were mere remarks upon the scenery. Both
carriages drew up at the gate of the villa, where Miriam and Mallard
alighted. Spence, rising, called to the latter.

"Will you accompany Miss Doran the rest of the way?"

"Certainly."

Mallard took his seat in the other carriage; and, as it drove off,
he looked back. Miriam was gazing after them.

Cecily was a little tired, and not much disposed to converse. Her
companion being still less so, they reached the Mergellina without
having broached any subject.

"It has been an unforgettable day," Cecily said, as they parted.





CHAPTER VI

CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS




He had taken leave of the Spences and Mrs. Baske, yet was not sure
that he should go. He had said good-bye to Mrs. Lessingham and to
Cecily herself, yet made no haste to depart. It drew on to evening,
and he sat idly in his room in Casa Rolandi, looking at his traps
half packed. Then of a sudden up he started. "Imbecile! Insensate! I
give you fifteen minutes to be on your way to the station. Miss the
next train--and sink to the level of common men!" Shirts, socks--
straps, locks; adieux, tips--horses, whips! Clatter through the
Piazzetta Mondragone; down at breakneck speed to the Toledo; across
the Piazza del Municipio; a good-bye to the public scriveners
sitting at their little tables by the San Carlo; sharp round the
corner, and along by the Porto Grande with its throng of vessels.
All the time he sings a tune to himself, caught up in the streets of
the tuneful city; an air lilting to the refrain--

"Io ti voglio bene assaje
E tu non pienz' a me!"

Just after nightfall he alighted from the train at Pompeii. Having
stowed away certain impedimenta at the station, he took his
travelling-bag in his hand, broke with small ceremony through
porters and hotel-touts, came forth upon the high-road, and stepped
forward like one to whom the locality is familiar. In a minute or
two he was overtaken by a little lad, who looked up at him and said
in an insinuating voice, "Albergo del Sole, signore?"

"Prendi, bambino," was Mallard's reply, as he handed the bag to him.
"Avanti!"

A divine evening, softly warm, dim-glimmering. The dusty road ran on
between white trunks of plane-trees; when the station and the houses
near it were left behind, no other building came in view. To the
left of the road, hidden behind its long earth-rampart, lay the dead
city; far beyond rose the dark shape of Vesuvius, crested with
beacon-glow, a small red fire, now angry, now murky, now for a time
extinguished. The long rumble of the train died away, and there
followed silence absolute, scarcely broken for a few minutes by a
peasant singing in the distance, the wailing song so often heard in
the south of Italy. Silence that was something more than the wonted
soundlessness of night; the haunting oblivion of a time long past, a
melancholy brooding voiceless upon the desolate home of forgotten
generations.

A walk of ten minutes, and there shone light from windows. The lad
ran forward and turned in at the gate of a garden; Mallard followed,
and approached some persons who were standing at an open door. He
speedily made arrangements for his night's lodging, saw his room,
and went to the quarter of the inn where dinner was already in
progress. This was a building to itself, at one side of the garden.
Through the doorway he stepped immediately into a low-roofed hall,
where a number of persons sat at table. Pillars supported the
ceiling in the middle, and the walls were in several places painted
with heads or landscapes, the work of artists who had made their
abode here; one or two cases with glass doors showed relics of
Pompeii.

Elgar was one of the company. When he became aware of Mallard's
arrival, he stood up with a cry of "All hail!" and pointed to a seat
near him.

"I began to be afraid you wouldn't come this evening. Try the
risotto; it's excellent. Ye gods! what an appetite I had when I sat
down! To-day have I ascended Vesuvius. How many bottles of wine I
drank between starting and returning I cannot compute; I never knew
before what it was to be athirst. Why, their vino di Vesuvio is for
all the world like cider; I thought at first I was being swindled--
not an impossible thing in these regions. I must tell you a story
about a party of Americans I encountered at Bosco Reale."

The guests numbered seven or eight; with one exception besides
Elgar, they were Germans, all artists of one kind or another,
fellows of genial appearance, loud in vivacious talk. The exception
was a young Englishman, somewhat oddly dressed, and with a great
quantity of auburn hair that rolled forward upon his distinguished
brow. At a certain _pension_ on the Mergellina he was well known. He
sat opposite Elgar, and had been in conversation with him.

Mallard cared little what he ate, and ate little of any thing.
Neither was he in the mood for talk; but Elgar, who had finished his
solid meal, and now amused himself with grapes (in two forms),
spared him the necessity of anything but an occasional monosyllable.
The young man was elated, and grew more so as he proceeded with his
dessert; his cheeks were deeply flushed; his eyes gleamed
magnificently.

In the meantime Clifford Marsh had joined in conversation with the
Germans; his use of their tongue was far from idiomatic, but by
sheer determination to force a way through linguistic obstacles, he
talked with a haphazard fluency which was amusing enough. No false
modesty imposed a check upon his eloquence. It was to the general
table that he addressed himself on the topic that had arisen; in an
English dress his speech ran somewhat as follows:--

"Gentlemen, allow me to say that I have absolutely no faith in the
future of which you speak! It is my opinion that democracy is the
fatal enemy of art. How can you speak of ancient and mediaeval
states? Neither in Greece nor in Italy was there ever what we
understand by a democracy."

"Factisch! Der Herr hat Recht!" cried some one, and several other
voices strove to make themselves heard; but the orator raised his
note and overbore interruption.

"You must excuse me, gentlemen, if I say that--however it may be
from other points of view--from the standpoint of art, democracy
is simply the triumph of ignorance and brutality." ("Gewisz!"--
"Nimmermehr!"--"Vortrefflich!") "I don't care to draw distinctions
between forms of the thing. Socialism, communism, collectivism,
parliamentarism,--all these have one and the same end: to put men
on an equality; and in proportion as that end is approached, so will
art in every shape languish. Art, gentlemen, is nourished upon
inequalities and injustices!" ("Ach!"--"Wie kann man so etwas
sagen!"--"Hoch! verissime!") "I am not representing this as either
good or bad. It may be well that justice should be established, even
though art perish. I simply state a fact!" ("Doch!"--"Erlauben
Sie!") "Supremacy of the vulgar interest means supremacy of ignoble
judgment in all matters of mind. See what plutocracy already makes
of art!"

Here one of the Germans insisted on a hearing; a fine fellow, with
Samsonic locks and a ringing voice.

"Sir! sir! who talks of a genuine democracy with mankind in its
present state? Before it comes about, the multitude will be
instructed, exalted, emancipated, humanized!"

"Sir!" shouted Marsh, "who talks of the Millennium? I speak of
things possible within a few hundred years. The multitude will
_never_ be humanized. Civilization is attainable only by the few;
nature so ordains it."

"Pardon me for saying that is a lie! I use the word
controversially."

"It is a manifest truth!" cried the other. "Who ever doubted it but
a _Dummkopf_? I use the word with reference to this argument only."

So it went on for a long time. Mallard and Elgar knew no German, so
could derive neither pleasure nor profit from the high debate.

"Are you as glum here as in London?" Reuben asked of his companion,
in a bantering voice. "I should have pictured you grandly jovial,
wreathed perhaps with ruddy vine-leaves, the light of inspiration in
your eye, and in your hand a mantling goblet! Drink, man, drink! you
need a stimulant, an exhilarant, an anti-phlegmatic, a
counter-irritant against English spleen. You are still on the other
side of the Alps, of the Channel; the fogs yet cling about you.
Clear your brow, O painter of Ossianic wildernesses! Taste the foam
of life! We are in the land of Horace, and _nunc est bibendum_!--
Seriously, do you never relax?"

"Oh yes. You should see me over the fifth tumbler of whiskey at
Stornoway."

"Bah! you might as well say the fifth draught of fish-oil North
Cape. How innocent this wine is! A gallon of it would give one no
more than a pleasant glow, the faculty of genial speech. Take a
glass with me to the health of your enchanting ward."

"Please to command your tongue," growled Mallard, with a look that
was not to be mistaken.

"I beg your pardon. It shall be to the health of that superb girl we
saw in the Mercato. But, as far as I can judge yet, the Neapolitan
type doesn't appeal to me very strongly. It is finely animal, and of
course that has its value; but I prefer the suggestion of a soul,
don't you? I remember a model old Langton had in Rome, a girl fresh
from the mountains; by Juno! a glorious creature! I dare say you
have seen her portrait in his studio; he likes to show it. But it
does her nothing like justice; she might have sat for the genius of
the Republic. Utterly untaught, and intensely stupid; but there were
marvellous things to be read in her face. Ah, but give me the girls
of Venice! You know them, how they walk about the piazza; their
tall, lithe forms, the counterpart of the gondolier; their splendid
black hair, elaborately braided and pierced with large ornaments;
their noble, aristocratic, grave features; their long shawls! What
natural dignity! What eloquent eyes! I like to imagine them
profoundly intellectual, which they are unhappily not."

Marsh had withdrawn from colloquy with the Germans, and kept
glancing across the table at his compatriots, obviously wishing that
he might join them. Mallard, upon whom Elgar's excited talk jarred
more and more, noticed the stranger's looks, and at length leaned
forward to speak to him.

"As usual, we are in a minority among the sun-worshippers."

"Sun-worshippers! Good!" laughed the other. "Yes, I have never met
more than one or two chance Englishmen at the 'Sole.'"

"But you are at your case with our friends there.--I think you
know as little German as I do, Elgar?"

"Devilish bad at languages! To tell you the truth, I can't endure
the sense of inferiority one has in beginning to smatter with
foreigners. I read four or five, but avoid speaking as much as
possible."

Marsh took an early opportunity of alluding to the argument in which
he had recently taken part. The subject was resumed. At Elgar's
bidding the waiter had brought cigars, and things looked
comfortable; the Germans talked with more animation than ever.

"One of the worst evils of democracy in England," said Reuben,
forcibly, "is its alliance with Puritan morality."

"Oh, that is being quickly outgrown," cried Marsh. "Look at the
spread of rationalism."

"You take it for granted that Puritanism doesn't survive religious
dogma? Believe me, you are greatly mistaken. I am sorry to say I
have a large experience in this question. The mass of the English
people have no genuine religious belief, but none the less they are
Puritans in morality. The same applies to the vastly greater part of
those who even repudiate Christianity."

"One must take account of the national hypocrisy," remarked the
younger man, with an air of superiority, shaking his head as his
habit was.

"It's a complicated matter. The representative English bourgeois is
a hypocrite in essence, but is perfectly serious in his judgment of
the man next door; and the latter characteristic has more weight
than the former in determining his life. Puritanism has aided the
material progress of England; but its effect on art! But for it, we
should have a school of painters corresponding in greatness to the
Elizabethan dramatists. Depend upon it, the democracy will continue
to be Puritan. Every picture, every book, will be tried by the same
imbecile test Enforcement of Puritan morality will be one of the
ways in which the mob, come to power, will revenge itself on those
who still remain its superiors."

Marsh was not altogether pleased at finding his facile eloquence
outdone. In comparing himself with Elgar, he was conscious of but
weakly representing the tendencies which were a passionate force in
this man with the singularly fine head, with such a glow of wild
life about him. He abandoned the abstract argument, and struck a
personal note.

"However it may be in the future, I grant you the artist has at
present no scope save in one direction. For my own part, I have
fallen back on landscape. Let those who will, paint Miss Wilhelmina
in the nursery, with an interesting doll of her own size; or a
member of Parliament rising to deliver a great speech on the liquor
traffic; or Mrs. What-do-you-call-her, lecturing on woman's rights.
These are the subjects our time affords."

Mallard eyed with fresh curiosity the gentleman who had "fallen back
on landscape."

"What did you formerly aim at?" he inquired, with a sort of suave
gruffness.

"Things which were hopelessly out of the question. I worked for a
long time at a 'Death of Messalina.' That was in Rome. I had a
splendid inspiration for Messalina's face. But my hand was paralyzed
when I thought of the idiotic comments such a picture would occasion
in England. One fellow would say I had searched through history in a
prurient spirit for something sensational; another, that I read a
moral lesson of terrible significance; and so on."

"A grand subject, decidedly!" exclaimed Elgar, with genuine
enthusiasm, which restored Marsh to his own good opinion. "Go on
with it! Bid the fools be hanged! Have you your studies here?"

"Unfortunately not. They are in Rome."

Mallard delivered himself of a blunt opinion.

"That is no subject for a picture. Use it for literature, if you
like."

The inevitable discussion began, the discussion so familiar
nowadays, and which would have sounded so odd to the English
painters who were wont to call themselves "historical," Where is the
line between subjects for the easel and subjects for the desk? What
distinguishes the art of the illustrator from the art of the artist?

That was a great evening round the table at the Albergo del Sole.
How gloriously the air thickened with tobacco-smoke! What removal of
empty bottles and replacing them with full! The Germans were making
it a set _Kneipe_; the Englishmen, unable to drink quite so
heroically, were scarce behind in vehemence of debate. Mallard,
grimly accepting the help of wine against his inner foes, at length
earned Elgar's approval; he had relaxed indeed, and was no longer
under the oppression of English fog. But with him such moods were of
brief duration; he suddenly quitted the table, and went out into the
night air.

The late moon was rising, amber-coloured on a sky of dusky azure. He
walked from the garden, across the road, and towards the ruins of
the Amphitheatre, which lie some distance apart from the Pompeian
streets that have been unearthed; he passed beneath an arch, and
stood looking down into the dark hollow so often thronged with
citizens of Latin speech. Small wonder that Benvenuto's necromancer
could evoke his myriads of flitting ghosts in the midnight
Colosseum; here too it needed but to stand for a few minutes in the
dead stillness, and the air grew alive with mysterious presences,
murmurous with awful whisperings. Mallard enjoyed it for awhile, but
at length turned away abruptly, feeling as if a cold hand had
touched him.

As he re-entered the inn-precincts, he heard voices still uproarious
in the dining-room; but he had no intention of going among them
again. His bedroom was one of a row which opened immediately upon
the garden. He locked himself in, went to bed, but did not sleep for
a long time. A wind was rising, and a branch of a tree constantly
tapped against the pane. It might have been some centuries-dead
inhabitant of Pompeii trying to deliver a message from the silent
world.

The breakfast-party next morning lacked vivacity. Clifford Marsh was
mute and dolorous of aspect; no doubt his personal embarrassments
were occupying him. Yesterday's wine had become his foe, instead of
an ally urging him to dare all in the cause of "art." He consumed
his coffee and roll in the manner of ordinary mortals, not once
flourishing his dainty hand or shaking his ambrosial hair. Elgar was
very stiff from his ascent of Vesuvius, and he too found that "the
foam of life" had an unpleasant after-taste, suggestive of wrecked
fortunes and a dubious future. Mallard was only a little gruffer
than his wonted self.

"I am going on at once to Sorrento," he said, meeting Elgar
afterwards in the garden. "To-morrow I shall cross over the hills to
Positano and Amalfi. Suppose you come with me?"

The other hesitated.

"You mean you are going to walk?"

"No. I have traps to carry on from the station. We should have a
carriage to Sorrento, and to-morrow a donkey for the baggage."

They paced about, hands in pockets. It was a keen morning; the
tramontana blew blusterously, causing the smoke of Vesuvius to lie
all down its long slope, a dense white cloud, or a vast turbid
torrent, breaking at the foot into foam and spray. The clearness of
the air was marvellous. Distance seemed to have no power to dim the
details of the landscape. The Apennines glistened with new-fallen
snow.

"I hadn't thought of going any further just now," said Elgar, who
seemed to have a difficulty in simply declining the invitation, as
he wished to do.

"What should you do, then?"

"Spend another day here, I think,--I've only had a few hours among
the ruins, you know,--and then go back to Naples."

"What to do there?" asked Mallard, bluntly.

"Give a little more time to the museum, and see more of the
surroundings."

"Better come on with me. I shall be glad of your company."

It was said with decision, but scarcely with heartiness. Elgar
looked about him vaguely.

"To tell you the truth," he said at last, "I don't care to incur
much expense."

"The expenses of what I propose are trivial."

"My traps are at Naples, and I have kept the room there. No, I don't
see my way to it, Mallard."

"All right."

The artist turned away. He walked about the road for ten minutes.--
Very well; then he too would return to Naples. Why? What was
altered? Even if Elgar accompanied him to Amalfi, it would only be
for a few days; there was no preventing the fellow's eventual
return--his visits to the villa, perhaps to Mrs. Gluck's. Again imbecile
and insensate What did it all matter?

He stopped short. He would sit down and write a letter to Mrs.
Baske.--A pretty complication, that! What grounds for such a
letter as he meditated?

The devil! Had he not a stronger will than Reuben Elgar? If he
wished to carry a point with such a weakling, was he going to let
himself be thwarted? Grant it was help only for a few days, no
matter; Elgar should go with him.

He walked back to the garden. Good; there the fellow loitered,
obviously irresolute.

"Elgar, you'd better come, after all," he said, with a grim smile.
"I want to have some talk with you. Let us pay our shot, and walk on
to the station."

"What kind of talk, Mallard?"

"Various. Get whatever you have to carry; I'll see to the bill."

"But how can I go on without a shirt?"

"I have shirts in abundance. A truce to your obstacles. March!"

And before very long they were side by side in the vehicle, speeding
along the level road towards Castellammare and the mountains. This
exertion of native energy had been beneficial to Mallard's temper;
he talked almost genially. Elgar, too, had subdued his restiveness,
and began to look forward with pleasure to the expedition.

"I only wish this wind would fall!" he exclaimed. "It's cold, and I
hate a wind of any kind."

"Hate a wind? You're effeminate; you're a boulevardier. It would do
you good to be pitched in a gale about the coast of Skye. A fellow
of your temperament has no business in these relaxing latitudes. You
want tonics."

"Too true, old man. I know myself at least as well as you know me."

"Then what a contemptible creature you must be! If a man knows his
weakness, he is inexcusable for not overcoming it."

"A preposterous contradiction, allow me to say. A man is what he is,
and will be ever the same. Have you no tincture of philosophy? You
talk as though one could govern fate."

"And you, very much like the braying jackass in the field there."

Mallard had a savage satisfaction in breaking all bounds of
civility. He overwhelmed his companion with abuse, revelled in
insulting comparisons. Elgar laughed, and stretched himself on the
cushions so as to avoid the wind as much as possible.

They clattered through the streets of Castellammare, pursued by
urchins, crying, "Un sordo, signori!" Thence on by the seaside road
to Vico Equense, Elgar every now and then shouting his ecstasy at
the view. The hills on this side of the promontory climb, for the
most part, softly and slowly upwards, everywhere thickly clad with
olives and orange-trees, fig-trees and aloes. Beyond Vico comes a
jutting headland; the road curves round it, clinging close on the
hillside, turns inland, and all at once looks down upon the Piano di
Sorrento. Instinctively, the companions rose to their feet, as
though any other attitude on the first revelation of such a prospect
were irreverent. It is not really a plain. but a gently rising wide
and deep lap, surrounded by lofty mountains and ending at a line of
sheer cliffs along the sea-front. A vast garden planted for Nature's
joy; a pleasance of the gods; a haunt of the spirit of beauty set
between sun-smitten crags and the enchanted shore.

"Heaven be praised that you forced me to come!" muttered Elgar, in
his choking throat.

Mallard could say nothing. He had looked upon this scene before, but
it affected him none the less.

They drove into the town of Tasso, and to an inn which stood upon
the edge of a profound gorge, cloven towards the sea-cliffs.
Sauntering in the yard whilst dinner was made ready, they read an
inscription on a homely fountain:

"Sordibus abstersis, instructo marmore, priscus
Fons nitet, et manat gratior unda tibi."

"Eternal gratitude to our old schoolmasters," cried Elgar, "who
thrashed us through the Eton Latin grammar! What is Italy to the man
who cannot share our feelings as we murmur that distich? I marvel
that I was allowed to learn this heathen tongue. Had my parents
known what it would mean to me, I should never have chanted my _hic,
haec, hoc_."

He was at his best this afternoon; Mallard could scarcely identify
him with the reckless, and sometimes vulgar, spendthrift who had
been rushing his way to ruin in London. His talk abounded in
quotation, in literary allusion, in high-spirited jest, in poetical
feeling. When had he read so much? What a memory he had! In a world
that consisted of but one sex, what a fine fellow he would have
been!

"What do you think of my sister?" he asked, _a propos_ of nothing,
as they idled about the Capo di Sorrento and on the road to Massa.

"An absurd question."

"You mean that I cannot suppose you would tell me the truth."

"And just as little the untruth. I do not know your sister."

"We had a horrible scene that day I turned up. I behaved brutally to
her, poor girl."

"I'm afraid you have often done so."

"Often. I rave at her superstition; how can she help it? But she's a
good girl, and has wit enough if she might use it. Oh, if some
generous, large-brained man would drag her out of that slough of
despond!--What a marriage that was! Powers of darkness, what a
marriage!"

Mallard was led to no question.

"I shall never understand it, never," went on Elgar, in excitement.
"If you had seen that oily beast! I don't know what criterion girls
have. Several of my acquaintance have made marriages that set my
hair on end. Lives thrown away in accursed ignorance--that's my
belief."

Mallard waited for the next words, expecting that they would torture
him. There was a long pause, however, and what he awaited did not
come.

"Do you hate the name Miriam, as I do?"

"Hate it, no."

"I wonder they didn't call her Keziah, and me Mephibosheth. It isn't
a nice thing to detest the memory of one's parents, Mallard. It
doesn't help to make one a well-balanced man. How on earth did I get
my individuality? And you mustn't think that Miriam is just what she
seems--I mean, there _are_ possibilities in her; I am convinced of
it."

"Did it ever occur to you that your own proceedings may have acted
as a check upon those possibilities?"

"I don't know that I ever thought of it," said Elgar, ingenuously.

"You never reflected that her notion of the liberated man is
yourself?"

"You are right, Mallard. I see it. What other example had she?"

They walked as far as Massa Lubrense, a little town on the steep
shore; over against it the giant cliffs of Capri, every cleft and
scar and jutting rock discernible through the pellucid air, every
minutest ruggedness casting its clear-cut shadow. But the surpassing
glory was the prospect at the Cape of Sorrento when they reached it
on their walk back. Before them the entire sweep of the gulf, from
Ischia to Capri; Naples in its utmost extent, an unbroken line of
delicate pink, from Posillipo to Torre Annunziata. Far below their
feet the little _marina_ of Sorrento, with its row of boats drawn up
on the strand; behind them noble limestone heights. The sea was
foaming under the tramontana, and its foam took colour from the
declining sun.

Next morning they set forth again as Mallard had proposed, their
baggage packed on a donkey, a guide with them to lead the way over
the mountains to the other shore. A long climb, and at the
culminating point of the ridge they rested to look the last on
Naples; thenceforward their faces were set to the far blue hills of
Calabria.

"Yonder lies Paestum," said Mallard, pointing to the dim plain
beyond the Gulf of Salerno; and his companion's eyes were agleam.

Early in the afternoon they reached the coast at Positano, and
thence took boat for Amalfi. Elgar was like one possessed at his
first sight of the wonderful old town, nested in its mountain gorge,
overlooked by wild crags; this relic saved from the waste of
mediaeval glory. When they had put up at an inn less frequented and
much cheaper than the "Cappuccini," he would not rest until he had
used the last hour of sunlight in clambering about the little maze
of streets, or rather of mountain paths and burrows beneath houses
piled one upon another indistinguishably. Forced back by hunger, he
still lingered upon the window-balcony, looking' up at the hoary
riven tower set high above the town on what seems an inaccessible
peak, or at the cathedral and its many-coloured campanile.

How could Mallard help comparing these manifestations of ardent
temper with what he had witnessed in Cecily? The resemblance was at
moments more than he could endure; once or twice he astonished Elgar
with a reply of unprovoked savageness. The emotions of the day, even
more than its bodily exercise, had so wearied him that he went early
to bed. They had a double-bedded room, and Elgar continued talking
for hours. Even without this, Mallard felt that he would have been
unable to sleep. To add to his torments, the clock of the cathedral,
which was just on the opposite side of the street, had the terrible
southern habit of striking the whole hour after the chime at each
quarter; by midnight the clangour was all but incessant. Elgar sank
at length into oblivion, but to his companion sleep came not. Very
early in the morning there sounded the loud blast of a horn, all
through the town and away into remoteness. Signify what it might,
the practical result seemed to be a rousing of the population to
their daily life; lively voices, the tramp of feet, the clatter of
vehicles began at once, and waxed with the spread of daylight.

The sun rose, but only to gleam for an hour on clouds and vapours
which it had not power to disperse. The mountain summits were
hidden, and down their sides crept ominously the ragged edges of
mist; a thin rain began to fall, and grew heavier as the sky dulled.
Having breakfasted, the two friends spent an hour in the cathedral,
which was dark and chill and gloomy. Two or three old people knelt
in prayer, their heads bowed against column or wall; remarking the
strangers, they came 'up to them and begged.

"My spirits are disagreeably on the ebb," said Elgar. "If it's to be
a Scotch day, let us do some mountaineering."

They struck up the gorge, intending to pursue the little river, but
were soon lost among ascents and descents, narrow stairs,
precipitous gardens, and noisy paper-mills. Probably no unassisted
stranger ever made his way out of Amalfi on to the mountain slopes.
They had scorned to take a guide, but did so at length in
self-defence, so pestered were they by all but every person they
passed; man, woman, and child beset them for soldi, either frankly
begging or offering a direction and then extending their hands. The
paper-mills were not romantic; the old women who came along bending
under huge bales of rags were anything but picturesque. And it
rained, it rained.

Wet and weary, they had no choice but to return to the inn. Elgar's
animation had given place to fretfulness; Mallard, after his
miserable night, eared little to converse, and would gladly have
been alone. A midday meal, with liberal supply of wine, helped them
somewhat, and they sat down to smoke in their bedroom. It rained
harder than ever; from the window they could see the old tower on
the crag smitten with white scud.

"Come now," said Mallard, forcing himself to take a livelier tone,
"tell me about those projects of yours. Are you serious in your idea
of writing?"

"Perfectly serious."

"And what are you going to write?"

"That I haven't quite determined. lam revolving things. I have ideas
without number."

"Too many for use, then. You need to live in some such place as this
for a few weeks, and clear your thoughts. 'Company, villainous
company,' is the first thing to be avoided."

"No doubt you are right"

But it was half-heartedly said, and with a restless glance towards
the window. Mallard, in whose heart a sick weariness conflicted with
his will and his desire, went on in a dogged way.

"I want to work here for a time." Work! The syllable was like lead
upon his tongue, and the thought a desolation in his mind. "Write to
your sister; get her to send your belongings from Casa Rolandi,
together with a ream of scribbling-paper. I shall be out of doors
most of the day, and no one will disturb you here. Use the
opportunity like a man. Fall to. I have a strong suspicion that it
is now or never with you."

"I doubt whether I could do anything here."

"Perhaps not on a day like this; but it is happily exceptional.
Remember yesterday. Were I a penman, the view from this window in
sunlight would make the ink flow nobly."

Elgar was mute for a few minutes.

"I believe I need a big town. Scenes like this dispose me to idle
enjoyment. I have thought of settling in Paris for the next six
months."

Mallard made a movement of irritation.

"Then why did you come here at all? You say you have no money to
waste."

"Oh, it isn't quite so bad with me as all that," replied Elgar, as
if he slightly resented this interference with his private affairs.

Yet he had yesterday, in the flow of his good-humour, all but
confessed that it was high time he looked out for an income. Mallard
examined him askance. The other, aware of this scrutiny, put on a
smile, and said with an air of self-conquest:

"But you are right; I have every reason to trust your advice. I'll
tell you what, Mallard. To-morrow I'll drive to Salerno, take the
train to Naples, pack my traps, and relieve Miriam's mind by an
assurance that I'm going to work in your company; then at once come
back here."

"I don't see the need of going to Naples. Write a letter. Here's
paper; here's pen and ink."

Elgar was again mute. His companion, in an access of intolerable
suffering, cried out vehemently:

"Can't you see into yourself far enough to know that you are
paltering with necessity? Are you such a feeble creature that you
must be at the mercy of every childish whim, and ruin yourself for
lack of courage to do what you know you ought to do? If instability
of nature had made such work of me as it has of you, I'd cut my
throat just to prove that I could at least once make my hand obey my
will!"

"It would be but the final proof of weakness," replied Elgar,
laughing. "Or, to be more serious, what would it prove either one
way or the other? If you cut your throat, it was your destiny to do
so; just as it was to commit the follies that led you there. What is
all this nonsense about weak men and strong men? I act as I am bound
to act; I refrain as I am bound to refrain. You know it well
enough."

This repeated expression of fatalism was genuine enough. It
manifested a habit of his thought. One of the characteristics of our
time is that it produces men who are determinists by instinct; who,
anything but profound students or subtle reasoners, catch at the
floating phrases of philosophy and recognize them as the index of
their being, adopt them thenceforth as clarifiers of their vague
self-consciousness. In certain moods Elgar could not change from one
seat to another without its being brought to his mind that he had
moved by necessity.

"What if that be true?" said Mallard, with unexpected coldness. "In
practice we live as though our will were free. Otherwise, why
discuss anything?"

"True. This very discussion is a part of the scheme of things, the
necessary antecedent of something or other in your life and mine. I
shall go to Naples to-morrow; I shall spend one day there; on the
day after I shall be with you again. My hand upon it, Mallard. I
promise!"

He did so with energy. And for the moment Mallard was the truer
fatalist.

Again they left the inn, this time going seaward. Still in rain,
they walked towards Minori, along the road which is cut in the
mountain-side, high above the beach. They talked about the massive
strongholds which stand as monuments of the time when the
coast-towns were in fear of pirates. Melancholy brooded upon land
and sea; the hills of Calabria, yesterday so blue and clear, had
vanished like a sunny hope.

The morrow revealed them again. But again for Mallard there had
passed a night of much misery. On rising, he durst not speak, so
bitter was he made by Elgar's singing and whistling. Yet he would
not have eared to prevent the journey to Naples, had it been in his
power. He was sick of Elgar's company; he wished for solitude. When
his eyes fell on the materials of his art, he turned away in
disgust.

"You'll get to work as soon as I'm gone," cried Reuben, cheerfully.

"Yes."

He said it to avoid conversation.

"Cheer up, old man! I shall not disappoint you this time. You have
my promise."

"Yes."

A two-horse carriage was at the door. Mallard looked at it from the
balcony, and was direly tempted. No fear of his yielding, however,
It was not his fate to scamper whither desire pointed him.

"I have already begun to work out an idea," said Elgar, as he
breakfasted merrily. "I woke in the night, and it came to me as I
heard the bell striking. My mind is always active when I am
travelling; ten to one I shall come back ready to begin to write. I
fear there's no decent ink purchasable in Amalfi; I mustn't forget
that. By-the-bye, is there anything I can bring you?"

"Nothing, thanks."

They went down together, shook hands, and away drove the carriage.
At the public fountain in the little piazza, where stands the image
of Sant' Andrea, a group of women were busy or idling, washing
clothes and vegetables and fish, drawing water in vessels of
beautiful shape, chattering incessantly--such a group as may have
gathered there any morning for hundreds of years. Children darted
after the vehicle with their perpetual cry of "Un sord', signor!"
and Elgar royally threw to them a handful of coppers, looking back
to laugh as they scrambled.

A morning of mornings, deliciously fresh after the rain, the air
exquisitely fragrant. On the mountain-tops ever so slight a mist
still clinging, moment by moment fading against the blue.

"Yes, I shall be able to work here," said Elgar within himself.
"December, January, February; I can be ready with something for the
spring."





CHAPTER VII

THE MARTYR




Clifford Marsh left Pompeii on the same day as his two chance
acquaintances; he returned to his quarters on the Mergellina, much
perturbed in mind, beset with many doubts, with divers temptations.
"Shall I the spigot wield?" Must the ambitions of his glowing youth
come to naught, and he descend to rank among the Philistines? For,
to give him credit for a certain amount of good sense, he never
gravely contemplated facing the world in the sole strength of his
genius. He knew one or two who had done so before his mind's eye was
a certain little garret in Chelsea, where an acquaintance of his, a
man of real and various powers, was year after year taxing his brain
and heart in a bitter struggle with penury; and these glimpses of
Bohemia were far from inspiring Clifford with zeal for
naturalization. Elated with wine and companionship, he liked to pose
as one who was sacrificing "prospects" to artistic
conscientiousness; but, even though he had "fallen back" on
landscape, he was very widely awake to the fact that his
impressionist studies would not supply him with bread, to say
nothing of butter--and Clifford must needs have both.

That step-father of his was a well-to-do manufacturer of shoddy in
Leeds, one Hibbert, a good-natured man on the whole, but of limited
horizon. He had married a widow above his own social standing, and
for a long time was content to supply her idolized son with the
means of pursuing artistic studies in London and abroad. But Mr.
Hibbert had a strong opinion that this money should by now have
begun to make some show of productiveness. Domestic grounds of
dissatisfaction ripened his resolve to be firm with young Mr. Marsh.
Mrs. Hibbert was extravagant; doubtless her son was playing the fool
in the same direction. After all, one could pay too much for the
privilege of being snubbed by one's superior wife and step-son. If
Clifford were willing to "buckle to" at sober business (it was now
too late for him to learn a profession), well and good; he should
have an opening at which many a young fellow would jump. Otherwise,
let the fastidious gentleman pay his own tailor's bills.

Clifford's difficulties were complicated by his relations with
Madeline Denyer. It was a year since he had met Madeline at Naples,
had promptly fallen in love with her face and her advanced opinions,
and had won her affection in return. Clifford was then firm in the
belief that, if he actually married, Mr. Hibbert would not have the
heart to stop his allowance; Mrs. Denyer had reasons for thinking
otherwise, and her daughter saw the case in the same light. It must
be added that he presumed the Denyers to be better off than they
really were; in fact, he was to a great extent misled. His dignity,
if the worst came about, would not have shrunk from moderate
assistance at the hands of his parents-in-law. Madeline knew well
enough that nothing of this kind was possible, and in the end made
her lover's mind clear on the point. Since then the course of these
young people's affections had been anything but smooth. However, the
fact remained that there _was_ mutual affection--which, to be
sure, made the matter worse.

Distinctly so since the estrangement which had followed Marsh's
arrival at the boarding-house. He did not take Madeline's advice to
seek another abode, and for two or three days Madeline knew not
whether to be glad or offended at his remaining. For two or three
days only; then she began to have a pronounced opinion on the
subject. It was monstrous that he should stay under this roof and
sit at this table, after what had happened. He had no delicacy; he
was behaving as no gentleman could. It was high time that her mother
spoke to him.

Mrs. Denyer solemnly invited the young man to a private interview.

"Mr. Marsh," she began, with pained dignity, whilst Clifford stood
before her twiddling his watch-chain, "I really think the time has
come for me to ask an explanation of what is going on. My daughter
distresses me by saying that all is at an end between you. If that
is really the case, why do you continue to live here, when you must
know how disagreeable it is to Madeline?"

"Mrs. Denyer," replied Clifford, in a friendly tone. "there has been
a misunderstanding between us, but I am very far from reconciling
myself to the thought that everything is at an end. My remaining
surely proves that."

"I should have thought so. But in that case I am obliged to ask you
another question. What can you mean by paying undisguised attentions
to another young lady who is living here?"

"You astonish me. What foundation is there for such a charge?"

"At least you won't affect ignorance as to the person of whom I
speak. I assure you that I am not the only one who has noticed
this."

"You misinterpret my behaviour altogether. Of course, you are
speaking of Miss Doran. If your observation had been accurate, you
would have noticed that Miss Doran gives me no opportunity of paying
her attentions, if I wished. Certainly I have had conversations with
Mrs. Lessingham, but I see no reason why I should deny myself that
pleasure."

"This is sophistry. You walked about the museum with _both_ these
ladies for a long time yesterday."

Clifford was startled, and could not conceal it.

"Of course," he exclaimed, "if my movements are watched, with a view
to my accusation--!"

And he broke off significantly.

"Your movements are not watched. But if I happen to hear of such
things, I must draw my own conclusions."

"I give you my assurance that the meeting was purely by chance, and
that our conversation was solely of indifferent matters--of art,
of Pompeii, and so on."

"Perhaps you are not aware," resumed Mrs. Denyer, with a smile that
made caustic comment on this apology, "that, when we sit at table,
your eyes are directed to Miss Doran with a frequency that no one
can help observing."

Marsh hesitated; then, throwing his head back, remarked in an
unapproachable manner:

"Mrs. Denyer, you will not forget that I am an artist."

"I don't forget that you profess to be one, Mr. Marsh."

This was retort with a vengeance. Clifford reddened slightly, and
looked angry. Mrs. Denyer had reached the point to which her remarks
were from the first directed, and it was not her intention to spare
the young man's susceptibilities. She had long ago gauged him, and
not inaccurately on the whole; it seemed to her that he was of the
men who can be "managed."

"I fail to understand you," said Marsh, with dignity.

"My dear Clifford, let me speak to you as one who has your
well-being much at heart. I have no wish to hurt your feelings, but
I have been upset by this silly affair, and it makes me speak a
little sharply. Now, I see well enough what you have been about; it
is an old device of young gentlemen who wish to revenge themselves
just a little for what they think a slight. Of course you have never
given a thought to Miss Doran, who, as you say, would never dream of
carrying on a flirtation, for she knows how things are between you
and Madeline, and she is a young lady of very proper behaviour. In
no case, as you of course understand, could she be so indelicate as
anything of this kind would imply. No; but you are vexed with
Madeline about some silly little difference, and you play with her
feelings. There has been enough of it; I must interfere. And now let
us talk a little about your position. Madeline has, of course, told
me everything. Listen to me, my dear Clifford; you must at once
accept Mr. Hibbert's kindly meant proposal--you must indeed."

Marsh had reflected anxiously during this speech. He let a moment of
silence pass; then said gravely:

"I cannot consent to do anything of the kind, Mrs. Denyer."

"Oh yes, you can and will, Clifford. Silly boy, don't you see that
in this way you secure yourself the future just suited to your
talents? As an artist you will never make your way; that is certain.
As a man with a substantial business at your back, you can indulge
your artistic tastes quite sufficiently, and will make yourself the
centre of an admiring circle. We cannot all be stars of the first
magnitude. Be content to shine in a provincial sphere, at all events
for a time. Madeline as your wife will help you substantially. You
will have good society, and better the richer you become. You are
made to be a rich man and to enjoy life. Now let us settle this
affair with your step-father."

Still Clifford reflected, and again with the result that he appeared
to have no thought of being persuaded to such concessions. The
debate went on for a long time, ultimately with no little vigour on
both sides. Its only immediate result was that Marsh left the house
for a few days, retiring to meditate at Pompeii.

In the mean time there was no apparent diminution in Madeline's
friendliness towards Cecily Doran. It was not to be supposed that
Madeline thought tenderly of the other's beauty, or with warm
admiration of her endowments; but she would not let Clifford Marsh
imagine that it mattered to her in the least if he at once
transferred his devotion to Miss Doran. Her tone in conversing with
Cecily became a little more patronizing,--though she spoke no more
of impressionism,--in proportion as she discovered the younger
girl's openness of mind and her lack of self-assertiveness.

"You play the piano, I think?" she said one day.

"For my own amusement only."

"And you draw?"

"With the same reserve."

"Ah," said Madeline, "I have long since given up these things. Don't
you think it is a pity to make a pastime of an art? I soon saw that
I was never likely really to _do_ anything in music or drawing, and
out of respect for them I ceased to--to potter. Please don't think
I apply that word to you."

"Oh, but it is very applicable," replied Cecily, with a laugh. "I
think you are quite right; I often enough have the same feeling. But
I am full of inconsistencies--as you are finding out, I know."

Mrs. Lessingham displayed good nature in her intercourse with the
Denyers. She smiled in private, and of course breathed to Cecily a
word of warning; but the family entertained her, and Madeline she
came really to like. With Mrs. Denyer she compared notes on the
Italy of other days.

"A sad, sad change!" Mrs. Denyer was wont to sigh. "All the poetry
gone! Think of Rome before 1870, and what it is now becoming. One
never looked for intellect in Italy--living intellect, of course,
I mean--but natural poetry one did expect and find. It is
heart-breaking, this progress! If it were not for my dear girls, I
shouldn't be here; they adore Italy--of course, never having known
it as it was. And I am sure you must feel, as I do, Mrs. Lessingham,
the miserable results of cheapened travel. Oh, the people one sees
at railway-stations, even meets in hotels, I am sorry to say,
sometimes! In a few years, I do believe, Genoa and Venice will
strongly remind one of Margate."

No echo of the cry of "Wolf!" ever sounded in Mrs. Denyer's
conversation when she spoke of her husband. That Odysseus of
commerce was always referred to as being concerned in enterprises of
mysterious importance and magnitude; she would hint that he had
political missions, naturally not to be spoken of in plain terms.
Mrs. Lessingham often wondered with a smile what the truth really
was; she saw no reason for making conjectures of a disagreeable
kind, but it was pretty clear to her that selfishness, idleness, and
vanity were at the root of Mrs. Denyer's character, and in a measure
explained the position of the family.

During the last few days, Barbara had exhibited a revival of
interest in the "place in Lincolnshire." Her experiments proved that
it needed but a moderate ingenuity to make Mr. Musselwhite's
favourite topic practically inexhaustible. The "place" itself having
been sufficiently described, it was natural to inquire what other
"places" were its neighbours, what were the characteristics of the
nearest town, how long it took to drive from the "place" to the
town, from the "place" to such another "place," and so on. Mr.
Musselwhite was undisguisedly grateful for every remark or question
that kept him talking at his ease. It was always his dread lest a
subject should be broached on which he could say nothing whatever--
there were so many such!--and as often as Barbara broke a silence
without realizing his fear, he glanced at her with the gentlest and
most amiable smile. Never more than glanced; yet this did not seem
to be the result of shyness; rather it indicated a lack of mental
activity, of speculation, of interest in her as a human being.

One morning he lingered at the luncheon-table when nearly all the
others had withdrawn, playing with crumbs, and doubtless shrinking
from the _ennui_ that lay before him until dinner-time. Near him,
Mrs. Denyer, Barbara, and Zillah were standing in conversation about
some photographs that had this morning come by post.

"This one isn't at all like you, my dear," said Mrs. Denyer, with
emphasis, to her eldest girl. "The other is passable, but I wouldn't
have any of these."

"Well, of course I am no judge," replied Barbara, "but I can't agree
with you. I much prefer this one."

Mr. Musselwhite was slowly rising.

"Let us take some one else's opinion," said the mother. "I wonder
what Mr. Musselwhite would say?"

The mention of his name caused him to turn his head, half absently,
with an inquiring smile. Barbara withdrew a step, but Mrs. Denyer,
in the most natural way possible, requested Mr. Musselwhite's
judgment on the portraits under discussion.

He took the two in his hands, and, after inspecting them, looked
round to make comparison with the original. Barbara met his gaze
placidly, with gracefully poised head, her hands joined behind her.
It was such a long time before the arbiter found anything to remark,
that the situation became a little embarrassing; Zillah laughed
girlishly, and her sister's eyes fell.

"Really, it's very hard to decide," said Mr. Musselwhite at length,
with grave conscientiousness. "I think they're both remarkably good.
I really think I should have some of both."

"Barbara thinks that this makes her look too childish," said Mrs.
Denyer, using her daughter's name with a pleasant familiarity.

Again Mr. Musselwhite made close comparison. It was, in fact, the
first time that he had seen the girl's features; hitherto they had
been, like everything else not embalmed in his memory, a mere vague
perception, a detail of the phantasmic world through which he
struggled against his _ennui_.

"Childish? Oh dear, no!" he remarked, almost vivaciously. "It is
charming; they are both charming. Really, I'd have some of both,
Miss Denyer."

"Then we certainly will," was Mrs. Denyer's conclusion; and with a
gracious inclination of the head, she left the room, followed by her
daughters. Mr. Musselwhite looked round for another glance at
Barbara, but of course he was just too late.

Poor Madeline, in the meantime, was being sorely tried. Whilst
Clifford Marsh was away at Pompeii, daily "scenes" took place
between her and her mother. Mrs. Denyer would have had her make
conciliatory movements, whereas Madeline, who had not exchanged a
word with Clifford since the parting in wrath, was determined not to
be the first to show signs of yielding. And she held her ground,
tearless, resentful, strong in a sense of her own importance.

When he again took his place at Mrs. Gluck's table, Clifford had the
air of a man who has resigned himself to the lack of sympathy and
appreciation--nay, who defies everything external, and in the
strength of his genius goes serenely onwards. Never had he displayed
such self-consciousness; not for an instant did he forget to
regulate the play of his features. Mrs. Denyer he had greeted
distantly; her daughters, more distantly still. He did not look more
than once or twice in Miss Doran's direction, for Mrs. Denyer's
reproof had made him conscious of an excess in artistic homage. His
neighbour being Mr. Bradshaw, he conversed with him agreeably,
smiling seldom. He seemed neither depressed nor uneasy; his
countenance wore a grave and noble melancholy, now and then
illumined with an indescribable ardour.

The Bradshaws had begun to talk of leaving Naples, but this seemed
to be the apology for enjoying themselves which is so characteristic
of English people. Even Mrs. Bradshaw found her life from day to day
very pleasant, and in consequence never saw her friends at the villa
without expressing much uneasiness about affairs at home, and
blaming her husband for making so long a stay. Both of them were now
honoured with the special attention of Mr. Marsh. Clifford was never
so much in his element as when conversing of art and kindred matters
with persons who avowed their deficiencies in that sphere of
knowledge, yet were willing to learn; relieved from the fear of
criticism, he expanded, he glowed, he dogmatized. With Mrs.
Lessingham he could not be entirely at his ease; her eye was
occasionally disturbing to a pretender who did not lack discernment.
But in walking about the museum with Mr. Bradshaw, he was the most
brilliant of ciceroni. Jacob was not wholly credulous, for he had
spoken of the young man with Mrs. Lessingham, but he found such
companionship entertaining enough from time to time, and Clifford's
knowledge of Italian was occasionally a help to him.

A day or two of moderate intimacy with any person whatsoever always
led Clifford to a revelation of his private circumstances; it was
not long before Mr. Bradshaw was informed not only of Mr. Hibbert's
harshness, but of the painful treatment to which Clifford was being
subjected at the hands of Mrs. Denyer and Madeline. The latter point
was handled with a good deal of tact, for Clifford had it in view'
that through Mr. Bradshaw his words would one way or other reach
Mrs. Lessingham, and so perchance come to Miss Doran's ears. He made
no unworthy charges; he spoke not in anger, but in sorrow; he was
misunderstood, he was depreciated, by those who should have devoted
themselves to supporting his courage under adversity. And as he
talked, he became the embodiment of calm magnanimity; the rhetoric
which was meant to impress his listener had an exalting effect upon
himself--as usual.

"You mean to hold out, then?" asked the bluff Jacob, with a smile
which all but became a chuckle.

"I am an artist," was the noble reply. "I cannot abandon my life's
work."

"But how about bread and cheese? They are necessary to an artist, as
much as to other men, I'm afraid."

Clifford smiled calmly.

"I shall not be the first who has starved in such a cause."

Jacob roared as he related this conversation to his wife.

"I must keep an eye on the lad," he said. "When I hear he's given
in, I'll write him a letter of congratulation."





CHAPTER VIII

PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION




An interesting conversation took place one morning between Mrs.
Spence and Mrs. Lessingham with regard to Cecily. They were alone
together at the villa; Cecily and Miriam had gone for a drive with
the Bradshaws. After speaking of Reuben Elgar, Mrs. Lessingham
passed rather abruptly to what seemed a disconnected subject.

"I don't think it's time yet for Cecily to give up her set studies.
I should like to find some one to read with her regularly again
before long--say Latin and history; there would be no harm in a
little mathematics. But there's a difficulty in finding the suitable
person." She smiled. "I'm afraid only a lady will answer the
purpose."

"Better, no doubt," assented Eleanor, also with a smile.

"And ladies who would be any good to Cecily are not at one's
disposition every day. What an admirable mind she has! I never knew
any one acquire with so little effort. Of course, she has long ago
left me behind in everything. The only use I can be to her is to
help her in gaining knowledge of the world--not to be learnt
entirely out of books, we know."

"What is your system with her?"

"You see that I have one," said Mrs. Lessingham, gratified, and
rustling her plumage a little as a lady does when she is about to
speak in confidence of something that pleases her. "Of course, I
very soon understood that the ordinary _surveillance_ and
restrictions and moral theories were of little use in her case. (I
may speak with you quite freely, I am sure.) I'm afraid the results
would have been very sad if Cecily had grown up in Lancashire."

"I doubt whether she would have grown up at all."

"Indeed, it seemed doubtful. If her strength had not utterly failed,
she must have suffered dreadfully in mind. I studied her carefully
during the first two years; then I was able to pursue my method with
a good deal of confidence. It has been my aim to give free play to
all her faculties; to direct her intelligence, but never to check
its growth--as is commonly done. We know what is meant by a girl's
education, as a rule; it is not so much the imparting of knowledge
as the careful fostering of special ignorances. I think I put it
rightly?"

"I think so."

"It is usual to say that a girl must know nothing of this and that
and the other thing--these things being, in fact, the most
important for her to understand. I won't say that every girl can
safely be left so free as I have left Cecily; but when one has to
deal with exceptional intelligence, why not yield it the exceptional
advantages? Then again, I had to bear in mind that Cecily has strong
emotions. This seemed to me only another reason for releasing her
mind from the misconceptions it is usual to encourage. I have done
my best to help her to see things as they _are_, not as moral
teachers would like them to be, and as parents make-believe to their
girls that they are indeed."

Mrs. Lessingham ended on a suave note of triumph, and smiled very
graciously as Eleanor looked approval.

"The average parent says," she pursued, "that his or her daughter
must be kept pure-minded, and therefore must grow up in a fool's
paradise. I have no less liking for purity, but I understand it in
rather a different sense; certain examples of the common purity that
I have met with didn't entirely recommend themselves to me. Then
again, the average parent says that the daughter's lot in life is
marriage, and that after marriage is time enough for her to throw
away the patent rose-coloured spectacles. I, on the other hand,
should be very sorry indeed to think that Cecily has no lot in life
besides marriage; to me she seemed a human being to be instructed
and developed, not a pretty girl to be made ready for the market.
The rose coloured spectacles had no part whatever in my system. I
have known some who threw them aside at marriage, in the ordinary
way, with the result that they thenceforth looked on everything very
obliquely indeed. I'm sorry to say that it was my own fate to wear
those spectacles, and I know only too well how hard a struggle it
cost me to recover healthy eyesight."

"Mine fell off and got broken long before I was married," said
Eleanor, "and my parents didn't think it worth while to buy new
ones."

"Wise parents! No, I have steadily resisted the theory that a girl
must know nothing, think nothing, but what is likely to meet the
approval of the average husband--that is to say, the foolish, and
worse than foolish, husband. I see no such difference between girl
and boy as demands a difference in moral training; we know what
comes of the prevalent contrary views. And in Cecily's case, I
believe I have vindicated my theory. She respects herself; she knows
all that lack of self-respect involves. She has been fed on
wholesome victuals, not on adulterated milk. She is not haunted with
that vulgar shame which passes for maiden modesty. Do you find fault
with her, as a girl?"

"I should have to ponder long for an objection."

"And what is the practical result? In whatever society she is, I am
quite easy in mind about her. Cecily will never do anything foolish.
It's only the rose-coloured spectacles that cause stumbling. And I
mean by 'stumbling' all the silliness to which girls are subject.
Ah! if I could live _my_ girlhood over again, and with some sensible
woman to guide me! If I could have been put on my guard against
idiotic illusions, as Cecily is!"

"We mustn't expect too much of education," Eleanor ventured to
remark. "There is no way of putting experience into a young girl's
head. It would say little for her qualities if a girl could not make
a generous mistake."

"Such mistakes are not worthy of being called generous, as a rule.
They are too imbecile. That state of illusion is too contemptible.
There is very little danger of Cecily's seeing any one in a grossly
false light."

Eleanor did not at once assent.

"You seem to doubt that?" added the other, with a searching look.

"I think she is as well guarded as a girl can be; but, as I said
before, education is no substitute for experience. Don't think me
captious, however. I sympathize entirely with the course you have
taken. If I had a daughter, I should like her to be brought up on
the same principles."

"Cecily is very mature for her age," continued Mrs. Lessingham, with
evident pleasure in stating and restating her grounds of confidence.
"She feels strongly, but never apart from judgment. Now and then she
astonishes me with her discernment of character; clearness of
thought seems almost to anticipate in her the experience on which
you lay such stress. Have you noticed her with Mr. Mallard? How
differently many girls would behave! But Cecily understands him so
well; she knows he thinks of her as a child, and nothing could be
more simply natural than her friendship for him. I suppose Mr.
Mallard is one of the artists who never marry?"

"I don't know him well enough to decide that," answered Eleanor,
with a curious smile.

It was in the evening of this day, when the Spences and Miriam were
sitting together after dinner, that a servant announced a visit of
Reuben Elgar, adding that he was in his sister's room. Miriam went
to join him.

"You can spare me a minute or two?" he asked cheerily, as she
entered.

"Certainly. You are just back from Pompeii?"

"From Castellamare--from Sorrento the indescribable--from Amalfi
the unimaginable--from Salerno! Leave Naples without seeing those
places, and hold yourself for ever the most wretched of mortals! Old
Mallard forced me to go with him, and I am in his debt to eternity!"

This exalted manner of speech was little to Miriam's taste
especially from her brother. Sobriety was what she desired in him.
It seemed a small advantage that his extravagance should exhibit
itself in this way rather than in worse; the danger was still there.

"Sit down, and talk more quietly. You say Mr. Mallard _forced_ you
to go?"

"I was coming back to Naples from Pompeii. By-the-bye, I went up
Vesuvius, and descended shoeless. The guides ought to have metal
boots on hire. I was coming back, but Mallard clutched me by the
coat-collar. Even now I've come sorely against his will. I left him
at Amalfi. I'm going to settle my affairs here to-morrow, and join
him again. He's persuaded me to try and work at Amalfi."

"How long do you think of staying there?"

"It all depends. Perhaps I shan't be able to do anything, after
all."

"But surely that depends on yourself."

"Not a bit! If I were a carpenter or bricklayer, one might say so--
in a sense. But such work as I am going to do is a question of mood,
influences, caprices--"

Miriam reflected.

"Mr. Mallard was unwilling to let you return here?"

"Naturally. He knows my uncertainty. But I have promised him; I
shall keep my word."

"He is working himself?"

"Will be by now; we had horrible day of rain at Amalfi. He seems
rather glummer than usual, but that won't hinder his work. I wish I
had the old fellow's energy. After all, though, one can force one's
self to use pencils and brushes; it's a different thing when all has
to come from the brain. If you haven't a quiet mind--"

"What disturbs you?" Miriam asked, watching him.

"Oh, there's always something. I wish you could give me a share of
your equanimity. Never mind, I shall try. By-the-bye, I ought to
have a word with Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily before I go. Are they
likely to be here tomorrow?"

"I can't say."

"Then I shall call at their place. When will they be at home?"

"Do you think you ought to do that?" Miriam asked, without looking
at him.

"Why on earth not?"

His brow darkened, and he seemed about to utter something not unlike
his vehemencies on the day of arrival.

"You must judge for yourself, of course," said Miriam. "We won't
talk about it."

Reuben nodded agreement carelessly. Then he began to talk of his
proposed work, and presently they went to join the Spences. For an
hour or more, Reuben held forth rapturously on what he had seen
these last few days. He could not rest seated, but paced up and down
the room, gesticulating, fervidly eloquent.

"Do play me something, will you, Mrs. Spence?" he asked at length.
(His cousinship with Eleanor had never been affirmed by intimate
association, and he had not the habit of addressing her by the
personal name.) "Just for ten minutes; then I'll be off and trouble
you no more. Something to invigorate! A rugged piece!"

Eleanor made a choice from Beethoven, and, whilst she played, Elgar
leant forward on the back of a chair. Then he bade them good-bye,
his pulse at fever-time.

Half-past ten next morning found him walking hither and thither on
the Mergellina, frequently consulting his watch. He decided at
length to approach the house in which his acquaintances dwelt.
Passing through the _portone_, whom should he encounter but Clifford
Marsh, known to him only from the casual meeting at Pompeii, not by
name. They stopped to speak. Elgar inquired if the other lived at
Mrs. Gluck's.

"For the present."

"I have friends here," Reuben added. "You know Mrs. Lessingham?"

"Oh yes," replied Clifford, eyeing his collocutor. "If you are
calling to see those ladies," he continued, "they went out half an
hour ago. I saw them drive away."

Elgar muttered his annoyance. Though he disliked doing so, he asked
Marsh whether he knew when the ladies were likely to return.
Clifford declared his ignorance. The two looked at each other,
smiled, said good morning, and turned different ways.

Reuben walked about the sea-front for a couple of hours. "Who is
that confounded fellow?" he kept asking in his mind, adding the
highly ludicrous question, "What business has he to know them?" His
impatience waxed; now and then he strode at such a pace that
perspiration covered him. The most trivial discomposure had often
much the same effect on him; if he happened to have a difficulty in
finding his way, for instance, he would fume himself into
exasperated heat.

"What business have they to live in a vulgar boarding house? It's
abominable bad taste and indiscretion in that woman. In fact, I
don't like Mrs. Lessingham.--And what the devil has it to do with
me?"

He strode up to the villa. Possibly they were there; yet he didn't
like to call--for various reasons. He fretted about the roads,
this way and that, till hunger oppressed him. Having eaten at the
first restaurant he came to, he directed his steps towards the
Mergellina again. At two o'clock he reached the house and made
inquiry. The ladies had not yet returned.

He struck off towards the Chiaia, again paced backwards and
forwards, cursed at carriage-drivers who plagued him, tried to amuse
himself on the Santa Lucia. And pray what was all this fuss about?
When he rose this morning, he had half a mind to start at once for
Amalfi, and not see Mrs. Lessingham and her niece at all; he "didn't
know that be cared much." He had met Cecily Doran twice. The second
time was on the Strada Nuova di Posillipo, where he encountered a
carriage in which Cecily and her aunt were taking the air; he talked
with them for three minutes. It was the undeniable fact that he had
broken away from "old Mallard" merely to see Cecily again. He had
never tried to blind himself to it; that kind of thing was not in
his way. None the less was it a truth that he thought himself
capable of saying good-bye to the wonderful girl, and posting off to
his literary work. Why expose himself to temptation? Because he
chose to; because it was pleasant; surely an excellent reason.

If only he hadn't come up against that confounded artist-fellow!
That had upset him, most absurdly. A half good-looking sort of
fellow: a fellow who could prate with a certain _brio_; not unlikely
to make something of a figure in the eyes of a girl like Cecily. And
what then?

Before now, Elgar had confessed to a friend that he couldn't read
the marriage-column in a newspaper without feeling a distinct
jealousy of all the male creatures there mentioned.

He sought out a _caffe_, and sat there for an hour, drinking a
liquor that called itself lacryma-Christi, but would at once have
been detected for a pretender by a learned palate. He drank it for
the first time, and tried to enjoy it, but his mind kept straying to
alien things. When it was nearly four o'clock, he again went forth,
took a carriage, and bade the man drive quickly.

This time he was successful. A servant conducted him by many stairs
and passages to Mrs. Lessingham's sitting-room. He entered, and
found himself alone with Cecily.

"Mrs. Lessingham will certainly be back very soon," she said, in
shaking hands with him. "They told me you had called before, and I
thought you would like better to wait a few minutes than to be
disappointed again."

"I think of going to Amalfi to-morrow morning, perhaps for a long
time," remarked the visitor. "I wished to say good bye."

The accumulated impatience and nervousness of the whole morning
disturbed his pulses and put a weight upon his tongue; he spoke with
awkward indecision, held himself awkwardly. His own voice sounded
boorish to him after Cecily's accents.

Cecily began to speak of how she had spent the day. Her aunt was
making purchases--was later in returning than had been expected.
Then she asked for an account of Elgar's doings since they last met.
The conversation grew easier Reuben began to recover his natural
voice, and to lose disagreeable self-consciousness in the delight of
hearing Cecily and meeting her look. Had he known her better, he
would have observed that she spoke with unusual diffidence, that she
was not quite so self-possessed a. of wont, and that her manner was
deficient in the frank gaiety which as a rule made its great charm.
Her tone softened itself in questioning; she listened so attentively
that, when he had ceased speaking, her eyes always rose to his, as
if she had expected something further.

"Who is the young artist that lives here?" Elgar inquired. "I met
him at Pompeii, and to-day came upon him here in the courtyard. A
slight, rather boyish fellow."

"I think you mean Mr. Marsh," replied Cecily, smiling. "He has
recently been at Pompeii, I know."

"You are on friendly terms with him?"

"Not on _un_friendly," she answered, with amusement.

Elgar averted his face. Instantly the flow of his blood was again
turbid; he felt an inclination to fling out some ill-mannered
remark.

"You must come in contact with all kinds of odd people in a place
like this."

"One or two are certainly odd," was the reply, in a gentle tone;
"but most of them are very pleasant to be with occasionally.
Naturally we see more of the Bradshaws than of any one else. There's
a family named Denyer--a lady with three daughters; I don't think
you would dislike them. Mr. Marsh is their intimate friend."

It was all but as though she pleaded against a mistaken judgment
which troubled her. To Mallard she had spoken of her fellow-boarders
in quite a different way, with merry though kindly criticism, or in
the strain of generous idealization which so often marked her
language.

"Do you know anything of his work?" Elgar pursued.

"I have seen a few of his water-colour drawings."

"He showed you them?"

"No; one of the Miss Denyers did. He had given them to her"

"Oh!" He at once brightened. "And how did they strike you?"

"I'm sorry to say they didn't interest me much. But I have no right
to sit in judgment."

Elgar had the good taste to say nothing more on the subject. He let
his eyes rest on her down-turned face for a moment.

"You see a good deal of Miriam, I'm glad to hear."

"I am sometimes afraid I trouble her by going too often."

"Have no such fear. I wish you were living under the same roof with
her. No one's society could do her so much good as yours. The poor
girl has too long been in need of such an aid to rational
cheerfulness."

They were interrupted by the entrance of an English maidservant, who
asked whether Miss Doran would have tea brought at once, or wait
till Mrs. Lessingham's return.

"You see how English we are," said Cecily to her visitor. "I think
we'll have it now; Mrs. Lessingham may be hero any moment."

It was growing dusk. Whilst the conversation was diverted by
trifles, two lighted lamps were brought into the room. Elgar had
risen and gone to the window.

"We won't shut out the evening sky," said Cecily, standing not far
from him.

The door closed upon the servant who had carried in the tea-tray.
Elgar turned to his companion, and said in a musing tone, with a
smile:

"How long is it since we saw each other every day in Manchester?"

"Seven years since that short time you spent with us."

"Seven; yes. You were not twelve then; I was not quite twenty-one.
As regards change, a lifetime might have passed since, with both of
us. Yet I don't feel very old, not oppressively ancient."

"And I'm sure I don't."

They laughed together.

"You are younger than you were then," he continued, in his most
characteristic voice, the voice which was musical and alluring, and
suggestive of his nature's passionate depths and heights. "You have
grown into health of body and soul, and out of all the evil things
that would have robbed you of natural happiness. Nothing ever made
me more glad than first seeing you at the villa. I didn't know what
you had become, and in looking at you I rejoiced on your account.
You would gladden even miserable old age, like sunlight on a morning
of spring."

Cecily moved towards the tea-table in silence. She began to fill one
of the cups, but put the teapot down again and waited for a moment.
Having resumed her purpose, she looked round and saw Elgar seated
sideways on a chair by the window. With the cup of tea in her hand,
she approached him and offered it without speaking. He rose quickly
to take it, and went to another part of the room.

"I hope Miriam will stay here the whole winter," Cecily said, as she
seated herself by the table.

"I hope so," he assented absently, putting his tea aside. "How long
are you and Mrs. Lessingham likely to stay?"

"At least till February, I think."

"Shall you get as far as Amalfi some day?"

"Oh yes And Miriam will come with us, I hope. And to Capri too."

"I must see Capri. I shouldn't wonder if I go there soon; probably
it would suit my purpose better than Amalfi. Yet I must be alone, if
I am to work. I haven't Mallard's detachment. That seems to you a
paltry confession of weakness."

"No, indeed. I am told that Mr. Mallard is quite exceptional in his
power of disregarding everything but his work."

"Exceptional in many things, no doubt. I must seem very
insignificant in comparison."

"Why should you? Mr. Mallard is so much older; he has long been
fixed in his course."

"Older, yes," assented Elgar, with satisfaction." Perhaps at his age
I too may have done something worth doing."

"Who could doubt it?"

"It does me good to hear you say that!"

He moved from his distant place, and threw himself in one of his
usual careless attitudes on a nearer chair. "But Miriam has no faith
in me, not a jot Does she speak harshly of me to you?"

"No."

Cecily shook her head, and seemed unable to speak more than the
monosyllable.

"But she has nothing encouraging to say? She shows that she looks
upon me as one of whom no good can come? That is the impression you
have received from her?"

Cecily looked at him gravely.

"She has scarcely spoken of you at all--scarcely more than the few
words that were inevitable."

"In itself a condemnation."

Cecily was mute. Before Elgar could say anything more, the door
opened. With a sudden radiance on her features, the girl looked up
to greet Mrs. Lessingham's entrance.

"How long you have been, aunt!"

"Yes; I am sorry. How do you do, Mr. Elgar? Tea, Cecily, lest I
perish!"

From the doorway her quick glance had scrutinized both the young
people. Of course she betrayed no surprise; neither did she make
exhibition of pleasure. Her greeting of the visitor was gracefully
casual, given in passing. She sank upon a low chair as if overcome
with weariness. Mrs. Lessingham had nothing to learn in the arts
wherewith social intercourse is kept smooth in spite of nature's
improprieties. When she chose, she could be the awe-inspiring
chaperon, no less completely than she was at other times the
contemner of the commonplace.

"So you leave us to-morrow, Mr. Elgar? I have just met Mr. Spence,
and heard the news from him. I am glad you could find a moment to
call. You are going to be very busy, I hear, for the rest of the
winter."

"I hope so," Elgar replied, walking across the room to fetch his
half-emptied teacup.

"We shall look eagerly for the results of your work."

For ten minutes the conversation kept a rather flat course. Cecily
only spoke when addressed by her aunt; then quite in her usual way.
Elgar took the first opportunity to signal departure. When Cecily
gave him her hand, it was with a moment's unfaltering look--a look
very different from that which charmed everyday acquaintances at
their coming and going, unlike anything man or woman had yet seen on
her countenance. The faintest smile hovered about her lips as she
said, "Good-bye;" her steadfast eyes added the hope which there was
no need to speak.

When he was gone, Mrs. Lessingham sipped her tea in silence. Cecily
moved about and presently brought a book to her chair by the
tea-table.

"No doubt you had the advantage of hearing Mr. Elgar's projects
detailed," said her aunt, with irony which presumed a complete
understanding between them.

"No." Cecily shook her head and smiled.

"Curious how closely he and Mr. Marsh resemble each other at times."

"Do you think so?"

"Haven't you noticed it? There are differences, of course. Mr. Elgar
is originally much better endowed; though at present I should think
he is even less to be depended upon, either intellectually or
morally. But they belong to the same species. What numbers of such
young men I have met!"

"What are the characteristics of the species, aunt?" Cecily
inquired, with a pleasant laugh.

"I dare say you know them almost as well as I do. You might write an
essay on 'The Young Man of Promise' of our day. I should be rather
too severe; you would treat them with a lighter hand, and therefore
more effectually."

In speaking, she kept her eyes on the girl, who appeared to muse the
subject with sportful malice.

"I am not sure," said Cecily, "that Mr. Elgar would come into the
essay."

"You mean that his promise is too obviously delusive?"

"Not exactly that. I rather think he should have an essay to
himself."

"Of what tendency?" asked Mrs. Lessingham, still closely observant.

"Oh, it would need much meditation; but I think I could make it
interesting."

With another laugh, she dismissed the subject; nor did her aunt
endeavour to revive it.

The morrow was Sunday. Elgar knew at what time his tram left for
Salerno; the time-table was the same as for other days. Yet he lay
in bed till nearly noon, till the train had long since started. No,
he should not go to-day.

It irked him to rise at all. He had not slept; his head was hot, and
his hands shook nervously. Dressed, he sat down for a minute, and
remained seated half an hour, gazing at the wall. When at length he
left the house, he walked without seeing anything, stumbling against
things and people.

Of course, he knew last night that there was no journey for him
to-day. Promise? A promise is void when its fulfilment has become
impossible. Very likely Mallard had a conviction that he would not
come back at the appointed time. To-morrow, perhaps; and perhaps not
even to-morrow It had got beyond his control.

He ate, and returned to his room. Just now his need was physical
repose, undisturbed indulgence of reverie. And the reverie of a man
in his condition is a singular process. It consists of a small
number of memories, forecasts, Imaginings, repeated over and over
again, till one would think the brain must weary itself beyond
endurance. It can go on for many hours consecutively, and not only
remain a sufficient and pleasurable employment, but render every
other business repulsive, all but impossible.

At evening there came a change. He was now unable to keep still; he
went into the town, and exhausted himself with. walking up and down
the hilly streets. Society would have helped him, but he could find
none. He would not go to the villa; still less could he visit the
boarding-house.

What a night! At times he moved about his room like one in frantic
pain, finally flinging himself upon the bed and lying there till the
impulse of his fevered mind broke the beginnings of sleep. Or he
walked the length of the floor, with measured step, fifty times,
counting each time he turned--a sort of conscious insanity. Or he
took his pocket-knife, and drove the point into the flesh of his
arm, satisfied when the pang became intolerable. Then again a loss
of all control in mere frenzy, the desire to shout, to yell. . . .

Elgar was out of the house at sunrise. He went down to the Chiaia,
loitered this way and that, always in the end facing towards
Posillipo. He drank his coffee, but ate nothing; then again walked
along the sea-front. Between nine and ten he turned into the upward
road, and went with purpose towards Villa Sannazaro.





CHAPTER IX

IN THE DEAD CITY




Through it was Sunday, Cecily resolved to go and spend the afternoon
with Miriam. She was restless, and could not take pleasure in Mrs.
Lessingham's conversation. Possibly her arrival at the villa would
be anything but welcome; but she must see Miriam.

She drove up by herself, and first of all saw the Spences. From them
she learnt that Miriam, as usual on Sunday, was keeping her own
room.

"Do you think I may venture, Mrs. Spence?"

"Go and announce yourself, my dear. If you are bidden avaunt, come
back and cheer us old people with your brightness."

So Cecily went with light step along the corridor, and with light
fingers tapped at Miriam's room. The familiar voice bade her enter.
Miriam was sitting near the window, on her lap a closed book.

"May I--?"

"Of course you may," was the quiet answer.

Cecily closed the door, came forward, and bent to kiss her friend.
Then she glanced at the "St. Cecilia;" then examined herself for a
moment in one of the mirrors; then took off her hat, mantle, and
gloves.

"I want to stay as long as your patience will suffer me."

"Do so."

"You avoid saying how long that is likely to be."

"How can I tell?"

"Oh, you have experience of me. You know how trying you find me in
certain moods. To-day I am in a very strange mood indeed; very
malicious, very wicked. And it is Sunday."

Miriam did not seem to resent this. She looked away at the window,
but smiled. Could Cecily have been aware how her face had changed
when the door opened, she would not have doubted whether she was
truly welcome.

"What book is that, Miriam?"

Cecily had been half afraid to ask; to her surprise it proved to be
Dante.

"Do you read this on Sunday?"

Miriam deigned no reply. The other, sitting just in front of her,
took up the volume and rustled its leaves.

"How far have you got? This pencil mark? 'Amor ch'a null' amato amar
perdona.'"

She read the line in an undertone, slowly towards the close.
Miriam's face showed a sudden and curious emotion. Glancing at the
book, she said abruptly:

"No; that's an old mark--a difficulty I had. I'm long past that."

"So am I. 'Amor ch'a null'--'"

Miriam stretched out her hand and took the volume with impatience.

"I'm at the end of this canto," she said, pointing. "Never mind it
now. I should have thought you would have gone somewhere such a fine
afternoon."

"That sounds remarkably like a hint that patience is near its end."

"I didn't mean it for that."

"Then let us get a carriage and drive somewhere together, we two
alone."

Miriam shook her head.

"Because it is Sunday?" asked Cecily, with a mischievous smile,
leaning her head aside.

"There is an understanding between us, Cecily. Don't break it."

"But I told you my mood was wicked. I feel disposed to break any and
every undertaking. I should like to fret and torment and offend you.
I should like to ask you why _I_ am allowed to enjoy the sunshine,
and you not? _Oggi e festa_! What a dreadful sound that must have in
your ears Miriam!"

"But they don't apply it to Sunday," returned the other, who seemed
to resign herself to this teasing.

"Indeed they do!" With a sudden change of subject, Cecily added,
"Your brother came to see us yesterday, to say good-bye."

"Did he?"

"It doesn't interest you. You care nothing where he goes, or what he
does--nothing whatever, Miriam. He told me so; but I knew it
already."

"He told you so?" Miriam asked, with cold surprise.

"Yes. You are unkind; you are unnatural."

"And you, Cecily, are childish. I never knew you so childish as
to-day."

"I warned you. He and I had a long talk before aunt came home."

"I'm sorry he should have thought it necessary to talk about
himself."

"What more natural, when he is beginning a new portion of life?
Never mind; we won't speak of it. May I play you a new piece I have
learnt?"

"Do you mean, of sacred music?"

"Sacred? Why, all music is sacred. There are tunes and jinglings
that I shouldn't call so; but neither do I call them music, just as
I distinguish between bad or foolish verse, and poetry. Everything
worthy of being called art is sacred. I shall keep telling you that
till in self-defence you are forced to think about it. And now I
shall play the piece whether you like it or not."

She opened the piano. What she had in mind was one of the "Moments
Musicaux" of Schubert--a strain of exquisite melody, which ceased
too soon. Cecily sat for a few moments at the key-board after she
had finished, her head bent; then she came and stood before Miriam.

"Do you like it?"

There was no answer. She looked steadily at the trouble a ace, and,
as it still kept averted from her, she laid her arms softly, half
playfully, about Miriam's neck.

"Why must there always be such a distance between us, Miriam dear?
Even when I seem so near to you as this, what a deep black gulf
really separates us!"

"You were once on my side of it" said Miriam, her voice softened.
"How did you pass to the other?"

"How could I tell you? No one read me lectures, or taught me hard
arguments. The change came insensibly, like passing out of a dream
into the light of morning. I followed where my nature led, and my
thoughts about everything altered. I don't know how it might have
been if I had lived on with you. But my happiness was not there."

"Happiness!" murmured the other, scornfully.

"A word you don't, won't understand. Yet to me it means much. Who
knows? Perhaps there may come a day when I shall look back upon it,
and see it as empty of satisfaction as it now seems to you. But more
likely that I shall live to look back in sorrow for its loss."

The dialogue became such as they had held more than once of late,
fruitless it seemed, only saddening to both. And Cecily was to-day
saddened by it beyond her wont; her excessive gaiety yielded to a
dejection which passed indeed, but for a while made her very unlike
herself, silent, with troubled eyes.

"I had one valid excuse for coming to see you to-day," she said,
when gaiety and dejection had both gone by. "Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw
seriously think of going to Rome at the end of next week, and they
wish to have another day at Pompeii. They would like it so much if
you would go with them. If you do, I also will; we shall make four
for a carriage, and drive there, and come back by train."

"What day?"

"To-morrow, if it be fine. Let me take them your assent."

Miriam agreed.

On Monday morning, as arranged, she was driving down to the
Mergellina, when, with astonishment, she saw her brother standing by
the roadside, beckoning to her. The carriage stopped, and he came up
to speak.

"Where are you off to?" he asked.

"You are still here?"

"I haven't been well. Didn't feel able to go yesterday. I was just
coming to see you."

"Not well, Reuben? Why didn't you come before?"

"I couldn't. I want to speak to you. Where are you going?"

She told him the plan for the day. Elgar turned aside, and
meditated.

"I'll see you there--at Pompeii somewhere. It'll be on my way."

"I had rather not go at all. I'll ask them to excuse me; Mrs.
Lessingham will perhaps take my place, and--"

"No! I'll see you at Pompeii. I shall have no difficulty you."

Miriam looked at him anxiously.

"I don't wish you to meet us there, Reuben."

"And I _do_ wish! Let me have my way, Miriam. Say nothing about me,
and let the meeting seem by chance."

"I can't do that. You make yourself ridiculous, after--"

"Let me judge for myself. Go on, or you'll be late."

She half rose, as if about to descend from the carriage. Elgar laid
his hand on her arm, and clutched it so strongly that she sank back
and regarded him with a look of anger.

"Miriam! Do as I wish, dear. Be kind to me for this once. If you
refuse, it will make no difference. Have some feeling for me. This
one day, Miriam."

Again she looked at him, and reflected. On account of the driver,
though of course he could not understand them, they had subdued
their voices, and Reuben's sudden action had not been noticeable.

"This one piece of sisterly kindness," he pleaded.

"It shall be as you wish," Miriam replied, her face cast down.

"Thank you, a thousand times. Avanti, cocchiere!"

Scrutiny less keen than Miriam's could perceive that Cecily had not
her usual pleasure in to-day's expedition. Even Mrs. Bradshaw,
sitting over against her in the carriage, noticed that the girl's
countenance lacked its natural animation, wore now and then a tired
look; the lids hung a little heavily over the beautiful eyes, and
the cheeks were a thought pale. When she forgot herself in
conversation, Cecily was the same as ever; mirthful, brightly
laughing, fervent in expressing delight; but her thoughts too often
made her silent, and then one saw that she was not heart and soul in
the present. It was another Cecily than on that day at Baiae. "She
has been over-exciting herself since she came here," was Mrs.
Bradshaw's mental remark. Miriam, anxiously observant, made a
different interpretation, and was harassed with a painful conflict
of thoughts.

Jacob Bush Bradshaw had no eyes for these trivialities. He sat in
the squared posture of a hearty Englishman, amusing himself with
everything they passed on the road self-congratulant on the
knowledge and experience he had been storing, joking as often as he
spoke.

"The lad Marsh would have uncommonly liked an invitation to come
with us to-day," he said, about midway in the drive. "What precious
mischief we could have made by asking him, Hannah!"

"There's no room for him, fortunately."

"Oh yes; up on the box."

His eye twinkled as he looked at Cecily. She questioned him.

"Where would be the mischief, Mr. Bradshaw?"

"He talks nonsense, my dear," interposed Mrs. Bradshaw. "Pay no
attention to him."

Miriam had heard now and then of Clifford Marsh. She met Jacob's
smile, and involuntarily checked it by her gravity.

"We might have asked the Denyers as well," said Cecily, "and have
had another carriage, or gone by train."

Mr. Bradshaw chuckled for some minutes at this proposal, but his
wife would not allow him to pursue the jest.

They lunched at the Hotel Diomede before entering the precincts of
the ruins. Mr. Bradshaw had invariably a splendid appetite, and was
by this time skilled in ordering the meals that suited him. The few
phrases of Italian which he had appropriated were given forth _ore
rotundo_, with Anglo-saxon emphasis on the _o_'s, and accompanied
with large gestures. His mere appearance always sufficed to put
landlords and waiters into their most urbane mood; they never failed
to take him for one of the English nobility--a belief confirmed by
the handsomeness of his gratuities. Mrs. Bradshaw was not, perhaps,
the ideal lady of rank, but the fine self-satisfaction on her
matronly visage, the good-natured disdain with which she allowed
herself to be waited upon by foolish foreigners, her solid disregard
of everything beyond the circle of her own party, were impressive
enough, and exacted no little subservience.

Strong in the experience of two former visits, Mr. Bradshaw would
have no guide to-day. Murray in hand, he knew just what he wished to
see again, and where to find it.

As Miriam was at Pompeii for the first time, he took her especially
under his direction, and showed her the city much as he might have
led her over his silk-mill in Manchester. Unimbued with history and
literature, he knew nothing of the scholar's or the poet's
enthusiasm; his gratification lay in exercising his solid
intelligence on a lot of strange and often grotesque facts. Here men
had lived two thousand years ago. There was no mistake about it; you
saw the deep ruts of their wheels along the rugged street; nay, you
saw the wearing of their very feet on the comically narrow
pavements. And their life had been as different as possible from
that of men in Manchester. Everything excited him to merriment.

"Now, this is the house of old Pansa--no doubt an ancestor of
friend Sancho"--with a twinkle in his eye. "We'll go over this
carefully, Mrs. Baske; it's one of the largest and completest in
Pompeii. Here we are in what they called the atrium."

Cecily spoke seldom. Of course, she would have preferred to be alone
here with Miriam; best of all--or nearly so--if they could have
made the same party as at Baiae. At times she lingered a little
behind the others, and seemed deep in contemplation of some object;
or she stood to watch the lizards darting about the sunny old walls.
When all were enjoying the view from the top of Jupiter's Temple,
she gazed long towards the Sorrento promontory, the height of St.
Angelo.

"Amalfi is over on the far side," she said to Miriam. "They are both
working there now."

Miriam replied nothing.

When they were in the Street of Tombs, Cecily again paused, by the
sepulchre of the Priestess Mamia, whence there is a clear prospect
across the bay towards the mountains. Turning back again, she heard
a voice that made her tremble with delighted surprise. A wall
concealed the speaker from her; she took a few quick steps, and saw
Reuben Elgar shaking hands with the Bradshaws. He looked at her, and
came forward. She could not say any thing, and was painfully
conscious of the blood that rushed to her face; never yet had she
known this stress of heart-beats that made suffering of joy, and
the misery of being unable to command herself under observant eyes.

It was years since Elgar and the Bradshaws had met. As a boy he had
often visited their house, but from the time of his leaving home at
sixteen to go to a boarding-school, his acquaintance with them, as
with all his other Manchester friends, practically ceased. They had
often heard of him--too often, in their opinion. Aware of his
arrival at Naples, they had expressed no wish to see him. Still, now
that he met them in this unexpected way, they could not but assume
friendliness. Jacob, not on the whole intolerant, was willing enough
to take "the lad" on his present merits; Reuben had the guise and
manners of a gentleman, and perhaps was grown out of his reprobate
habits. Mr. Bradshaw and his wife could not but notice Cecily's
agitation at the meeting; they exchanged wondering glances, and
presently found an opportunity for a few words apart. What was going
on? How had these two young folks become so intimate? Well, it was
no business of theirs. Lucky that Mrs. Baske was one of the company.

And why should Cecily disguise that now only was her enjoyment of
the day begun--that only now had the sunshine its familiar
brightness, the ancient walls and ways their true enchantment? She
did not at once become more talkative, but the shadow had passed
utterly from her face, and there was no more listlessness in her
movements.

"I have stopped here on my way to join Mallard," was all Reuben
said, in explanation of his presence.

All kept together. Mr. Bradshaw resumed his interest in antiquities,
but did not speak so freely about them as before.

"Your brother knows a good deal more about these things than I do,
Mrs. Baske," he remarked. "He shall give us the benefit of his
Latin."

Miriam resolutely kept her eyes alike from Reuben and from Cecily.
Hitherto her attention to the ruins had been intermittent, but
occasionally she had forgotten herself so far as to look and ponder;
now she saw nothing. Her mind was gravely troubled; she wished only
that the day were over.

As for Elgar, he seemed to the Bradshaws singularly quiet, modest,
inoffensive. If he ventured a suggestion or a remark, it was in a
subdued voice and with the most pleasant manner possible. He walked
for a time with Mrs. Bradshaw, and accommodated himself with much
tact to her way of regarding foreign things, whether ancient or
modern. In a short time all went smoothly again.

Not since they shook hands had Elgar and Cecily encountered each
other's glance. They looked at each other often, very often, but
only when the look could not be returned; they exchanged not a
syllable. Yet both knew that at some approaching moment, for them
the supreme moment of this day, their eyes must meet. Not yet; not
casually, and whilst others regarded them. The old ruins would be
kind.

It was in the house of Meleager. They had walked among the coloured
columns, and had visited the inner chamber, where upon the wall is
painted the Judgment of Paris. Mr. Bradshaw passed out through the
narrow door. way, and his voice was dulled; Miriam passed with him,
and, close after her, Mrs. Bradshaw. Reuben seemed to draw aside for
Cecily, but she saw his hand extended towards her--it held a spray
of maidenhair that he had just gathered. She took it, or would have
taken it, but her hand was closed in his.

"I have stayed only to see you again," came panting from his lips.
"I could not go till I had seen you again!"

And before the winged syllables had ceased, their eyes met; nor
their eyes alone, for upon both was the constraint of passion that
leaps like flame to its desire--mouth to mouth and heart to heart
for one instant that concentrated all the joy of being.

What hand, centuries ago crumbled into indistinguishable dust,
painted that parable of the youth making his award to Love? What
eyes gazed upon it, when this was a home of man and woman warm with
life, listening all day long to the music of uttered thoughts?
Dark-buried whilst so many ages of history went by, thrown open for
the sunshine to rest upon its pallid antiquity, again had this
chamber won a place in human hearts, witnessed the birth of joy and
hope, blended itself with the destiny of mortals. He who pictured
Paris dreamt not of these passionate lips and their unborn language,
knew not that he wrought for a world hidden so far in time. Though
his white-limbed goddess fade ghostlike, the symbol is as valid as
ever. Did not her wan beauty smile youthful again in the eyes of
these her latest worshippers?

And they went forth among the painted pillars, once more shunning
each other's look. It was some minutes before Cecily knew that her
fingers still crushed the spray of maidenhair; then she touched it
gently, and secreted it within her glove. It must be dead when she
reached home, but that mattered nothing; would it not remain the
sign of something deathless?

She believed so. In her vision the dead city had a new and wonderful
life; it lay glorious in the light of heaven, its strait ways fit
for the treading of divinities, its barren temples reconsecrate with
song and sacrifice. She believed there was that within her soul
which should survive all change and hazard--survive, it might be,
even this warm flesh that it was hard not to think immortal.

She sought Miriam's side, took her hand, held it playfully as they
walked on together.

"Why do you look at me so sadly, Miriam?"

"I did not mean to."

"Yet you do. Let me see you smile once to-day."

But Miriam's smile was sadder than her grave look.





CHAPTER X

THE DECLARATION




It was true enough that Clifford Marsh would have relished an
invitation to accompany that party of four to Pompeii. For one
thing, he was beginning to have a difficulty in passing his days; if
the present state of things prolonged itself, his position might
soon resemble that of Mr. Musselwhite. But chiefly would he have
welcomed the prospect of spending some hours in the society of Miss
Doran, and under circumstances which would enable him to shine.
Clifford had begun to nurse a daring ambition. Allowing his vanity
to caress him into the half-belief that he was really making a noble
stand against the harshness of fate, he naturally spent much time in
imagining how other people regarded him--above all, what figure he
made in the eyes of Miss Doran. There could be no doubt that she
knew, at all events, the main items of his story; was it not certain
that they must make some appeal to her sympathies? His air of
graceful sadness could not but lead her to muse as often as she
observed it; he had contemplated himself in the mirror, and each
time with reassurance on this point. Why should the attractions
which had been potent with Madeline fail to engage the interest of
this younger and more emotional girl? Miss Doran was far beyond
Madeline in beauty, and, there was every reason to believe, had the
substantial gifts of fortune which Madeline altogether lacked. It
was a bold thing to turn his eye to her with such a thought,
circumstances considered; but the boldness was characteristic of
Marsh, with whom at all times self-esteem had the force of an
irresistible argument.

He was incapable of passion. Just as he had made a pretence of
pursuing art, because of a superficial cleverness and a liking for
ease and the various satisfactions of his vanity in such a career,
so did he now permit his mind to be occupied with Cecily Doran, not
because her qualities blinded him to all other considerations, but
in pleasant yielding to a temptation of his fancy, which made a
lively picture of many desirable things, and flattered him into
thinking that they were not beyond his reach. For the present he
could do nothing but wait, supporting his pose of placid martyrdom.
Wait, and watch every opportunity; there would arrive a moment when
seeming recklessness might advance him far on the way to triumph.

And yet he never for a moment regarded himself as a schemer
endeavouring to compass vulgar ends by machination. He had the
remarkable faculty of viewing himself in an ideal light, even whilst
conscious that so many of his claims were mere pretence. Men such as
Clifford Marsh do not say to themselves, "What a humbug I am!" When
driven to face their conscience, it speaks to them rather in this
way: "You are a fellow of fine qualities, altogether out of the
common way of men. A pity that conditions do not allow you to he
perfectly honest; but people in general are so foolish that you
would get no credit for your superiority if you did not wear a
little tinsel, practise a few harmless affectations. Some day your
difficulties will be at an end, and then you can afford to show
yourself in a simpler guise." When he looked in the glass, Clifford
admired himself without reserve; when he talked freely, he applauded
his own cleverness, and thought it the most natural thing that other
people should do so. When he meditated abandoning Madeline, his
sincere view of the matter was that she had proved herself unworthy:
however sensible her attitude, a girl had no right to put such
questions to her lover as she had done, to injure his self-love.
When he plotted with himself to engage Cecily's interest, he said
that it was the course any lover would have pursued. And in the end
he really persuaded himself that he was in love with her.

Yet none the less he thought of Madeline with affection. He was
piqued that she made no effort to bring him back to her feet. To be
sure, her mother's behaviour probably implied Madeline's desire of
reconciliation, but he wished her to make personal overtures; he
would have liked to see her approach him with humble eyes, not
troubling himself to debate how he should act in that event. With
Mrs. Denyer he was once more on terms of apparent friendliness,
though he held no private dialogue with her; he was willing that she
should suppose him gradually coming over to her views. Barbara and
Zillah showed constraint when he spoke with them, but this he
affected not to perceive. Only with Madeline he did not converse.
Her air of unconcernedness at length proved too much for his
patience, and so it came about that Madeline received by post a
letter addressed in Clifford's hand. She took it to her bedroom, and
broke the envelope with agitation.

"Your behaviour is heartless. Just when I am in deep distress, and
need all possible encouragement in the grave struggle upon which I
have entered--for I need not tell you that I am resolved to remain
an artist--you desert me, and do your best to show that you are
glad at being relieved of all concern on my account. It is well for
me that I see the result of this test, but, I venture to think, not
every woman would have chosen your course. I shall very shortly
leave Naples. It will no doubt complete your satisfaction to think
of me toiling friendless in London. Remember this as my farewell.--
C. M."

The next morning Clifford received what he expected, a reply, also
sent by post. It was written in the clearest and steadiest hand, on
superfine paper.

"I am sorry you should have repeated your insult in a written form;
I venture to think that not every man would have followed this
course. For myself, it is well indeed that I see the result of the
test to which you have been exposed. But I shall say and think no
more of it. As you leave soon, I would suggest that we should be on
the terms of ordinary acquaintances for the remaining time; the
present state of things is both disagreeable and foolish. It will
always seem to me a very singular thing that you should have
continued to live in this house; but that, of course, was in your
own discretion.--M. D."

This was on the morning when Cecily and her companions went to
Pompeii. Towards luncheon-time, Clifford entered the drawing-room,
and there found Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with Madeline. The
former looked towards him in a way which seemed to invite his
approach.

"Another idle morning, Mr. Marsh?" was her greeting.

"I had a letter at breakfast that disturbed me," he replied, seating
himself away from Madeline.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Mr. Marsh is very easily disturbed," said Madeline, in a light tone
of many possible meanings.

"Yes," admitted Clifford, leaning back and letting his head droop a
little; "I can seldom do anything when I am not quite at ease in
mind. Rather a misfortune, but not an uncommon one with artists."

The conversation turned on this subject for a few minutes, Madeline
taking part in it in a way that showed her resolve to act as she had
recommended in her note. Then Mrs. Lessingham rose and left the two
together. Madeline seemed also about to move; she followed the
departing lady with her eyes, and at length, as though adding a
final remark, said to Clifford:

"There are several things you have been so kind as to lend me that I
must return before you go, Mr. Marsh. I will make a parcel of them,
and a servant shall take them to your room.

"Thank you."

Since the quarrel, Madeline had not worn her ring of betrothal, but
this was the first time she had spoken of returning presents.

"I am sorry you have had news that disturbed you," she continued, as
if in calm friendliness. "But I dare say it is something you will
soon forget. In future you probably won't think so much of little
annoyances."

"Probably not."

She smiled, and walked away, stopping to glance at a picture before
she left the room. Clifford was left with knitted brows and uneasy
mind; he had not believed her capable of this sedateness. For some
reason, Madeline had been dressing herself with unusual care of late
(the result, in fact, of frequent observation of Cecily), and just
now, as he entered, it had struck him that she was after all very
pretty, that no one could impugn his taste in having formerly chosen
her. His reference to her letter was a concession, made on the
moment's impulse. Her rejecting it so unmistakably looked serious.
Had she even ceased to be jealous?

In the course of the afternoon, one of Mrs. Gluck's servants
deposited a parcel in his chamber. When he found it, he bit his
lips. Indeed, things looked serious at last. He passed the hours
till dinner in rather comfortless solitude.

But at dinner he was opposite Cecily, and he thought he had never
seen her so brilliant. Perhaps the day in the open air--there was
a fresh breeze--had warmed the exquisite colour of her cheeks and
given her eyes an even purer radiance than of wont. The dress she
wore was not new to him, but its perfection made stronger appeal to
his senses than previously. How divine were the wreaths and
shadowings of her hair! With what gracile loveliness did her neck
bend as she spoke to Mrs. Lessingham! What hand ever shone with more
delicate beauty than hers in the offices of the meal? It pained him
to look at Madeline and make comparison.

Moreover, Cecily met his glance, and smiled--smiled with adorable
frankness. From that moment he rejoiced at what had taken place
to-day. It had left him his complete freedom. Good; he had given
Madeline a final chance, and she had neglected it. In every sense he
was at liberty to turn his thoughts elsewhither, and now he felt
that he had even received encouragement.

"We had an unexpected meeting with Mr. Elgar," were Cecily's words,
when she spoke to her aunt of the day's excursion.

Mrs. Lessingham showed surprise, and noticed that Cecily kept
glancing over the columns of a newspaper she had carelessly taken
up.

"At Pompeii?"

"Yes; in the Street of Tombs. For some reason, he had delayed on his
journey."

"I'm not surprised."

"Why?"

"Delay is one of his characteristics, isn't it?" returned the elder
lady, with unaccustomed tartness. "A minor branch of the root of
inefficiency."

"I am afraid so."

Cecily laughed, and began to read aloud an amusing passage from the
paper. Her aunt put no further question; but after dinner sought
Mrs. Bradshaw, and had a little talk on the subject. Mrs. Bradshaw
allowed herself no conjectures; in her plain way she merely
confirmed what Cecily had said, adding that Elgar had taken leave of
them at the railway-station.

"Possibly Mrs. Baske knew that her brother would be there?" surmised
Mrs. Lessingham, as though the point were of no moment.

"Oh no! not a bit. She was astonished."

"Or seemed so," was Mrs. Lessingham's inward comment, as she smiled
acquiescence. "He has impressed me agree ably," she continued, "but
there's a danger that he will never do justice to himself."

"I don't put much faith in him myself," said Mrs. Bradshaw, meaning
nothing more by the phrase than that she considered Reuben a
ne'er-do-well. The same words would have expressed her lack of
confidence in a servant subjected to some suspicion.

Mrs. Lessingham was closely observant of her niece this evening, and
grew confirmed in distrust, in solicitude. Cecily was more than ever
unlike herself--whimsical, abstracted, nervous; she flushed at an
unexpected sound, could not keep the same place for more than a few
minutes. Much before the accustomed hour, she announced her
retirement for the night.

"Let me feel your pulse," said Mrs. Lessingham, as if in jest, when
the girl approached her.

Cecily permitted it, half averting her face.

"My child, you are feverish."

"A little, I believe, aunt. It will pass by the morning."

"Let us hope so. But I don't like that kind of thing at Naples. I
trust you haven't had a chill?"

"Oh dear, no! I never was better in my life!"

"Yet with fever? Go to bed. Very likely I shall look into your room
in the night.--Cecily!"

It stopped her at her door. She turned, and took a step back. Mrs.
Lessingham moved towards her.

"You haven't forgotten anything that you wished to say to me?"

"Forgotten? No, dear aunt."

"It just come back to my mind that you were on the point of saying
something a little while ago, and I interrupted you."

"No. Good night."

Mrs. Lessingham did enter the girl's room something after midnight,
carrying a dim taper. Cecily was asleep, but lay as though fatigue
had overcome her after much restless moving upon the pillow. Her
face was flushed; one of her hands, that on the coverlet, kept
closing itself with a slight spasm. The visitor drew apart and
looked about the chamber. Her eyes rested on a little writing-desk,
where lay a directed envelope. She looked at it, and found it was
addressed to a French servant of theirs in Paris, an excellent woman
who loved Cecily, and to whom the girl had promised to write from
Italy. The envelope was closed; but it could contain nothing of
importance--was merely an indication of Cecily's abiding kindness.
By this lay a small book, from the pages of which protruded a piece
of white paper. Mrs. Lessingham took up the volume--it was
Shelley--and found that the paper within it was folded about a spray
of maidenhair, and bore the inscription "House of Meleager Pompeii.
Monday, December 8, 1878." Over this the inquisitive lady mused,
until a motion of Cecily caused her to restore things rapidly to
their former condition.

A movement, and a deep sigh; but Cecily did not awake. Mrs.
Lessingham again drew softly near to her, and, without letting the
light fall directly upon her face, looked at her for a long time.
She whispered feelingly, "Poor girl! poor child!" then, with a sigh
almost as deep as that of the slumberer, withdrew.

In the morning, Cecily was already dressed when a servant brought
letters to the sitting-room. There were three, and one of them,
addressed to herself, had only the Naples postmark. She went back to
her bedroom with it.

After breakfast Mrs. Lessingham spoke for a while of news contained
in her correspondence; then of a sudden asked:

"You hadn't any letters?"

"Yes, aunt; one."

"My child, you are far from well this morning. The fever hasn't
gone. Your face burns."

"Yes."

"May I ask from whom the letter was?"

"I have it here--to show you." A choking of her voice broke the
sentence. She held out the letter. Mrs. Lessingham found the
following lines:--

"DEAR CECILY,

"I have, of course, returned to Naples, and I
earnestly hope I may see you between ten and eleven to-morrow
morning. I must see you alone. You cannot reply I will come and send
my name in the ordinary way.

"Yours ever,

"R. ELGAR."

Mrs. Lessingham looked up. Cecily, who was standing before her, now
met her gaze steadily.

"The meaning of this is plain enough," said her aunt, with careful
repression of feeling. "But I am at a loss to understand how it has
come about."

"I cannot tell you, aunt. I cannot tell myself."

Cecily's true accents once more. It was as though she had recovered
all her natural self-command now that the revelation was made. The
flush still possessed her cheeks, but she had no look of
embarrassment; she spoke in a soft murmur, but distinctly, firmly.

"I am afraid that is only too likely, dear. Come and sit down,
little girl, and tell me, at all events, something about it."

"Little girl?" repeated Cecily, with a sweet, affectionate smile.
"No; that has gone by, aunt."

"I thought so myself the other day; but--I suppose you have met
Mr. Elgar several times at his sister's, and have said nothing to me
about it?"

"That would not have been my usual behaviour, I hope. When did I
deceive you, aunt?"

"Never, that I know. Where have you met then?"

"Only at the times and places of which you know."

"Where did you give Mr. Elgar the right to address you in this
manner?"

"Only yesterday. I think you mustn't ask me more than that, aunt."

"I'mafraid your companions were rather lacking in discretion," said
the other, in a tone of annoyance.

"No; not in the sense you attach to the words. But, aunt, you are
speaking as if I _were_ a little girl, to be carefully watched at
every step."

Mrs. Lessingham mused, looking absently at the letter. She paid no
heed to her niece's last words, but at length said with decision:

"Cecily, this meeting cannot take place."

The girl replied with a look of uttermost astonishment.

"It is impossible, dear. Mr. Elgar should not have written to you
like this. He should have addressed himself to other people."

"Other people? But you don't understand, aunt. I cannot explain to
you. I expected this letter; and we must see each other."

Her voice trembled, failed.

"Shall you not treat my wish with respect, Cecily?"

"Will you explain to me all that you do wish, aunt?"

"Certainly. It is true that you are not a French girl, and I have no
desire to regard you as though we were a French aunt and niece
talking of this subject in the conventional way. But you are very
young, dear, and most decidedly it behoved Mr. Elgar to bear in mind
both his and your position. You have no parents, unhappily, but you
know that Mr. Mallard is legally appointed the guardian of your
interests, and I trust you know also that I am deeply concerned in
all that affects you. Let us say nothing, one way or another, of
what has happened. Since it _has_ happened, it was Mr. Elgar's duty
to address himself to me, or to Mr. Mallard, before making private
appointments with you."

"Aunt, you can see that this letter is written so as to allow of my
showing it to you."

"I have noticed that, of course. It makes Mr. Elgar's way of
proceeding seem still more strange to me. He is good enough to ask
you to relieve him of what he thinks--"

"You misunderstand him, aunt, entirely. I cannot explain it to you.
Only trust me, I beg, to do what I know to be right. It is necessary
that I should speak with Mr. Elgar; do not pain me by compelling me
to say more. Afterwards, he will wish to see you, I know."

"Please to remember, dear--it astonishes me that you forget it--
that I have a responsibility to Mr. Mallard. I have no legal charge
of you. With every reason, Mr. Mallard may reproach me if I
countenance what it is impossible for him to approve."

Cecily searched the speaker's face.

"Do you mean," she asked gravely, "that Mr. Mallard will disapprove--what
I have done?"

"I can say nothing on that point. But I am very sure that he would
not approve of this meeting, if he could know what was happening. I
must communicate with him at once. Until he comes, or writes, it is
your duty, my dear, to decline this interview. Believe me, it is
your duty."

Mrs. Lessingham spoke more earnestly than she ever had done to her
niece. Indeed, earnest speech was not frequent upon her lips when
she talked with Cecily. In spite of the girl's nature, there had
never existed between them warmer relations than those of fondness
and interest on one side, and gentleness with respect on the other.
Cecily was well aware of this something lacking in their common
life; she had wished, not seldom these last two years, to supply the
want, but found herself unable, and grew conscious that her aunt
gave all it was in her power to bestow. For this very reason, she
found it impossible to utter herself in the present juncture as she
could have done to a mother--as she could have done to Miriam;
impossible, likewise, to insist on her heart's urgent desire, though
she knew not how she should forbear it. To refuse compliance would
have been something more than failure in dutifulness; she would have
felt it as harshness, and perhaps injustice, to one with whom she
involuntarily stood on terms of ceremony.

"May I write a reply to this letter?" she asked, after a silence.

"I had rather you allowed me to speak for you to Mr. Elgar. To write
and to see him are the same thing. Surely you can forget yourself
for a moment, and regard this from my point of view."

"I don't know how far you may be led by your sense of
responsibility. Remember that you have insisted to me on your
prejudice against Mr. Elgar."

"Vainly enough," returned the other, with a smile. "If you prefer
it, I will myself write a line to be given to Mr. Elgar when he
calls. Of course, you shall see what I write."

Cecily turned away, and stood in struggle with herself. She had not
foreseen a conflict of this kind. Surprise, and probably vexation,
she was prepared for; irony, argument, she was quite ready to face;
but it had not entered her mind that Mrs. Lessingham would invoke
authority to oppose her. Such a step was alien to all the habits of
their intercourse, to the spirit of her education. She had deemed
herself a woman, and free; what else could result from Mrs.
Lessingham's method of training and developing her? This disillusion
gave a shock to her self-respect; she suffered from a sense of
shame; with difficulty she subdued resentment and impulses yet more
rebellious. It was ignoble to debate in this way concerning that of
which she could not yet speak formally with her own mind; to contend
like an insubordinate school-girl, when the point at issue was the
dearest interest of her womanhood.

"I think, aunt," she said, in a changed voice, speaking as though
her opinion had been consulted in the ordinary way, "it will be
better for you to sec Mr. Elgar--if you are willing to do so."

"Quite."

"But I must ask you to let him know exactly why I have not granted
his request. You will tell him, if you please, just what has passed
between us. If that does not seem consistent with your duty, or
dignity, then I had rather you wrote."

"Neither my duty nor my dignity is likely to suffer, Cecily,"
replied her aunt, with an ironical smile. "Mr. Elgar shall know the
simple state of the case. And I will forthwith write to Mr.
Mallard."

"Thank you."

There was no further talk between them. Mrs. Lessingham sat down to
write. With the note-paper before her, and the pen in hand, she was
a long time before she began; she propped her forehead, and seemed
lost in reflection. Cecily, who stood by the window, glanced towards
her several times, and in the end went to her own room.

Mrs. Lessingham's letter was not yet finished when a servant
announced Elgar's arrival. He was at once admitted. On seeing who
was to receive him, he made an instant's pause before coming
forward; there was merely a bow on both sides.

Elgar knew well enough in what mood this lady was about to converse
with him. He did not like her, and partly, no doubt, because he had
discerned her estimate of his character, his faculties. That she
alone was in the room gave him no surprise, though it irritated him
and inflamed his impatience. He would have had her speak immediately
and to the point, that he might understand his position. Mrs.
Lessingham, quite aware of his perfervid state of mind, had pleasure
in delaying. Her real feeling towards him was anything but
unfriendly; had it been possible, she would have liked to see much
of him, to enjoy his talk. Young men of this stamp amused her, and
made strong appeal to certain of her sympathies. But those very
sympathies enabled her to judge him with singular accuracy, aided as
she was by an outline knowledge of his past. Her genuine affection
for Cecily made her, now that the peril had declared itself, his
strenuous adversary. For Cecily to marry Reuben Elgar would be a
catastrophe, nothing less. She was profoundly convinced of this, and
the best elements of her nature came out in the resistance she was
determined to make.

A less worthy ground of vexation against Elgar might probably be
attributed to her. Skilful in judging men, she had not the same
insight where her own sex was concerned, and in the case of Cecily
she was misled, or rather misled herself, with curious persistence.
Possibly some slight, vague fear had already touched her when she
favoured Mrs. Spence with the description of her "system;" not
impossibly she felt the need of reassuring herself by making clear
her attitude to one likely to appreciate it. But at that time she
had not dreamt of such a sudden downfall of her theoretic edifice;
she believed in its strength, and did not doubt of her supreme
influence with Cecily. It was not to be wondered at that she felt
annoyed with the man who, at a touch, made the elaborate structure
collapse like a bubble. She imagined Mrs. Spence's remarks when she
came to hear of what had happened, her fine smile to her husband.
The occurrence was mortifying.

"Miss Doran has put into my hands a letter she received from you
this morning, Mr. Elgar."

Reuben waited. Mrs. Lessingham had not invited him to sit down; she
also stood.

"You probably wished me to learn its contents?"

"Yes; I am glad you have read it."

"It didn't occur to you that Miss Doran might find the task you
imposed upon her somewhat trying?"

Elgar was startled. Just as little as Cecily had he pondered the
details of the situation; mere frenzy possessed him, and he acted as
desire bade. Had Cecily been embarrassed? Was she annoyed at his not
proceeding with formality? He had never thought of her in the light
of conventional obligations, and even now could not bring himself to
do so.

"Did Miss Doran wish me to be told that?" he asked, bluntly, in
unconsidered phrase.

"Miss Doran's wish is, that no further step shall be taken by either
of you until her guardian, Mr. Mallard, has been communicated with."

"She will not see me?"

"She thinks it better neither to see you nor to write. I am bound to
tell you that this is the result of my advice. Her own intention was
to do as you request in this letter."

"What harm would there have been in that, Mrs. Lessingham? Why
mayn't I see her?"

"I really think Miss Doran must be allowed to act as seems best to
her. It is quite enough that I tell you what she has decided."

"But that is not her decision," broke out Elgar, moving impetuously.
"That is simply the result of your persuasion, of your authority.
Why may I not see her?"

"For reasons which would be plain enough to any but a very
thoughtless young gentleman. I can say no more."

Her caustic tone was not agreeable. Elgar winced under it, and had
much ado to restrain himself from useless vehemence.

"Do you intend to write to Mr. Mallard to-day?" he asked.

"I will write to-day."

Expostulation and entreaty seemed of no avail; Elgar recognized the
situation, and with a grinding of his teeth kept down the horrible
pain he suffered. His only comfort was that Mallard would assuredly
come post-haste; he would arrive by to-morrow evening. But two days
of this misery! Mrs. Lessingham was gratified with his look as he
departed; she had supplied him with abundant matter for speculation,
yet had fulfilled her promise to Cecily.

She finished her letter, then went to Cecily's room. The girl sat
unoccupied, and listened without replying. That day she took her
meals in private, scarcely pretending to eat. Her face kept its
flush, and her hands remained feverishly hot. Till late at night she
sat in the same chair, now and then opening a book, but unable to
read; she spoke only a word or two, when it was necessary.

The same on the day that followed. Seldom moving, seldomer speaking;
she suffered and waited.





CHAPTER XI

THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY




"Hic intus homo verus certus optumus recumbo, Publius Octavius
Rufus, decuno."

Mallard stood reading this inscription, graven on an ancient
sarcophagus preserved in the cathedral of Amalfi. A fool, probably,
that excellent Rufus--he said to himself,--but what a happy
fool! Unborn as yet, or to him unknown, the faith that would have
bidden him write himself a miserable sinner; what he deemed himself
in life, what perchance his friends and neighbours deemed him, why
not declare it upon the marble when be rested from all his virtues?

"Here lie I, Ross Mallard; who can say no good of myself, yet have
as little right to say ill; who had no faith whereby to direct my
steps, yet often felt that some such was needful; who spent all my
strength on a task which I knew to be vain; who suffered much and
joyed rarely; whose happiest day was his last."

Somehow like that would it run, if he were to write his own epitaph
at present.

The quiet of the dim sanctuary was helpful to such self-communing.
He relished being alone again, and after an hour's brooding had
recovered at all events a decent balance of thought, a respite from
madness in melancholy.

But he could not employ himself, could not even seek the relief of
bodily exertion; his mind grew sluggish, and threw a lassitude upon
his limbs. The greater part of the day he spent in his room at the
hotel, merely idle. This time he had no energy to attack himself
with adjurations and sarcasms; body and soul were oppressed with
uttermost fatigue, and for a time must lie torpid. Fortunately he
was sure of sleep to-night; the bell of the cathedral might clang
its worst, and still not rob him of the just oblivion.

The next day he strayed into the hills, and there in solitude faced
the enemy in his heart, bidding misery do its worst. In imagination
he followed Reuben Elgar to Naples, saw him speed to Villa
Sannazaro, where as likely as not he would meet Cecily. Mallard had
no tangible evidence of its being Reuben's desire to see Cecily, but
he was none the less convinced that for no other reason had his
companion set forth. And jealousy tormented him sorely. It was his
first experience of this cruellest passion: what hitherto had been
only a name to him, and of ignoble sound, became a disease clutching
at his vitals. It taught him fierceness, injustice, base suspicion,
brutal conjecture; it taught him that of which all these are
constituents--hatred.

But it did not constrain him to any unworthy action. The temptation
that passed through his mind when he looked from the balcony on the
carriage that was to convey Elgar, did not return--or only as a
bitter desire, impossible of realization. Distant from Naples he
must remain, awaiting whatsoever might happen.

Ah, bright, gentle, sweet-faced Cecily! Inconceivable to her this
suffering that lay upon her friend. How it would pain her if she
knew of it! With what sad, wondering tenderness her eyes would
regard him! How kindly would she lay her soft hand in his, and
entreat him to be comforted!

If he asked her, would she not give him that hand, to be his always?
Perhaps, perhaps; in her gentleness she would submit to this change,
and do her best to love him. And in return he would give her gruff
affection, removal from the life to which she was accustomed,
loneliness, his uncertain humours, his dubious reputation. How often
most he picture these results, and convince himself of the
impossibility of anything of the kind?

He knew her better than did Mrs. Lessingham; oh, far better! He had
detected in her deep eyes the sleeping passion, some day to awake
with suddenness and make the whole world new to her. He knew how far
from impossible it was that Reuben Elgar should be the prince to
break her charmed slumber. There was the likeness and the
unlikeness; common to both that temperament of enthusiasm. On the
one hand, Cecily with her unsullied maidenhood; and on the other,
Elgar with his reckless experiences--contrasts which so commonly
have a mutual attraction. There was the singularity of their meeting
after years, and seeing each other in such a new light; the
interest, the curiosity inevitably resulting. What likelihood that
any distrust would mingle with Cecily's warmth of feeling, were that
feeling once excited? He knew her too well.

How Mrs. Lessingham regarded Elgar he did not know. He had no
confidence in that lady's discretion; he thought it not improbable
that she would speak of Reuben to Cecily in the very way she should
not, making him an impressive figure. Then again, what part was Mrs.
Baske likely to have in such a situation? Could she be relied upon
to rep resent her brother unfavourably, with the right colour of
unfavourableness? Or was it not rather to be feared that the thought
of Cecily's influence might tempt her to encourage what otherwise
she must have condemned? He retraced in memory that curious dialogue
he had held with Miriam on the drive back from Baiae; could he
gather from it any hints of her probable behaviour?. . . .

By a sudden revulsion of mind, Mallard became aware that in the long
fit of brooding just gone by he had not been occupied with Cecily at
all. Busying his thoughts with Mrs. Baske, he had slipped into a
train of meditation already begun on the evening in question, after
the drive with her. What was Mrs. Baske's true history? How had she
come to marry the man of whom Elgar's phrases had produced such a
hateful image? What was the state, in very deed, of her mind at
present? What awaited her in the future?

It was curious that Mrs. Baske's face was much more recoverable by
his mind's eye than Cecily's. In fact, to see Miriam cost him no
effort at all; equally at will. he heard the sound of her voice.
There were times when Cecily, her look and utterance, visited him
very clearly; but this was when he did not wish to be reminded of
her. If he endeavoured to make her present, as a rule the picturing
faculty was irresponsive.

Welcome reverie! If only he could continue to busy himself with idle
speculation concerning the strange young Puritan, and so find relief
from the anguish that beset him. Suppose now, he set himself to
imagine Miriam in unlikely situations. What if she somehow fell into
poverty, was made absolutely dependent on her own efforts? Suppose
she suffered cruelly what so many women have to suffer--toil,
oppression, solitude; what would she become? Not, he suspected, a
meek martyr; anything but that, Miriam Baske. And how magnificent to
see her flash out into revolt against circumstances! Then indeed she
would be interesting.

Nay, suppose she fell in love--desperately, with grim fate against
her? For somehow this came more easilyto the fancy than the thought
of her loving obstacle. Presumably she had never loved; her husband
was out of the question. Would she pass her life without that
experience? One thing could be affirmed with certainty; if she lost
her heart to a man, it would not be to a Puritan. He could conceive
her being attracted by a strong and somewhat rude fellow, a despiser
of conventionalities, without religion, a man of brains and blood;
one whose look could overwhelm her with tumultuous scorn, and whose
hand, if need be, could crush her life out at a blow. Why not,
however, a highly polished gentleman, critical, keen of speech,
deeply read, brilliant in conversation, at once man of the world and
scholar? Might not that type have power over her? In a degree, but
not so decidedly as the intellectual brute.

Pshaw! what brain-sickness was this! What was he fallen to! Yet it
did what nothing else would, amused him for a few minutes in his
pain. He recurred to it several times, and always successfully.

Sunday came. This evening would see Elgar back again.

No doubt of his return had yet entered his mind. Whether Reuben
would in reality settle to some kind of work was a different
question; but of course he would come back, if it were only to say
that he had kept his promise, but found he must set off again to
some place or other. Mallard dreaded his coming. News of some kind
he would bring, and Mallard's need was of silence. If he indeed
remained here, the old irritation would revive and go on from day to
day. Impossible that they should live together long.

It was pretty certain by what train he would journey from Naples to
Salerno; easy, therefore, to calculate the probable hour of his
arrival at Amalfi. When that hour drew near, Mallard set out to walk
a short distance along the road, to meet him. Unlike the Sorrento
side of the promontory, the mountains here rise suddenly and boldly
out of the sea, towering to craggy eminences, moulded and cleft into
infinite variety of slope and precipice, bastion and gorge. Cut upon
the declivity, often at vast sheer height above the beach, the road
follows the curving of the hills. Now and then it makes a deep loop
inland, on the sides of an impassable chasm; and set in each of
these recesses is a little town, white-gleaming amid its orchard
verdure, with quaint and many-coloured campanile, with the semblance
of a remote time. Far up on the heights are other gleaming specks,
villages which seem utterly beyond the traffic of man, solitary for
ever in sun or mountain mist.

Mallard paid little heed to the things about him; he walked on and
on, watching for a vehicle, listening for the tread of horses.
Sometimes he could see the white road-track miles away, and he
strained his eyes in observing it. Twice or thrice he was deceived;
a carriage came towards him, and with agitation he waited to see its
occupants, only to be disappointed by strange faces.

There are few things more pathetic than persistency in hope due to
ignorance of something that has befallen beyond our ken. It is one
of those instances of the irony inherent in human fate which move at
once to tears and bitter laughter; the waste of emotion, the involuntary
folly, the cruel deception caused by limit of faculties--how
they concentrate into an hour or a day the essence of life itself!

He walked on and on; as well do this as go back and loiter fretfully
at the hotel. He got as far as the Capo d' Orso, the headland
half-way between Amalfi and Salerno, and there sat down by the
wayside to rest. From this point Salerno was first visible, in the
far distance, between the sea and the purple Apennines.

Either Elgar was not coming, or he had lingered long between the two
portions of his journey.

Mallard turned back; if the carriage came, it would overtake him. He
plodded slowly, the evening falling around him in still loveliness,
fragrance from the groves of orange and lemon spread on every motion
of the air.

And if he did not come? That must have some strange meaning. In any
case, he must surely write. And ten to one his letter would be a
lie. What was to be expected of him but a lie?

Monday, Tuesday, and now Wednesday morning. Hitherto not even a
letter.

When it was clear that Elgar had disregarded his promise, and, for
whatever reason, did not even seek to justify or excuse himself,
there came upon Mallard a strong mood of scorn, which for some hours
enabled him to act as though all his anxiety were at an end. He set
himself a piece of work; a flash of the familiar energy traversed
his mind. He believed that at length his degradation was over, and
that, come what might, he could now face it sturdily. Mere
self-deception, of course. The sun veiled itself, and hope was as
far as ever.

Never before had he utterly lost the power of working. In every
struggle he had speedily overcome, and found in work the one
unfailing resource. If he were robbed of this, what stay had life
for him henceforth? He could not try to persuade himself that his
suffering would pass, sooner or later, and time grant him
convalescence; the blackness ahead was too profound. He fell again
into torpor, and let the days go as they would; he cared not.

But this morning brought him a letter. At the first glance he was
surprised by a handwriting which was not Elgar's; recollecting
himself, he knew it for that of Mrs. Lessingham.

"DEAR MR. MALLARD,--

"It grieves me to be obliged to send you
disquieting news so soon after your departure from Naples, but I
think you will agree with me that I have no choice but to write of
something that has this morning come to my knowledge. You have no
taste for roundabout phrases, so I will say at once in plain words
that Cecily and Mr. Elgar have somehow contrived to fall in love
with each other--or to imagine that they have done so, which, as
regards results, unfortunately amounts to the same thing. I cannot
learn by what process it came about, but I am assured by Cecily, in
words of becoming vagueness, that they plighted troth, or some thing
of the kind, yesterday at Pompeii. There was a party of four: Mr.
and Mrs. Bradshaw, Cecily, and Mrs. Baske. At Pompeii they were
unexpectedly (so I am told) joined by Mr. Elgar--notwithstanding
that he had taken leave of us on Saturday, with the information that
he was about to return to you at Amalfi, and there devote himself to
literary work of some indefinite kind. Perhaps you have in the
meantime heard from him. This morning Cecily received a letter, in
which he made peremptory request for an inter view; she showed this
to me. My duty was plain. I declared the interview impossible, and
Cecily gave way on condition that I saw Mr. Elgar, told him why she
herself did not appear, and forthwith wrote to you. Our young
gentleman was disconcerted when he found that his visit was to be
wasted on my uninteresting self. I sent him about his business--
only that, unhappily, he has none--bidding him wait till we had
heard from you.

"I fancy this will be as disagreeable to you as it is to me. The
poor child is in a sad state, much disposed, I fear, to regard me as
her ruthless enemy, and like to fall ill if she be kept long in idle
suspense. Do you think it worth while to come to Naples? It is very
annoying that your time should be wasted by foolish children. I had
given Cecily credit for more sense. For my own part, I cannot think
with patience of her marrying Mr. Elgar; or rather, I cannot think
of it without dread. We must save her from becoming wise through
bitter sorrow, if it can in any way b" managed. I hope and trust
that nothing may happen to prevent your receiving this letter
to-morrow, for I am very uneasy, and not likely to become less so as
time goes on.

"Believe me, dear Mr. Mallard,
"Sincerely yours,

"EDITH LESSINGHAM."

At seven o'clock in the evening, Mallard was in Naples. He did not
go to Casa Rolandi, but took a room in one of the musty hotels which
overlook the port. When he felt sure that Mrs. Gluck's guests must
have dined, he presented himself at the house and sent his name to
Mrs. Lessingham.

She took his hand with warm welcome.

"Thank you for coming so promptly. I have been getting into such a
state of nervousness. Cecily keeps her room, and looks ill; I have
several times been on the point of sending for the doctor, though it
seemed absurd."

Mallard seated himself without invitation; indeed, he had a
difficulty in standing.

"Hasn't she been out to-day?" he asked, in a voice which might have
signified selfish indifference.

"Nor yesterday. Mrs. Spence was here this morning, but Cecily would
not see her. I made excuses, and of course said nothing of what was
going on. I asked the child if she would like to see Mrs. Baske, but
she refused."

Mallard sat as if he had nothing to say, looking vaguely about the
room.

"Have you heard from Mr. Elgar?" Mrs. Lessingham inquired.

"No. I know nothing about him. I haven't been to Casa Rolandi, lest
I should meet him. It was better to see you first."

"You were not prepared for this news?"

"His failure to return made me speculate, of course. I suppose they
have met several times at Mrs. Baske's?"

"That at once occurred to me, but Cecily assures me that is not so.
There is a mystery. I have no idea how they saw each other privately
at Pompeii on Monday. But, between ourselves, Mr. Mallard, I can't
help suspecting that he had learnt from his sister the particulars
of the excursion."

"You think it not impossible that Mrs. Baske connived at their
meeting in that way?"

"One doesn't like to use words of that kind, but--"

"I suppose one must use the word that expresses one's meaning," said
Mallard, bluntly. "But I didn't think Mrs. Baske was likely to aid
her brother for such a purpose. Have you any reason to think the
contrary?"

"None that would carry any weight."

Mallard paused; then, with a restless movement on his chair
exclaimed:

"But what has this to do with the matter? What has happened has
happened, and there's an end of it. The question is, what ought to
be done now? I don't see that we can treat Miss Doran like a child."

Mrs. Lessingham looked at him. She was resting one arm on a table by
which she sat, and supporting her forehead with her hand.

"You propose that things should take their natural course?"

"They will, whether I propose it or not."

"And if our next information is that they desire to be married as
soon as conveniently may be?"

"That is another matter. They will have no consent of mine to
anything of the kind."

"You relieve me."

Mallard looked at her frowningly.

"Miss Doran," he continued, "will not marry Elgar with my consent
until she be one-and-twenty. Then, of course, she may do as she
likes."

"You will see Mr. Elgar, and make this clear to him?"

"Very clear indeed," was the grim reply. "As for any thing else,
why, what can we do? If they insist upon it, I suppose they must see
each other--of course, under reason able restrictions. You cannot
make yourself a duenna of melodrama, Mrs. Lessingham."

"Scarcely. But I think our stay at Naples may reasonably be
shortened--unless, of course, Mr. Elgar leaves."

"You take it for granted, I see, that Miss Doran will be guided by
our judgment," said Mallard, after musing on the last remark.

"I have no fear of that," replied Mrs. Lessingham with confidence,
"if it is made to appear only a question of postponement. This will
be a trifle compared with my task of yesterday morning. You can
scarcely imagine how astonished she was at the first hint of
opposition."

"I can imagine it very well," said the other, in his throat. "What
else could be expected after--" He checked himself on the point
of saying something that would have revealed his opinion of Mrs.
Lessingham's "system"--his opinion accentuated by unreasoning
bitterness. "From all we know of her," were the words he
substituted.

"She is more like her father than I had supposed," said Mrs.
Lessingham, meditatively.

Mallard stood up.

"You will let her know that I have been here?"

"Certainly."

"She has expressed no wish to see me?"

"None. I had better report to her simply that you have no objection
to Mr. Elgar's visits."

"That is all I would say at present. I shall see Elgar tonight. He
is still at Casa Rolandi, I take it?"

"That was the address on his letter."

"Then, good-night. By-the-bye, I had better give you my address." He
wrote it on a leaf in his pocket-book. "I will see you again in a
day or two, when things have begun to clear up."

"It's too bad that you should have this trouble, Mr. Mallard."

"I don't pretend to like it, but there's no help."

And he left Mrs. Lessingham to make her comment on his candour.

Yes, Signor Elgar was in his chamber; he had entered but a quarter
of an hour since. The signor seemed not quite well, unhappily--
said Olimpia, the domestic, in her chopped Neapolitan. Mallard
vouchsafed no reply. He knocked sharply at the big solid door. There
was a cry of "Avanti!" and he entered.

Elgar advanced a few steps. He did not affect to smile, but looked
directly at his visitor, who--as if all the pain of the interview
were on him rather than the other--cast down his eyes.

"I was expecting you," said Reuben, without offering his hand.

"So was I you--three days ago."

"Sit down, and let us talk. I'm ashamed of myself, Mallard. I ought
at all events to have written."

"One would have thought so."

"Have you seen Mrs. Lessingham?"

"Yes."

"Then you understand everything. I repeat that I am ashamed of my
behaviour to you. For days--since last Saturday--I have been
little better than a madman. On Saturday I went to say good-bye to
Mrs. Lessingham and her niece; it was _bona fide_, Mallard."

"In your sense of the phrase. Go on."

"I tell you, I then meant to leave Naples," pursued Elgar, who had
repeated this so often to himself, by way of palliation, that he had
come to think it true. "It was not my fault that I couldn't when
that visit was over. It happened that I saw Miss Doran alone--sat
talking with her till her aunt returned."

Mrs. Lessingham had made no mention of this little matter. Hearing
of it, Mallard ejaculated mentally, "Idiot!"

"It was all over with me. I broke faith with you--as I should have
done with any man; as I should have done if the lives of a hundred
people had depended on my coming. I didn't write, because I
preferred not to write lies, and if I had told the truth, I knew you
would come at once. To be sure, silence might have had the same
result, but I had to risk something, and I risked that."

"I marvel at your disinclination to lie."

"What do you mean by saying that?" broke out Elgar, with natural
warmth.

"I mean simply what I say. Go on."

"After all, Mallard, I don't quite know why you should take this
tone with me. If a man falls in love, he thinks of nothing but how
to gain his end; I should think even you can take that for granted.
My broken promise is a trifle in view of what caused it."

"Again, in _your_ view. In mine it is by no means a trifle. It
distinguishes you from honourable men, that's all; a point of some
moment, I should think, when your character is expressly under
discussion."

"You mean, of course, that I am not worthy of Cecily. I can't grant
any such conclusion."

"Let us leave that aside for the present," said Mallard. "Will you
tell me how it came to pass that you met Miss Doran and her
companions at Pompeii?"

Elgar hesitated; whereupon the other added quickly:

"If it was with Miss Doran's anticipation, I want no details."

"No, it wasn't."

Their looks met.

"By chance, then, of course?" said Mallard, sourly.

Elgar spoke on an impulse, leaning forward.

"Look, I won't lie to you. Miriam told me they were going. I met her
that morning, when I was slinking about, and I compelled her to give
me her help--sorely against her will. Don't think ill of her for
it, Mallard. I frightened he! by my violent manner. I haven't seen
her since; she can't know what the result has been. None of them at
Pompeii suspected--only a moment of privacy; there's no need to
say any more about it."

Mallard mused over this revelation. He felt inclined to scorn Elgar
for making it. It affected him curiously, and at once took a place
among his imaginings of Miriam.

"You shall promise me that you won't betray your knowledge of this,"
added Reuben. "At all events, not now. Promise me that. Your word is
to be trusted, I know."

"It's very unlikely that I should think of touching on the matter to
your sister. I shall make no promise."

"Have you seen Cecily herself?" Elgar asked, leaving the point aside
in his eagerness to come to what concerned him more deeply.

"No."

"I have waited for your permission to visit her. Do you mean to
refuse it?"

"No. If you call to-morrow morning, you will be admitted. Mrs.
Lessingham is willing that you should see her niece in private."

"Hearty thanks for that, Mallard! We haven't shaken hands yet, you
remember. Forgive me for treating you so ill."

He held out his band cordially, and Mallard could not refuse it,
though he would rather have thrust his fingers among red coals than
feel that hot pressure.

"I believe I can be grateful," pursued Elgar, in a voice that
quivered with transport. "I will do my best to prove it."

"Let us speak of things more to the point. What result do you
foresee of this meeting to-morrow!"

The other hesitated.

"I shall ask Cecily when she will marry me."

"You may do so, of course, but the answer cannot depend upon herself
alone."

"What delay do you think necessary?"

"Until she is of age, and her own mistress," replied Mallard, with
quiet decision.

"Impossible! What need is there to wait all that time?"

"Why, there is this need, Elgar," returned the other, more
vigorously than he had yet spoken. "There is need that you should
prove to those who desire Miss Doran's welfare that you are
something more than a young fellow fresh from a life of waste and
idleness and everything that demonstrates or tends to
untrustworthiness. It seems to me that a couple of years or so is
not an over-long time for this, all things considered."

Elgar kept silent.

"You would have seen nothing objectionable in immediate marriage?"
said Mallard.

"It is useless to pretend that I should."

"Not even from the point of view of Mrs. Lessingham and myself?"

"You yourself have never spoken plainly about such things in my
hearing; but I find you in most things a man of your time. And it
doesn't seem to me that Mrs. Lessingham is exactly conventional in
her views."

"You imagine yourself worthy of such a wife at present?"

"Plainly, I do. It would be the merest hypocrisy if I said anything
else. If Cecily loves me, my love for her is at least as strong. If
we are equal in that, what else matters? I am not going to cry
_Peccavi_ about the past. I have lived, and you know what that means
in my language. In what am I inferior as a man to Cecily as a woman?
Would you have me snivel, and talk about my impurity and her angelic
qualities? You know that you would despise me if I did--or any
other man who used the same empty old phrases."

"I grant you that," replied Mallard, deliberately. "I believe I am
no more superstitious with regard to these questions than you are,
and I want to hear no cant. Let us take it on more open ground. Were
Cecily Doran my daughter, I would resist her marrying you to the
utmost of my power--not simply because you have lived laxly, but
because of my conviction that the part of your life is to be a
pattern of the whole. I have no faith in you--no faith in your
sense of honour, in your stability, not even in your mercy. Your
wife will be, sooner or later, one of the unhappiest of women.
Thinking of you in this way, and being in the place of a parent to
Cecily, am I doing my duty or not in insisting that she shall not
marry you hastily, that even in her own despite she shall have time
to study you and herself, that she shall only take the irrevocable
step when she clearly knows that it is done on her own
responsibility? You may urge what you like; I am not so foolish as
to suppose you capable of consideration for others in your present
state of mind. I, however, shall defend myself from the girl's
reproaches in after-years. There will be no marriage until she is
twenty-one."

A silence of some duration followed. Elgar sat with bent head,
twisting his moustaches. At length:

"I believe you are right, Mallard. Not in your judgment of me, but
in your practical resolve."

Mallard examined him from under his eyebrows.

"You are prepared to wait?" he asked, in an uncertain voice.

"Prepared, no. But I grant the force of your arguments. I will try
to bring myself to patience."

Mallard sat unmoving. His legs were crossed, and he held his soft
felt hat crushed together in both his hands. Elgar glanced at him
once or twice, expecting him to speak, but the other was mute.

"Your judgment of me," Elgar resumed, "is harsh and unfounded. I
don't know how you have formed it. You know nothing of what it means
to me to love such a girl as Cecily. Here I have found my rest. It
supplies me with no new qualities, but it strengthens those I have.
You picture me being unfaithful to Cecily--deserting her, becoming
brutal to her? There must be a strange prejudice in your mind to
excite such images." He examined Mallard's face. "Some day I will
remind you of your prophecies."

Mallard regarded him, and spoke at length, in a strangely jarring,
discordant voice.

"I said that hastily. I make no prophecies. I wished to say that
those seemed to me the probabilities."

"Thank you for the small mercy, at all events," said Elgar, with a
laugh.

"What do you intend to do?" Mallard proceeded to ask, changing his
position.

"I can make no plans yet. I have pretended to only too often. You
have no objection to my remaining here?"

"You must take your own course--with the understanding to which we
have come."

"I wish I could make you look more cheerful, Mallard. I owe it to
you, for you have given me more gladness than I can utter."

"You can do it."

"How?"

"See her to-morrow morning, and then go back to England, and make
yourself some kind of reputable existence."

"Not yet. That is asking too much. Not so soon."

"As you please. We understand each other on the main point."

"Yes. Are you going back to Amalfi?"

"I don't know."

They talked for a few minutes more, in short sentences of this kind,
but did not advance beyond the stage of mutual forbearance. Mallard
lingered, as though not sure that he had fulfilled his mission. In
the end he went away abruptly.





CHAPTER XII

ON THE HEIGHTS




In vain, at each meal, did Clifford Marsh await Cecily's appearance.
A trifling indisposition kept her to her room, was Mrs. Lessingham's
reply to sympathetic inquiries. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, who were
seriously making their preparations for journeying northward, held
private talk concerning the young lady, and felt they would like to
stay a week longer, just to see if their suspicions would be
confirmed. Mrs. Denyer found it difficult to assume the becoming air
when she put civil questions to Mrs. Lessingham, for she was now
assured that to Miss Doran was attributable the alarming state of
things between Clifford and Madeline; Marsh would never have been so
intractable but for this new element in the situation. Madeline
herself on the other hand, was a model of magnanimity; in Clifford's
very hearing, she spoke of Cecily with tender concern, and then
walked past her recreant admirer with her fair head in a pose of
conscious grace.

Even Mr. Musselwhite, at the close of the second day, grew aware
that the table lacked one of its ornaments. It was his habit now--
a new habit came as a blessing of Providence to Mr. Musselwhite--
on passing into the drawing-room after dinner, to glance towards a
certain corner, and, after slow, undecided "tackings," to settle in
that direction. There sat Barbara Denyer. Her study at present was
one of the less-known works of Silvio Pellico, and as Mr.
Musselwhite approached, she looked up with an air of absorption. He
was wont to begin conversation with the remark, flatteringly toned,
"Reading Italian as usual, Miss Denyer?" but this evening a new
subject had been suggested to him.

"I hope Miss Doran is not seriously unwell, Miss Denyer?"

"Oh, I think not."

Mr. Musselwhite reflected, stroking his whiskers in a gentlemanly
way.

"One misses her," was his next remark.

"Yes, so much. She is so charming--don't you think, Mr.
Musselwhite?"

"Very." He now plucked at the whiskers uneasily. "Oh yes, very."

Barbara smiled and turned her attention to the book, as though she
could spare no more time. Mr. Musselwhite, dimly feeling that this
topic demanded no further treatment, racked his brains for something
else to say. He was far towards Lincolnshire when a rustle of the
pages under Barbara's finger gave him a happy inspiration.

"I don't know whether you would care to see English papers now and
then, Miss Denyer? I always have quite a number. The _Field_, for
instance, and--"

"You are very kind, I don't read much English, but I shall be glad
to see anything you like to bring me."

Mrs. Denyer was not wholly without consolation in her troubles about
Clifford Marsh.

On the following morning, as she and her daughters were going out,
they came face to face with a gentleman who was announcing to the
servant his wish to see Miss Doran. Naturally they all glanced at
him. Would he be admitted? With much presence of mind, Madeline
exclaimed,--

"Oh dear, mamma! I have forgotten that letter. Please wait for me; I
won't be a minute."

And she disappeared, the others moving out on to the staircase. When
Madeline rejoined them, it was with the intelligence that the
visitor _had_ been admitted.

"Who can he be?"

"Rather a strange-looking person."

"Miss Doran cannot be ill. She has no brother. What an odd thing!"

They walked on, close serried, murmuring to each other discreetly. .
. .

For several minutes there had been perfect stillness in the room, a
hush after the music of low, impassioned voices. It was broken, yet
scarcely broken, by the sound of lips touching lips--touching to
part sweetly, touching again to part more slowly, more sweetly
still.

"They will not influence you against me?"

"Never! never!"

"They will try, Cecily. You will hear endless things to my
disadvantage--things that I cannot contradict if you ask me."

"I care for nothing, Reuben. I am yours for ever and ever, hear what
I may, happen what may!"

"Don't call me by my hateful name, dearest. We will find some other,
if I must have a name for you."

"Why, that is like Romeo!"

"So it is; I wish I had no worse than Romeo's reason. I had rather
have had the vulgarest Anglo-Saxon name than this Jewish one.
Happily, I need have no fear in telling you that; _you_ are no
Puritan."

"As little as a girl could be." She laughed in her happiness. "Have
you the same dislike for your sister's name?"

"Just the same. I believe it partly explains her life."

"She will not be against us, though?"

"Neither for nor against, I am afraid. Yet I have to thank her for
the meeting with you at Pompeii. Why haven't you asked me how I came
there?"

"I never thought to ask. It seemed so natural. I longed for you, and
you stood before me. I could almost believe that my longing had
power to bring you, so strong it was. But tell me."

He did so, and again they lost themselves in rapturous dreamland.

"Do you think Mr. Mallard will wish to see me?" she asked timidly.

"I can't be sure. I half think not."

"Yet I half wish he would. I should find it strange and a little
difficult, but he couldn't be harsh with me. I think it might do
good if he came to see me--in a day or two."

"On what terms have you always been with him? How does he behave to
you?"

"Oh, you know him. He still looks upon me rather too much as a
child, and he seems to have a pleasure in saying odd, half-rude
things; but we are excellent friends--or have been. Such a
delightful day as we had at Baiae! I have always liked him."

"At Baiae? You didn't go alone with him?"

"No; Miriam was there and Mr. Spence. We found him dreaming at
Pozzuoli, and carried him off in the boat with us."

"He never thought much of me, and now he hates me."

"No; that is impossible."

"If you had heard him speaking to me last night, you would think
differently. He makes it a crime that I should love you."

"I don't understand it."

"What's more, he has feared this ever since I came; I feel sure of
it. When I was coming back from Pompeii, he took me with him to
Amalfi all but by force. He dreaded my returning and seeing you."

"But why should he think of such a thing?"

"Why?"

Elgar led her a few paces, until they stood before a mirror.

"Don't look at me. The other face, which is a little paler than it
should be."

She hid it against him.

"But you don't love me for my face only? You will see others who
have more beauty."

"Perhaps so. Mallard hopes so, in the long time we shall have to
wait."

She fixed startled eyes on him.

"He cannot wish me so ill--he cannot! That would be unlike him."

"He wishes _you_ no ill, be sure of it."

"Oh, you haven't spoken to him as you should! You haven't made him
understand you. Let me speak to him for you."

"Cecily."

"Dearest?"

"Suppose he doesn't wish to understand me. Have you never thought,
when he has pretended to treat you as a child, that there might be
some reason for it? Did it never occur to you that, if he spoke too
roughly, it might be because he was afraid of being too gentle?"

"Never! That thought has never approached my mind. You don't speak
in earnest?"

Why could he not command his tongue? Why have suggested this to her
imagination? He did not wholly mean to say it, even to the last
moment; but unwisdom, as so often, overcame him. It was a way of
defending himself; he wished to imply that Mallard had a powerful
reason for assailing his character. He had been convinced since last
night that Mallard was embittered by jealousy, and he half credited
the fear lest jealousy might urge to the use of any weapons against
him; he was tempted by the satisfaction of putting Cecily on her
guard against interested motives. But he should not have troubled
her soul with such suspicions. He read on her face how she was
pained, and her next word. proved his folly.

"If you are right, I can never speak to him as I might have done. It
alters everything; it makes everything harder. You are mistaken."

"I may be. Let us hope I am."

"How I wish I had never seen that possibility! I cannot believe it;
yet it will prevent me from looking honestly in his face, as I
always have done."

"Forget it. Let us speak only of ourselves."

But she was troubled, and Elgar, angry with himself, spoke
impatiently.

"In pity for him, you would love me less. I see that."

"You are not yet satisfied? You find new ways of forcing me to say
that I love you. Seem to distrust me, that I may say it over and
over; make me believe you really doubt if I can be constant, just
that I may hear what my heart says in its distress, and repeat it
all to you. Be a little unkind to me, that I may show how your
unkindness would wound me, and may entreat you back into your own
true self. You can do nothing, say nothing, but I will make it
afford new proofs of hew I love you."

"I had rather you made yourself less dear to me. The time will be so
long. How can I live through it?"

"Will it not help you a little to help me? To know that you are
unhappy would make it so much longer to me, my love."

"It will be hell to live away from you! I cannot make myself another
man. If you knew what I have suffered only in these two days!"

"There was uncertainty."

"Uncertainty? Then what certainty could I ever have? Every hour
spent at a distance from you will be full of hideous misgivings.
Remember that every one will he doing the utmost to part us."

"Let them do the utmost twice over! You must have faith in me. Look
into my eyes. Is there no assurance, no strength for you? Do they
look too happy? That is because you are still here; time enough for
sadness when you are gone. Oh, you think too humbly of yourself!
Having loved you, and known your love, what else can the world offer
me to live for?"

"Wherever you are, I must come often."

"Indeed you must, or for me too the burden will be heavier than I
can bear."

As the Denyers were coming home, it surprised them to pass, at a
little distance from the house, Clifford Marsh in conversation with
the gentleman who had called upon Miss Doran. Madeline, exercising
her new privilege of perfect _sang-froid_, took an opportunity not
long after to speak to Clifford in the drawing-room.

"Who was the gentleman we saw you with?"

"I met him at Pompeii, but didn't know his name till today. He's
asked me to dine with him."

"He is a friend of Miss Doran's, I believe?"

"I believe so."

"You accepted his invitation?"

"Yes; I am always willing to make a new acquaintance."

"A liberal frame of mind. Did he give you news of Miss Doran's
health?"

"No."

He smiled mysteriously, only to appear at his ease; and Madeline,
smiling also, turned away.

Cecily reappeared this evening at the dinner-table. She was changed;
Mrs. Gluck and her guests were not again to behold the vision to
which their eyes had become accustomed; that supremacy of simple
charm which some of them had recognized as English girlhood at its
best, had given place to something less intelligible, less instant
in its attractiveness. Perhaps the climate of Naples was proving not
well suited to her.

After dinner, she and Mrs. Lessingham at once went to their private
room. Cecily sat down to write a letter. When she moved, as if the
letter were finished, her aunt looked up from a newspaper.

"I've been thinking, Cecily. Suppose we go over to Capri for a
change?"

"I am quite willing, aunt."

"I think Mr. Elgar has not been there yet. He might accompany us."

Unprepared for this, Cecily murmured an assent.

"Do you know how much longer he thinks of staying in Italy?"

"We haven't spoken of it."

"Has he given up his literary projects?"

"I'm afraid we didn't speak of that either."

"Shall you be satisfied if he continues to live quite without
occupation?"

"I don't for a moment think he purposes that."

"And yet it will certainly be the ease as long as he remains here--
or wherever else we happen to be living."

Mrs. Lessingham allowed her to ponder this for a few minutes. Then
she resumed the train of thought.

"Have you had leisure yet to ask yourself, my dear, what use you
will make of the great influence you have acquired over Mr. Elgar's
mind?"

"That is not quite the form my thoughts would naturally take, aunt,"
Cecily replied, with gentleness.

"Yet may it not be the form they should? You are accustomed to think
for yourself to a greater extent than girls whose education has been
more ordinary; you cannot take it ill if I remind you now of certain
remarks I have made on Mr. Elgar lately, and remind you also that I
am not alone in my view of him. Don't fear that I shall say anything
unkind; but if you feel equal to a woman's responsibilities, you
must surely exercise a woman's good sense. Let us say nothing more
than that Mr. Elgar has fallen into habits of excessive indolence;
doesn't it seem to you that you might help him out of hem?"

"I think he may not need help as you understand it, now."

"My dear, he needs it perhaps five hundred times more than he did
before. If you decline to believe me, I shall be only too much
justified by your experience hereafter."

"What would you have me do?"

"What must very soon occur to your own excellent wits, Cecily--for
I won't give up all my pride in you. Mr. Elgar should, of course, go
back to England, and do something that becomes him; he must decide
what. Let him have a few days with us in Capri; then go, and so far
recommend himself in our eyes. No one can make him see that this is
what his dignity--if nothing else--demands, except yourself.
Think of it, dear."

Cecily did think of it, long and anxiously. Thanks to Elgar, her
meditations had a dark background such as her own fancy would never
have supplied.

He knew not how sadly the image of him had been blurred in Cecily's
mind, the man who lay that night in his room overlooking the port.
Whether such ignorance were for his aid or his disadvantage, who
shall venture to say?

To a certain point, we may follow with philosophic curiosity, step
by step, the progress of mental anguish, but when that point is
passed, analysis loses its interest; the vocabulary of pain has
exhausted itself, the phenomena already noted do but repeat
themselves with more rapidity, with more intensity--detail is lost
in the mere sense of throes. Perchance the mind is capable of
suffering worse than the fiercest pangs of hopeless love combined
with jealousy; one would not pretend to put a limit to the
possibilities of human woe; but for Mallard, at all events this
night did the black flood of misery reach high-water mark.

What joy in the world that does not represent a counter-balance of
sorrow? What blessedness poured upon one head but some other must
therefore lie down under malediction? We know that with the
uttermost of happiness there is wont to come a sudden blending of
troublous humour. May it not be that the soul has conceived a subtle
sympathy with that hapless one but for whose sacrifice its own
elation were impossible?





CHAPTER XIII

ECHO AND PRELUDE




At Villa Sannazaro, the posture of affairs was already understood.
When Eleanor Spence, casually calling at the _pension_, found that
Cecily was unable to receive visitors, she at the same time learnt
from Mrs. Lessingham to what this seclusion was due. The ladies had
a singular little conversation, for Eleanor was inwardly so amused
at this speedy practical comment on Mrs. Lessingham's utterances of
the other day, that with difficulty she kept her countenance; while
Mrs. Lessingham herself, impelled to make the admission without
delay, that she might exhibit a philosophic acceptance of fact, had
much ado to hide her chagrin beneath the show of half-cynical
frankness that became a woman of the world. Eleanor--passably
roguish within the limits of becoming mirth--acted the scene to
her husband, who laughed shamelessly. Then came explanations between
Eleanor and Miriam.

The following day passed without news, but on the morning after,
Miriam had a letter from Cecily; not a long letter, nor very
effusive, but telling all that was to be told. And it ended with a
promise that Cecily would come to the villa that afternoon. This was
communicated to Eleanor.

"Where's Mallard, I wonder?" said Spence, when his wife came to talk
to him. "Not, I suspect, at the old quarters, It would be like him
to go off somewhere without a word. Confound that fellow Elgar!"

"I'm half disposed to think that it serves Mr. Mallard right," was
Eleanor's remark.

"Well, for heartlessness commend me to a comfortable woman."

"And for folly commend me to a strong-minded man."

"Pooh! He'll growl and mutter a little, and then get on with his
painting."

"If I thought so, my liking for him would diminish. I hope he is
tearing his hair."

"I shall go seek him."

"Do; and give my best love to him, poor fellow."

Cecily came alone. She was closeted with Miriam for a long time,
then saw Eleanor. Spence purposely kept away from home.

Dante lay unread, as well as the other books which Eleanor placed
insidiously in her cousin's room. Letters lay unanswered--among
them several relating to the proposed new chapel at Bartles. How did
Miriam employ herself during the hours that she spent alone?

Not seldom, in looking back upon her childhood and maidenhood.

Imagine a very ugly cubical brick house of two stories, in a suburb
of Manchester. It stands a few yards back from the road. On one
side, it is parted by a row of poplars from several mean cottages;
on the other, by a narrow field from a house somewhat larger and
possibly a little uglier than itself. Its outlook, over the highway,
is on to a tract of country just being broken up by builders, beyond
which a conglomerate of factories, with chimneys ever belching heavy
fumes, closes the view; its rear windows regard a scrubby meadow,
grazed generally by broken-down horses, with again a limitary
prospect of vast mills.

Imagine a Sunday in this house. Half an hour later than on profane
days, Mrs. Elgar descends the stairs. She is a lady of middle age,
slight, not ungraceful, handsome; the look of pain about her
forehead is partly habitual, but the consciousness of Sunday
intensifies it. She moves without a sound. Entering the
breakfast-room, she finds there two children, a girl and a boy, both
attired in new-seeming garments which are obviously stiff and
uncomfortable. The little girl sits on an uneasy chair, her
white-stockinged legs dangling, on her lap a large copy of
"Pilgrim's Progress;" the boy is half reclined on a shiny sofa, his
hands in his pockets, on his face an expression of discontent. The
table is very white, very cold, very uninviting.

Ten minutes later appears the master of the house, shaven, also in
garments that appear now and uncomfortable, glancing hither and
thither with preoccupied eyes. There is some talk in a low voice
between the little girl and her mother; then the family seat
themselves at table silently. Mr. Elgar turns a displeased look on
the boy, and says something in a harsh voice which causes the
youngster to straighten himself, curl his lip precociously, and
thereafter preserve a countenance of rebellion subdued by fear. His
father eats very little, speaks scarcely at all, but thinks,
thinks-and most assuredly not of sacred subjects.

Breakfast over, there follows an hour of indescribable dreariness,
until the neighbourhood begins to sound with the clanging of
religious bells. Mr. Elgar has withdrawn to a little room of his
own, where perhaps, he gives himself up to meditation on the duties
of a Christian parent, though his incredulous son has ere now had a
glimpse at the door, and observed him in the attitude of
letter-writing. Mrs. Elgar moves about silently, the pain on her
brow deepening as chapel-time approaches. At length the boy and girl
go upstairs to be "got ready," which means that they indue other
garments yet more uncomfortable than those they already wear. This
process over, they descend again to the breakfast-room, and again
sit there, waiting for the dread moment of departure. The boy is
more rebellious than usual; he presently drums with his feet, and
even begins to whistle, very low, a popular air. His sister looks at
him, first with astonished reproach, then in dread.

_Satis superque_. Again and again Miriam revived these images of the
past. And the more she thought of herself as a child, the less was
she pleased with what her memory presented. How many instances came
back to her of hypocrisy before her father or mother, hypocrisy
which, strangely enough, she at the time believed a merit, though
perfectly aware of her own insincerity! How many a time had she
suffered from the restraints imposed upon her, and then secretly
allowed herself indulgences, and then again persuaded herself that
by severe attention to formalities she blotted out her sin!

But the worst was when Cecily Doran came to live in the house.
Cecily was careless in religion, had been subjected to no proper
severity, had not been taught to probe her con science. At once
Miriam assumed an attitude of spiritual pride--the beginning of an
evil which was to strengthen its hold upon her through years. She
would be an example to the poor little heathen; she talked with her
unctuously; she excited herself, began to find a pleasure in
asceticism, and drew the susceptible girl into the same way. They
would privately appoint periods of fasting, and at several
successive meals irritate their hunger by taking only one or two
morsels; when faintness came upon them, they gloried in the misery.

And from that stage of youth survived memories far more painful than
those of childhood. Miriam shut her mind against them.

Her marriage came about in the simplest way; nothing easier to
understand, granted these circumstances. The friends of the family
were few, and all people of the same religious sect, of the same
commercial sphere. Miriam had never spoken with a young man whom she
did not in her heart despise; the one or two who might possibly have
been tempted to think of her as a desirable wife were repelled by
her austerity. She had now a character to support; she had made
herself known for severe devotion to the things of the spirit. In
her poor little world she could not submit to be less than
pre-eminent, and only by the way of religion was pre-eminence to be
assured. When the wealthy and pious manufacturer sought her hand,
she doubted for a while, but was in the end induced to consent by
the reflection that not only would she be freer, but at the same
time enjoy a greatly extended credit and influence. Her pride
silenced every other voice.

Religious hypocrisy is in our day a very rare thing; so little is to
be gained by it. To be sure, the vast majority of English people are
constantly guilty of hypocritical practices, but that, as a rule, is
mere testimony to the rootedness of their orthodox faith. Mr. Elgar.
shutting himself up between breakfast and chapel to write business
letters--which he pre- or post-dated--was ignoble enough, but
not therefore a hypocrite. Had a fatal accident happened to one of
his family whilst he was thus employed, he would not have succeeded
in persuading his conscience that the sin and the calamity were
unconnected. His wife had never admitted a doubt of its being
required by the immutable law of God that she should be sad and
severe on Sunday, that Reuben should be sternly punished for
whistling on that day, that little Miriam should be rewarded when
she went through the long services with unnatural stillness and
demureness. Nor was Miriam herself a hypocrite when, mistress of
Redbeck House, she began to establish her reputation and authority
throughout dissenting Bartles.

Her instruction had been rigidly sectarian. Whatever she studied was
represented to her from the point of view of its relation to
Christianity as her teachers understood it. The Christian faith was
alone of absolute significance; all else that the mind of man could
contain was of more or less importance as more or less connected
with that single interest. To the time of her marriage, her outlook
upon the world was incredibly restricted. She had never read a book
that would not pass her mother's censorship; she had never seen a
work of art; she had never heard any but "sacred" music; she had
never perused a journal; she had never been to an entertainment--
unless the name could be given to a magic-lantern exhibition of
views in Palestine, or the like. Those with whom she associated had
gone through a similar training, and knew as little of life.

She had heard of "infidelity;" yes. Live as long as she might, she
would never forget one dreadful day when, in a quarrel with his
mother, Reuben uttered words which signified hatred and rejection of
all he had been taught to hold divine Mrs. Elgar's pallid,
speechless horror; the severe chastisement inflicted on the lad by
his father;--she could never look back on it all without sickness
of heart. Thenceforth, her brother and his wild ways embodied for
her that awful thing, infidelity. At the age which Cecily Doran had
now attained, Miriam believed that there were only a few men living
so unspeakably wicked as to repudiate Christianity; one or two of
these, she had learnt from the pulpit, were "men of science," a term
which to this day fell on her ears with sinister sound.

Thus prepared for the duties of wife, mother, and leader in society,
she shone forth upon Bartles. Her husband, essentially a coarse man,
did his utmost, though unconsciously, to stimulate her pride and
supply her with incentives to unworthy ambition. He was rich, and
boasted of it vulgarly; he was ignorant, and vaunted the fact,
thanking Heaven that for him the purity of religious conviction had
never been endangered by the learning that leads astray; be was
proud of possessing a young and handsome wife, and for the first
time evoked in her a personal vanity. Day by day was it--most
needlessly--impressed upon Miriam that she must regard herself as
the chief lady in Bartles, and omit no duty appertaining to such a
position. She had an example to set; she was chosen as a support of
religion.

Most happily, the man died. Had he remained her consort for ten
years, the story of Miriam's life would have been one of those that
will scarcely bear dwelling upon, too repulsive, too heart-breaking;
a few words of bitterness, of ruth, and there were an end of it. His
death was like the removal of a foul burden that polluted her and
gradually dragged her down. Nor was it long before she herself
understood it in this way, though dimly and uncertainly. She found
herself looking on things with eyes which somehow had a changed
power of vision. With remarkable abruptness, certain of her habits
fell from her, and she remembered them only with distaste, even with
disgust. And one day she said to herself passionately that never
would she wed again--never, never! She was experiencing for the
first time in her life a form of liberty.

Not that her faith had received any shock. To her undeveloped mind
every tenet in which she had been instructed was still valid. This
is the point to note. Her creed was a habit of the intellect; she
held it as she did the knowledge of the motions of the earth. She
had never reflected upon it, for in everything she heard or read
this intellectual basis was presupposed. With doctrinal differences
her reasoning faculty was familiar, and with her to think of
religion was to think of the points at issue between one church and
another--always, moreover, with pre-judgment in favour of her own.

But the external results of her liberty began to be of importance.
She came into frequent connection with her cousin Eleanor; she saw
more than hitherto of the Bradshaws' family life; she had business
transactions; she read newspapers; she progressed slowly towards
some practical acquaintance with the world.

Miriam knew the very moment when the thought of making great
sacrifices to build a new chapel for Bartles had first entered her
mind. One of her girl friends had just married, and was come to live
in the neighbourhood. The husband, Welland by name, was wealthier
and of more social importance than Mr. Baske had been; it soon
became evident that Mrs. Welland, who also aspired to prominence in
religious life, would be a formidable rival to the lady of Redbeck
House. On the occasion of some local meeting, Miriam felt this
danger keenly; she went home in dark mood, and the outcome of her
brooding was the resolve in question.

She had not inherited all her husband's possessions; indeed, there
fell to her something less than half his personal estate. For a
time, this had not concerned her; now she was beginning to think of
it occasionally with discontent, followed by reproach of conscience.
Like reproach did she suffer for the jealousy and envy excited in
her by Mrs. Welland's arrival. A general uneasiness of mind was
gradually induced, and the chapel-building project, with singular
confusion of motives, represented to her at once a worldly ambition
and a discipline for the soul. It was a long time before she spoke
of it, and in the interval she suffered more and more from a vague
mental unrest.

Letters were coming to her from Cecily. Less by what they contained
than by what they omitted, she knew that Cecily was undergoing a
great change. Miriam put at length certain definite questions, and
the answers she received were unsatisfactory, alarming. The
correspondence became a distinct source of trouble. Not merely on
Cecily's account; she was led by it to think of the world beyond her
horizon, and to conceive dissatisfactions such as had never taken
form to her.

Her physical health began to fall off; she had seasons of
depression, during which there settled upon her superstitious fears.
Ascetic impulses returned, and by yielding to them she established a
new cause of bodily weakness. And the more she suffered, the more
intolerable to her grew the thought of resigning her local
importance. Her pride, whenever irritated, showed itself in ways
which exposed her to the ridicule of envious acquaintances. At
length Bartles was surprised with an announcement of what had so
long been in her mind; a newspaper paragraph made known, as if with
authority, the great and noble work Mrs. Baske was about to
undertake. For a day or two Miriam enjoyed the excitement this
produced--the inquiries, the felicitations, the reports of gossip.
She held her head more firmly than ever; she seemed of a sudden to
be quite re-established in health.

Another day or two, and she was lying seriously ill--so ill that
her doctor summoned aid from Manchester.

What a distance between those memories, even the latest of them, and
this room in Villa Sannazaro! Its foreign aspect, its brightness,
its comfort, the view from the windows, had from the first worked
upon her with subtle influences of which she was unconscious. By
reason of her inexperience of life, it was impossible for Miriam to
analyze her own being, and note intelligently the modifications it
underwent. Introspection meant to her nothing but debates held with
conscience--a technical conscience, made of religious precepts.
Original reflection, independent of these precepts, was to her very
simply a form of sin, a species of temptation for which she had been
taught to prepare herself. With anxiety, she found herself slipping
away from that firm ground whence she was won't to judge all within
and about her; more and more difficult was it to keep in view that
sole criterion in estimating the novel impressions she received. To
review the criterion itself was still beyond her power. She suffered
from the conviction that trials foreseen were proving too strong for
her. Whenever her youth yielded to the allurement of natural joys,
there followed misery of penitence. Not that Miriam did in truth
deem it a sin to enjoy the sunshine and the breath of the sea and
the beauty of mountains (though such delights might become
excessive, like any other, and so veil temptation), but she felt
that for one in her position of peril there could not be too strict
a watch kept upon the pleasures that were admitted. Hence she could
never forget herself in pleasure; her attitude must always be that
of one on guard.

The name of Italy signified perilous enticement, and she was
beginning to feel it. The people amid whom she lived were all but
avowed scorners of her belief, and yet she was beginning to like
their society. Every letter she wrote to Bartles seemed to her
despatched on a longer journey than the one before; her paramount
interests were fading, fading; she could not exert herself to think
of a thousand matters which used to have the power to keep her
active all day long. The chapel-plans were hidden away; she durst
not go to the place where they would have met her eye.

She suffered in her pride. On landing at Naples, she had imagined
that her position among the Spences and their friends would not be
greatly different from that she had held at Bartles. They were not
"religious" people; all the more must they respect her, feeling
rebuked in her presence. The chapel project would enhance her
importance. How far otherwise had it proved! They pitied her,
compassionated her lack of knowledge, of opportunities. With the
perception of this, there came upon her another disillusion In
classing the Spences with people who were not "religious," she had
understood them as lax in the observance of duties which at all
events they recognized as such. By degrees she learnt that they were
very far from holding the same views as herself concerning religious
obligation; they were anything but conscience-smitten in the face of
her example. Was it, then, possible that persons who lived in a
seemly manner could be sceptics, perhaps "infidels"? What of Cecily
Doran? She had not dared to ask Cecily face to face how far her
disbelief went; the girl seemed to have no creed but that of worldly
delight. How had she killed her conscience in so short a time?
Obviously, her views were those of Mrs. Lessingham; probably those
of Mr. Mallard. Were these people strange and dreadful exceptions,
or did they represent a whole world of which she had not suspected
the existence?

Yes, she was beginning to feel the allurement of Italy. Instead of
sitting turned away from her windows when musing, she often passed
an hour with her eyes on the picture they framed, content to be
idle, satisfied with form and colour, not thinking at all. Habits of
personal idleness crept upon her; she seldom cared to walk, but
found pleasure in the motion of a carriage, and lay back on the
cushions, instead of sitting quite upright as at first. She began to
wish for music; the sound of Eleanor's piano would tempt her to make
an excuse for going into the room, and then she would remain,
listening. The abundant fruits of the season became a temptation to
her palate; she liked to see shops and stalls overflowing with the
vineyard's delicious growth.

She knew for the first time the seduction of books. From what
unutterable weariness had she been saved when she assented to
Eleanor's proposal and began to learn Italian! First there was the
fear lest she should prove slow at acquiring, suffer yet another
fall from her dignity; but this apprehension was soon removed. She
had a brain, and could use it; Eleanor's praise fell upon her ears
delightfully. Then there was that little volume of English verse
which Eleanor left on the table; its name, "The Golden Treasury,"
made her imagine it of a religious tone; she was undeceived in
glancing through it. Poetry had hitherto made no appeal to her; she
did not care much for the little book. But one day Cecily caught it
up in delight, and read to her for half an hour; she affected
indifference, but had in reality learnt something, and thereafter
read for herself.

The two large mirrors in her room had, oddly enough, no unimportant
part among the agencies working for her development. It was almost
inevitable that, in moving about, she should frequently regard her
own figure. From being something of an annoyance, this necessity at
length won attractiveness, till she gazed at herself far oftener
than she need have done. As for her face she believed it pas sable,
perhaps rather more than that; but the attire that had possessed
distinction at Bartles looked very plain, to say the least, in the
light of her new experience. One day she saw herself standing side
by side with Cecily, and her eyes quickly turned away.

To what was she sinking!

But Dante lay unopened, together with the English books. Miriam had
spent a day or two of alternate languor and irritableness, unable to
attend to anything serious. Just now she had in her hand Cecily's
letter, the letter which told of what had happened. There was no
reason for referring to it again; this afternoon Cecily herself had
been here. But Miriam read over the pages, and dwelt upon the

At dinner, no remark was made on the subject that occupied the minds
of all three. Afterwards they sat together, as usual, and Eleanor
played. In one of the silences, Miriam turned to Spence and asked
him if he had seen Mr. Mallard.

"Yes; I found him after a good deal of going about," replied the
other, glad to have done with artificial disregard of the subject.

"Does he know that they are going to Capri!"

"He evidently hadn't heard of it. I suppose he'll have a note from
Mrs. Lessingham this evening or to-morrow."

Miriam waited a little, then asked:

"What is his own wish? What does he think ought to be arranged?"

"Just what Cecily told you," interposed Eleanor, before her husband
could reply.

"I thought he might have spoken more freely to Edward."

"Well," answered Spence, "he is strongly of opinion that Reuben
ought to go to England very soon. But I suppose Cecily told you that
as well?"

"She seemed to be willing. But why doesn't Mr. Mallard speak to her
himself?"

"Mallard isn't exactly the man for this delicate business," said
Spence, smiling.

Miriam glanced from him to Eleanor. She would have said no more, had
it been in her power to keep silence; but an involuntary
persistence, the same in kind as that often manifested by
questioning children--an impulsive feeling that the next query
must elicit something which would satisfy a vague desire, obliged
her to speak again.

"Is it his intention not to see Cecily at all?"

"I think very likely it is, Miriam," answered Eleanor, when her
husband showed that he left her to do so.

"I understand."

To which remark Eleanor, when Miriam was gone, attached the
interrogative, "I wonder whether she does?" The Spences did not feel
it incumbent upon them to direct her in the matter; it were just as
well if she followed a mistaken clue.

Two days later, Mrs. Lessingham and her niece, accompanied by Reuben
Elgar, departed for Capri. The day after that, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw
in very deed said good-bye to Naples and travelled northwards. They
purposed spending Christmas in Rome, and thence by quicker stages
they would return to the land of civilization. Spence went to the
station to see them off, and at lunch, after speaking of this and
other things, he said to Miriam:

"Mallard wishes to see you. I told him I thought five o'clock this
afternoon would be a convenient time."

Miriam assented, but not without betraying surprise and uneasiness.
Subsequently she just mentioned to Eleanor that she would receive
the visitor in her own sitting-room. There, as five o'clock drew
near, she waited in painful agitation. What it was Mallard's purpose
to say to her she could not with any degree of certainty conjecture.
Had Reuben told him of the part she had played in connection with
that eventful day at Pompeii? What would be his tone? Did he come to
ask for particulars concerning her brother? Intend what he might,
she dreaded the interview. And yet--fact of which she made no
secret to herself--she had rather he came than not. When it was a
few minutes past five, and no foot had yet sounded in the corridor,
all other feeling was lost in the misgiving that he might have
changed his mind. Perhaps he had decided to write instead, and her
heart sank at the thought. She felt an overpowering curiosity as to
the way in which this event had affected the strange man. Reports
were no satisfaction to her; she desired to see him and hear him
speak.

The footsteps at last! She trembled, went hot and cold, had a
parched throat. Mallard entered, and she did not offer him her hand;
perhaps he might reject it. In consequence there was an absurdly
formal bow on both sides.

"Please sit down, Mr. Mallard."

She saw that he was looking at the "St. Cecilia," but with what
countenance her eyes could not determine. To her astonishment, he
spoke of the picture, and in an unembarrassed tone.

"An odd thing that this should be in your room."

"Yes. We spoke of it the first time Cecily came."

Her accents were not firm. At once he fixed his gaze on her, and did
not remove it until her temples throbbed and she cast down her eyes
in helpless abashment.

"I have had a long letter from your brother, Mrs. Baske. It seems he
posted it just before they left for Capri. I can only reply to it in
one way, and it gives me so much pain to do so that I am driven to
ask your help. He writes begging me to take another view of this
matter, and permit them to be married before very long. The letter
is powerfully written; few men could plead their cause with such
eloquence and force. But it cannot alter my determination. I must
reply briefly and brutally. What I wish to ask you is, whether with
sincerity you can urge my arguments upon your brother, and give me
this assistance in the most obvious duty?"

"I have no influence with him, Mr. Mallard."

Again he looked at her persistently, and said with deliberation:

"I think you must have some. And this is one of the cases in which a
number of voices may possibly prevail, though one or two are
ineffectual. But--if you will forgive me my direct words--your
voice is, of course, useless if you cannot speak in earnest."

She was able now to return his look, for her pride was being
aroused. The face she examined bore such plain marks of suffering
that with difficulty she removed her eyes from it. Nor could she
make reply to him, so intensely were her thoughts occupied with what
she saw.

"Perhaps," he said, "you had rather not undertake anything at once."
Then, his voice changing slightly, "I have no wish to seem a
suppliant, Mrs. Baske. My reasons for saying that this marriage
shall not, if I can prevent it, take place till Miss Doran is of
age, are surely simple and convincing enough; I can't suppose that
it is necessary to insist upon them to you. But I feel I had no
right to leave any means unused. By speaking to you, I might cause
you to act more earnestly than you otherwise would. That was all."

"I am very willing to help you," she replied, with carefully
courteous voice.

"After all, I had rather we didn't put it in that way," Mallard
resumed, with a curious doggedness, as if her tone were distasteful
to him. "My own part in the business is accidental. Please tell me:
is it, or not, your own belief that a delay is desirable?"

The reply was forced from her.

"I certainly think it is."

"May I ask you if you have reasoned with your brother about it?"

"I haven't had any communication with him since--since we knew of
this." She paused; but, before Mallard had shown an intention to
speak, added abruptly, "I should have thought that Miss Doran might
have been trusted to understand and respect your wishes."

"Miss Doran knows my wishes," he answered drily, "but I haven't
insisted upon them to her, and am not disposed to do so."

"Would it not be very simple and natural if you did?"

The look he gave her was stern all but to anger.

"It wouldn't be a very pleasant task to me, Mrs. Baske, to lay
before her my strongest arguments against her marrying Mr. Elgar.
And if I don't do that, it seems to me that it is better to let her
know my wishes through Mrs. Lessingham. As you say, it is to be
hoped she will understand and respect them."

He rose from his chair. For some reason, Miriam could not utter the
words that one part of her prompted. She wished to assure him that
she would do her best with Reuben, but at the same time she resented
his mode of addressing her, and the conflict made her tongue-tied.

"I won't occupy more of your time, Mrs. Baske."

She would have begged him to resume his seat. The conversation had
been so short; she wanted to hear him speak more freely. But her
request, she knew, would be disregarded With an effort, she
succeeded in holding out her hand Mallard held it lightly for an
instant.

"I will write to him," fell from her lips, when already he had
turned to the door. "If necessary, I will go and see him."

"Thank you," he replied with civility, and left her.





CHAPTER XIV

ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING




"I cannot answer your long letter; to such correspondence there is
no end. Come and spend a day here with us; I promise to listen
patiently, and you shall hear how things are beginning to shape
themselves in my mind, now I have had leisure to reflect. Cecily
sends a line. Do come. Take the early boat on Monday; Spence will
give you all particulars, and see you off at Santa Lucia. We really
have some very sober plans, not unapproved by Mrs. Lessingham. Will
meet you at the Marina."

Miriam received this on Sunday morning, and went to her own room to
read it. The few lines of Cecily's writing which were enclosed, she
glanced over with careless eye; yet not with mere carelessness
either, but as if something of aversion disinclined her to peruse
them attentively. That sheet she at once laid aside; Reuben's note
she still held in her hand, and kept re-reading it.

She went to the window and looked over towards Capri. A slight mist
softened its outlines this morning; it seemed very far away, on the
dim borders of sea and sky. For a long time she had felt the luring
charm of that island, always before her eyes, yet never more than a
blue mountainous shape. Lately she had been reading of it, and her
fancy, new to such picturings, was possessed by the mysterious dread
of its history in old time, the grandeur of its cliffs, the
loveliness of its green hollows, and the wonder of its sea-caves.
Her childhood had known nothing of fairyland, and now, in this tardy
awakening of the imaginative part of her nature, she thought
sometimes of Capri much as a child is wont to think of the enchanted
countries, nameless, regionless, in books of fable.

What thoughts for Sunday! But Miriam was far on the way of those who
recognize themselves as overmastered by temptation, and grow almost
reckless in the sins they cannot resist. So long it was since she
had been able to attend the accustomed public worship, and now its
substitute in the privacy of her room had become irksome. She
blushed to be practising hypocrisy; the Spences were careful to
refrain from interfering with her to-day, and here, withdrawn from
their sight, she passed the hours in wearisome idleness--in worse
than that.

She could not look again at Cecily's letter. More; she could not let
her eyes turn to Raphael's picture. But before the mirrors she
paused often and long, losing herself in self regard.

Early on the morrow, she drove down with Spence to Santa Lucia, and
went on board the Capri boat. There were few passengers, a handful
of Germans and an English family--father, mother, two daughters,
and two sons Sitting apart, Miriam cast many glances at her country
people, and not without envy. They were comely folk, in the best
English health, refined in bearing, full of enjoyment. Now and then
a few words of their talk fell upon her ears, and it was merry,
kindly, intimate talk, the fruit of a lifetime of domestic
happiness. It made her think again of what her own home-life had
been. Such companionship of parents and children was inconceivable
in her experience. The girls observed her, and, she believed, spoke
of her. Must she not look strange in their eyes? Probably they felt
sorry for her, as an invalid whose countenance was darkened by
recent pain.

The boat made first of all for Sorrento, where a few more persons
came on board. Miriam was by this time enjoying the view of the
coast. From this point she kept her gaze fixed on Capri. One more
delay on the voyage; the steamer stopped near the Blue Grotto, that
such of the passengers as wished might visit it before landing.
Miriam kept her place, and for the present was content to watch the
little boats, as they rocked for a few moments at the foot of the
huge cliff and then suddenly disappeared through the entrance to the
cavern. When the English family returned, she listened to their
eager, wondering conversation. A few minutes more, and she was
landing at the Marina, where Reuben awaited her.

He had a carriage ready for the drive up the serpent road to the
hotel where Mrs. Lessingham and her niece were staying. His own
quarters were elsewhere--at the Pagano, dear to artists.

"Well, have you enjoyed the voyage? What did you think of Sorrento?
We watched the steamer across from there; we were up on the road to
Anacapri, yonder. You don't look so well as when I saw you last--
nothing like."

He waited for no reply to his questions, and talked with nervous
brokenness. Seated in the carriage, he could not keep still from one
moment to the next. His eyes had the unquiet of long-continued
agitation, the look that results from intense excitement when it has
become the habit of day after day.

"Mallard has been talking to you," he said suddenly.

"Why do you say that?"

"I know he has, from your letter.--Look at the views!"

"What plans did you speak of?"

"Oh, we'll talk about it afterwards. But Mallard _has_ been talking
you over?"

Miriam had no resolve by which to guide herself. She knew not
distinctly why she had come to Capri. Her familiar self-reliance and
cold disregard of anything but a few plain rules in regulating her
conduct, were things of the past. She felt herself idly swayed by
conflicting influences, unable even to debate what course she should
take; the one emotion of which she was clearly conscious was of so
strange and disturbing a kind that, so far from impelling her to
act, it seemed merely to destroy all her customary motives and leave
her subject to the will of others. It was the return of weakness
such as had possessed her mind when she lay ill, when she was
ceaselessly troubled with a desire for she knew not what, and,
unable to utter it had no choice but to admit the suggestions and
biddings of those who cared for her. She could not even resent this
language of Reuben's, to which formerly she would have opposed her
unyielding pride; his proximity infected her with nervousness, but
at the same time made her flaccid before his energy.

"He came and spoke to me about you," she admitted. "But he left me
to do as I saw fit."

"After putting the case against me as strongly as it could be put. I
know; you needn't tell me anything about the conversation. Let us
leave it till afterwards.--You see how this road winds, so that
the incline may be gentle enough for carriages. There are stony
little paths, just like the beds of mountain streams, going straight
down to the Marina. I lost myself again and again yesterday among
the gardens and vineyards. Look back over the bay to Naples!"

But in a minute or two the other subject was resumed, again with a
suddenness that told of inability to keep from speaking his
thoughts.

"You understand, I dare say, why Mallard is making such a fuss?"

"How could I help understanding?"

"But _do_ you understand?"

"What do you mean?" she asked irritably.

"Does he speak like a man who is disinterested?"

"It is not my business to discuss Mr. Mallard's motives."

"It certainly is mine--and yours too, if you care anything for
me."

They reached the hotel without further debate of this subject. It
was not much after one o'clock; all lunched together in private,
talking only of Capri. Later they walked to the villa of Tiberius.
Elgar kept up an appearance of light-hearted enjoyment; Cecily was
less able to disguise her preoccupation. Mrs. Lessingham seemed to
have accepted the inevitable. Her first annoyance having passed, she
was submitting to that personal charm in Elgar which all women
sooner or later confessed; her behaviour to him was indulgent, and
marked only with a very gentle reserve when he talked too much
paradox.

Elgar went to his hotel for dinner, and left the others to
themselves through the evening. The next day was given to. wandering
about the island. On the return at sunset, Miriam and Reuben had a
long talk together, in which it was made manifest that the "plans"
were just as vague as ever. Reuben had revived the mention of
literary work, that was all, and proposed to make his head-quarters
in Paris, in order that he might not be too far from Cecily, who
would, it was presumed, remain on the Continent. This evening he
dined with the ladies. Afterwards Cecily played. When Miriam and
Mrs. Lessingham chanced to be conversing together, Elgar stepped up
to the piano, and murmured:

"Will you come out into the garden for a few minutes? There's a full
moon; it's magnificent."

Cecily let her fingers idle upon the keys, then rose and went to
where her aunt was sitting. There was an exchange of words in a low
tone, and she left the room. Elgar at once approached Mrs.
Lessingham to take leave of her.

"The Grotta Azzurra to-morrow," he said gaily. "Perhaps you won't
care to go again? My grave sister will make a very proper chaperon."

"Let us discuss that when to-morrow comes. Please to limit your
moon-gazing to five minutes."

"At the utmost."

From the hotel garden opened a clear prospect towards Naples, which
lay as a long track of lights beyond the expanse of deep blue. The
coast was distinctly outlined against the far sky glowed
intermittently the fire of Vesuvius. Above the trees of the garden
shone white crags, unsubstantial, unearthly in the divine moonlight.
There was no sound, yet to intense listening the air became full of
sea-music. It was the night of Homer, the island-charm of the
Odyssey.

"Answer me quickly, Cecily; we have only a few minutes, and I want
to say a great deal. You have talked with Miriam?"

"Yes."

"You know that she repeats what Mallard has instructed her to say?
Their one object now is to get me at a distance from you. You see
how your aunt has changed--in appearance; her policy is to make me
think that she will be my friend when I am away. I can speak with
certainty after observing her for so long; in reality she is as firm
against me as ever. Don't you notice, too, something strange in
Miriam's behaviour?"

"She is not like herself."

"As unlike as could be. Mallard has influenced her strongly. Who
knows what he told her?"

"Of you?

"Perhaps of himself."

"Dear, he could not speak to her in that way!"

"A man in love--and in love with Cecily Doran--can do anything.
The Spences are his close friends; they too have been working on
Miriam."

"But why, why do you return to this? We have spoken of the worst
they can do. To fear anything from their' persuasions is to distrust
me."

"Cecily, I don't distrust you, but I can't live away from you. I
might have gone straight from Naples, but I can't go now; every hour
with you has helped to make it impossible. In talking to your aunt
and to Miriam, I have been consciously false. Come further this way,
into the shadow. Who is over there?"

"Some one we don't know."

Her voice had sunk to a whisper. Elgar led her by the hand into a
further recess of the garden; the hand was almost crushed between
his own as he continued:

"You must come with me, Cecily. We will go away together, and be
married at once."

She panted rather than breathed.

"You must! I can't leave you! I had rather throw myself from these
Capri rocks than go away with more than two years of solitude before
me."

Cecily made no answer.

"If you think, you will see this is best in every way. It will be
kindest to poor Mallard, putting an end at once to any hopes he may
have."

"We can't be married without his consent," Cecily whispered.

"Oh yes; I can manage that. I have already thought of everything. Be
up early to-morrow morning, and leave the hotel at half-past seven,
as if you were going for a walk. Neither your aunt nor Miriam will
be stirring by then. Go down the road as far as beyond the next
turning, and I will be there with a carriage. At the Marina I will
have a boat ready to take us over to Sorrento; we will drive to
Castellamare, and there take train direct for Caserta and onwards,
so missing Naples altogether. You shall travel as my sister. We will
go to London, and be married there. Of course you can't bring
luggage, but what does that matter? We can stop anywhere and buy
what things you need. I have quite enough money for the present."

"But think of the shock to them all!" she pleaded, trembling through
her frame. "How ill I should seem to repay their long kindness! I
can't do this, my dearest; oh, I can't do this! I will see Mr.
Mallard, as I wished--"

"You shall not see him!" he interrupted violently. "I couldn't bear
it. How do I know--"

"How cruel to speak like that to me!"

"Of your own cruelty you never think. You have made me mad with love
of you, and have no right to refuse to marry me when I show you the
way. If I didn't love you so much, I could bear well enough to let
you speak with any one. Your love is very different from mine, or
you couldn't hesitate a moment."

"Let me think! I can't answer you to-night."

"To-night, or never!--Oh yes, I understand well enough, all your
reasons for hesitating. It would mean relinquishing the
wedding-dress and the carriages and all the rest of the show that
delights women. You are afraid of Mrs. Grundy crying shame when it
is known that you have travelled across Europe with me. You feel it
will be difficult to resume your friendships afterwards. I grant all
these things, but I didn't think they would have meant so much to
Cecily."

"You know well that none of these reasons have any weight with me.
It is only in joking that you can speak of them. But the unkindness
to them all, dear! Think of it!"

"Why say 'to them all'? Wouldn't it be simpler to say 'the
unkindness to Mallard'?"

She looked up into his face.

"Why does love make a man speak so bitterly and untruthfully?
Nothing could make me do _you_ such a wrong."

"Because you are so pure of heart and mind that nothing but truth
can be upon your lips. If I were not very near madness, I could
never speak so to you. My own dear love, think only of what I suffer
day after day! And what folly is it that would keep us apart!
Suppose they had none but conscientious motives; in that case, these
people take upon themselves to say what is good for us, what we may
be allowed and what not; they treat us as children. Of course, it is
all for _your_ protection. I am not fit to be your husband, my
beautiful girl! Tell me--who knows me better, Mallard or
yourself?"

"No one knows you as I do, dearest, nor ever will."

"And do you think me too vile a creature to call you my wife?"

"I need not answer that. You are as much nobler than I am as your
strength is greater than mine."

"But they would remind you that you are an heiress. I have not made
so good a use of my own money as I might have done, and the
likelihood is that I shall squander yours, bring you to beggary. Do
you believe that?"

"I know it is not true."

"Then what else can they oppose to our wish? Here are all the
objections, and all seem to be worthless. Yet there might be one
more. You are very young--how I rejoice in knowing it, sweet
flower!--perhaps your love of me is a mere illusion. It ought to
be tested by time; very likely it may die away, and give place to
something truer."

"If so let me die myself sooner than survive such happiness!"

"Why, then what have they to say for themselves? Their opposition is
mistake, stubborn error. And are we to sacrifice two whole years,
the best time of our lives, to such obstinacy? Either of us may die,
Cecily. Suppose it to be my lot, what would be your thoughts then?"

His head bent to hers, and their faces touched.

"Dare you risk that, my love?"

"I dare not."

Her answer trembled upon his hearing as though it came upon the
night air from the sea.

"You will come with me to-morrow?"

"I will."

He sought her offered lips, and for a few instants their whispering
in the shadow ceased. Then he repeated rapidly the directions he had
already given her.

"Put on your warmest cloak; it will be cold on the water. Now I can
say good-night. Kiss me once more, and once more promise."

She pressed her arms about him.

"I am giving you my life. If I had more, I would give it. Be
faithful to me!"

"Then, you do doubt me?"

"Never! But say it to-night, to give me strength."

"I will be faithful to you whilst I have life."

She issued from shadows into broad moonlight, looked once round,
once at the gleaming crags, and passed again into gloom.

"I think it very unlikely," Mrs. Lessingham was saying to Miriam, in
her pleasantest voice of confidence, "that Mr. Mallard will insist
on the whole term."

"No doubt that will much depend on the next year," Miriam replied,
trying to seem impartial.

"No doubt whatever. I am glad we came here. They are both much
quieter and more sensible. In a few days I think your brother will
have made up his mind."

"I hope so."

"Cecily lost her head a little at first, but I see that her
influence is now in the sober direction, as one would have
anticipated. When Mr. Elgar has left us, no doubt Mr. Mallard will
come over, and we shall have quiet talk, What an odd man he is! How
distinctly I could have foreseen his action in these circumstances!
And I know just how it will be, as soon as things have got into a
regular course again. Mr. Mallard hates disturbance and agitation.
Of course he has avoided seeing Cecily as yet; imagine his
exasperated face if he became involved in a 'scene'!"

And Mrs. Lessingham laughed urbanely.

A short and troubled sleep at night's heaviest; then long waiting
for the first glimmer of dawn. Row unreal the world seemed to her!
She tried to link this present morning with the former days, but her
life had lost its continuity; the past was past in a sense she had
never known; and as for the future, it was like gazing into darkness
that throbbed and flashed. It meant nothing to her to say that this
was Capri--that the blue waves and the wind of morning would
presently bear her to Sorrento; the familiar had no longer a
significance; her consciousness was but a point in space and
eternity. She had no regret of her undertaking, no fear of what lay
before her, but a profound sadness, as though the burden of all
mortal sorrows were laid upon her soul.

At seven o'clock she was ready. A very few things that could be
easily carried she would take with her; her cloak would hide them.
Now she must wait for the appointed moment. It seemed to be very
cold; she shivered.

A minute or two before the half-hour, she left her room silently. On
the stairs a servant passed her, and looked surprised in giving the
"Buon giorno." She walked quickly through the garden, and was on the
firm road. At the place indicated stood Elgar beside the carriage,
and without exchanging a word they took their seats.

At the Marina, they had but to step from the carriage to the boat.
Elgar's luggage was thrown on board, and the men pushed off from the
quay.

Bitterly cold, but what a glorious sunrise! Against the flushed sky,
those limestone heights of Capri caught the golden radiance and
shone wondrously. The green water, gently swelling but unbroken, was
like some rarer element, too limpid for this world's shores. With
laughter and merry talk between themselves, the boatmen hoisted
their sail.

And the gods sent a fair breeze from the west, and it smote upon the
sail, and the prow cleft its track of foam, and on they sped over
the back of the barren sea.





CHAPTER XV

"WOLF!"




It was a case of between two stools, and Clifford Marsh did not like
the bump. From that dinner with Elgar he came home hilariously
dismayed; when his hilarity had evaporated with the wine that was
its cause, dismay possessed him wholly. Miss Doran was not for him,
and in the meantime he had offended Madeline beyond forgiveness.
With what countenance could he now turn to her again? Her mother
would welcome his surrender--and it was drawing on towards the day
when submission even to his stepfather could no longer be postponed--but
he suspected that Madeline's resolve to have done with him
was strengthened by resentment of her mother's importunities. To be
sure, it was some sort of consolation to know that if indeed he went
his way for good, bitterness and regrets would be the result to the
Denyer family, who had no great facility in making alliances of this
kind; in a few years time, Madeline would be wishing that she had
not let her pride interfere with a chance of marriage. But, on the
other hand, there was the awkward certainty that he too would lament
making a fool of himself. He by no means liked the thought of
relinquishing Madeline; he had not done so, even when heating his
brain with contemplation of Cecily Doran. In what manner could he
bring about between her and himself a drama which might result in
tears and mutual pardon?

But whilst he pondered this, fate was at work on behalf. On the day
which saw the departure of the Bradshaws, there landed at Naples,
from Alexandria, a certain lean, wiry man, with shoulders that
stooped slightly, with grizzled head and parchment visage; a man who
glanced about him in a keen, anxious way, and had other nervous
habits. Having passed the custom-house, he hired a porter to take
his luggage--two leather bags and a heavy chest, all much the
worse for wear--to that same hotel at which Mallard was just now
staying. There he refreshed himself, and, it being early in the
afternoon, went forth again, as if on business; for decidedly he was
no tourist. When he had occasion to speak, his Italian was fluent
and to the point; he conducted himself as one to whom travel and
intercourse with every variety of men were life-long habits.

His business conducted him to the Mergellina, to the house of Mrs.
Gluck, where he inquired for Mrs. Denyer. He was led upstairs, and
into the room where sit Mrs. Denyer and her daughters. The sight of
him caused commotion. Barbara, Madeline, and Zillah pressed around
him, with cries of "Papa!" Their mother rose and looked at him with
concern.

When the greetings were over, Mr. Denyer seated himself and wiped
his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He was ominously grave. His
eyes avoided the faces before him, as if in shame. He looked at his
boots, which had just been blacked, but were shabby, and then
glanced at the elegant skirts of his wife and daughters; he looked
at his shirt-cuffs, which were clean but frayed, and then gathered
courage to lift his eyes as far as the dainty hands folded upon laps
in show of patience.

"Madeline," he began, in a voice which was naturally harsh, but
could express much tenderness, as now, "what news of Clifford?"

"He's still here, papa," was the answer, in a very low voice.

"I am glad of that. Girls, I've got something to tell you. I wish it
was something pleasant."

His parchment cheek showed a distinct flush. The attempt to keep his
eyes on the girls was a failure; he seemed to be about to confess a
crime.

"I've brought you bad news, the worst I ever brought you yet. My
dears, I can hold out no longer; I'm at the end of my means. If I
could have kept this from you, Heaven knows I would have done, but
it is better to tell you all plainly."

Mrs. Denyer's brows were knitted; her lips were compressed in angry
obstinacy; she would not look up from the floor. The girls glanced
at her, then at one another. Barbara tried to put on a sceptical
expression, but failed; Madeline was sunk in trouble; Zillah showed
signs of tearfulness.

"I can only hope," Mr. Denyer continued, "that you don't owe very
much here. I thought, after my last letter"--he seemed more
abashed than ever--"you might have looked round for something a
little--" He glanced at the ornaments of the room, but at the
same time chanced to catch his wife's eye, and did not finish the
sentence. "But never mind that; time enough now that the necessity
has come. You know me well enough, Barbara, and you Maddy, and you,
Zillah, my child, to be sure that I wouldn't deny you anything it
was in my power to give. But fortune's gone against me this long
time. I shall have to make a new start, new efforts. I'm going out
to Vera Cruz again."

He once more wiped his forehead, and took the opportunity to look
askance at Mrs. Denyer, dubiously, half reproachfully.

"And what are _we_ to do?" asked his wife, with resentful
helplessness.

"I am afraid you must go to England," Mr. Denyer replied
apologetically, turning his look to the girls a gain. "After
settling here, and paying the expenses of the journey, I shall have
a little left, very little indeed. But I'm going to Vera Cruz on a
distinct engagement, and I shall soon be able to send you something.
I'm afraid you had better go to Aunt Dora's again; I've heard from
her lately, and she has the usual spare rooms."

The girls exchanged looks of dismay. The terrible silence was broken
by Zillah, who spoke in quavering accents.

"Papa dear, I have made up my mind to get a place as a nursery
governess. I shall very soon be able to do so."

"And I shall do the same, papa--or something of the kind," came
abruptly from Madeline.

"You, Maddy?" exclaimed her father, who had received the youngest
girl's announcement with a look of sorrowful resignation, but was
shocked at the other's words.

"I am no longer engaged to Mr. Marsh," Madeline proceeded, casting
down her eyes. "Please don't say anything, mamma. I have made up my
mind. I shall look for employment."

Her father shook his head in distress. He had never enjoyed the
control or direction of his daughters, and his long absences during
late years had put him almost on terms of ceremony with them. In
time gone by, their mother had been to him an object of veneration;
it was his privilege to toil that she might live in luxury; but his
illusions regarding her had received painful shocks, and it was to
the girls that he now sacrificed himself. Their intellect, their
attainments, at once filled him with pride and made him humble in
their presence. But for his reluctance to impose restraints upon
their mode of life, he might have avoided this present catastrophe;
he had cried "Wolf!" indeed, in his mild way, but took no energetic
measures when he found his cry disregarded--all the worse for him
now that he could postpone the evil day no longer.

"You are the best judge of your own affairs, Madeline," he replied
despondently. "I'm very sorry, my girl."

"All I can say is," exclaimed Mrs. Denyer, as if with dignified
reticence, "that I think we should have had longer warning of this!"

"My dear, I have warned you repeatedly for nearly a year."

"I mean _serious_ warning. Who was to imagine that things would come
to such a pass as this?"

"You never told us there was danger of absolute beggary, papa,"
remarked Barbara, in a tone not unlike her mother's.

"I ought to have spoken more plainly," was her father's meek answer.
"You are quite right, Barbara. I feel that I am to blame."

"I don't think you are at all," said Madeline, with decision. "Your
letters were plain enough, if we had chosen to pay any attention to
them."

Her father looked up apprehensively, deprecating defence of himself
at the cost of family discord. But he was powerless to prevent the
gathering storm. Mrs. Denyer gazed sternly at her recalcitrant
daughter, and at length discharged upon the girl's head all the
wrath with which this situation inspired her. Barbara took her
mother's side. Zillah wept and sobbed words of reconciliation. The
unhappy cause of the tumult took refuge at the window, sunk in
gloom.

However, there was no doubt about it this time; trunks must be
packed, bills must he paid, indignities must be swallowed. The Aunt
Dora of whom Mr. Denyer had spoken was his own sister, the wife of a
hotel-keeper at Southampton. Some seven years ago, in a crisis of
the Denyers' fate, she had hospitably housed them for several
months, and was now willing to do as much again, notwithstanding the
arrogance with which Mrs. Denyer had repaid her. To the girls it had
formerly mattered little where they lived; at their present age, it
was far otherwise. The hotel was of a very modest description;
society would become out of the question in such a retreat. Madeline
and Zillah might choose, as the less of two evils, the lot for which
they declared themselves ready; but Barbara had no notion of turning
governess. She shortly went to her bedroom, and spent a very black
hour indeed.

They were to start to-morrow morning. With rage Barbara saw the
interdiction of hopes which were just becoming serious. Another
month of those after-dinner colloquies in the drawing-room, and who
could say what point of intimacy Mr. Musselwhite might have reached.
He was growing noticeably more articulate; he was less absentminded.
Oh, for a month more!

This evening she took her usual place, and at length had the
tormenting gratification of seeing Mr. Musselwhite approach in the
usual way. Though sitting next to him at dinner, she had said
nothing of what would happen on the morrow; the present was a better
opportunity.

"You have no book this evening, Miss Denyer!"

"No."

"No headache, I hope?"

"Yes, I have a little headache."

He looked at her with gentlemanly sympathy.

"I have had to see to a lot of things in a hurry. Unexpectedly, we
have to leave Naples to-morrow; we are going to England."

"Indeed? You don't say so! Really, I'm very sorry to hear that, Miss
Denyer."

"I am sorry too--to have to leave Italy for such a climate at this
time of the year." She shuddered. "But my father has just arrived
from Alexandria, and--for family reasons--wishes us to travel on
with him."

Mr. Musselwhite seemed to reflect anxiously. He curled his
moustaches, he plucked his whiskers, he looked about the room with
wide eyes.

"How lonely it will be at the dinner-table!" he said at length. "So
many have gone of late. But I hoped there was no danger of your
going, Miss Denyer."

"We had no idea of it ourselves till to-day."

A long silence, during which Mr. Musselwhite's reflections grew
intense.

"You are going to London?" he asked mechanically.

"Not at first. I hardly know. I think we shall be for some time with
friends at Southampton."

"Indeed? How odd! I also have friends at Southampton. A son of Sir
Edward Mull; he married a niece of mine."

Barbara could have cried with mortification. She muttered she knew
not what. Then again came a blank in the dialogue.

"I trust we may meet again," was Mr. Musselwhite's next sentence. It
cost him an effort; he reddened a little, and moved his feet about.

"There is no foreseeing. I--we--I am sorry to say my father has
brought us rather unpleasant news."

She knew not whether it was a stroke of policy, or grossly
imprudent, to make this confession. But it came to her lips, and she
uttered it half in recklessness. It affected Mr. Musselwhite
strangely. His countenance fell, and a twinge seemed to catch one of
his legs; at the same time it made him fluent.

"I grieve to hear that, Miss Denyer; I grieve indeed. Your departure
would have been bad enough, but I really grieve to think you should
have cause of distress."

"Thank you for your sympathy, Mr. Musselwhite."

"But perhaps we may meet again in England, for all that? Will you
permit me to give you my London address--a--a little club that I
belong to, and where my friends often send letters? I mean that I
should be so very glad if it were ever possible for me to serve you
in any trifle. As you know, I don't keep any--any establishment in
England at present; but possibly--as you say, there is no
anticipating the future. I should be very happy indeed if we chanced
to meet, there or abroad."

"You are very kind, Mr. Musselwhite."

"If I might ask you for your own probable address?"

"It is so uncertain. But I am sure mamma would have pleasure in
sending it, when we arc settled."

"Thank you so very much." He looked up after long meditation. "I
really do _not_ know what I shall do when you are gone, Miss
Denyer."

And then, without warning, he said good-night and walked away.
Barbara, who had thought that the conversation was just about to
become interesting, felt her heart sink into unfathomable depths.
She went back to her bedroom and cried wretchedly for a long time.

In consequence of private talk with his wife, when the family
conclave had broken up, Mr. Denyer went in search of Clifford Marsh.
They had met only once hitherto, six months ago, when Mr. Denyer
paid a flying visit to London, and had just time to make the
acquaintance of his prospective son-in-law. This afternoon they
walked together for an hour about the Chiaia, with the result that
an understanding of some kind seemed to be arrived at between them,

Mr. Denyer returned to the _pension_, and, when dinnertime
approached, surprised Madeline with the proposal that she should
come out and dine with him at a restaurant.

"The fact is," he whispered to her, with a laugh, "my appearance is
not quite up to the standard of your dinner-table. I'm rather too
careless about these things; it's doubtful whether I possess a
decent suit. Let us go and find a quiet corner somewhere--if a
fashionable young lady will do me so much honour."

Through Madeline's mind there passed a suspicion, but a
restaurant-dinner hit her taste, and she accepted the invitation
readily. Before long, they drove into the town. Perhaps in
recognition of her having taken his part against idle reproaches,
her father began, as soon as they were alone, to talk in a grave,
earnest way about his affairs; and Madeline, who liked above all
things to be respectfully treated, entered into the subject with
dutiful consideration. He showed her exactly how his misfortunes had
accumulated, how this and that project had been a failure, what
unadvised steps he had taken in fear of impending calamity Snugly
seated at the little marble table, they grew very confidential
indeed. Mr. Denyer avowed his hope--the hope ever-retreating,
though sometimes it had seemed within reach--of being able some
day to find rest for the sole of his foot, to settle down with his
family and enjoy a quiet close of life. Possibly this undertaking at
Vera Cruz would be his last exile; he explained it in detail, and
dwelt on its promising aspects. Madeline felt compassionate and
remorseful.

Of her own intimate concerns no word was said, but it happened
strangely enough, just as they had finished dinner, that Clifford
Marsh came strolling into the restaurant. He saw them, and with
expressions of surprise explained that he had just turned in for a
cup of coffee. Mr. Denyer invited him to sit down with them, and
they had coffee together. Clifford kept up a flow of characteristic
talk, never directly addressing Madeline, nor encountering her look.
He referred casually to his meeting with Mr. Denyer that afternoon.

"I shall be going back myself very shortly. It is probable that
there will be something of a change in my circumstances; I may
decide to give up a few hours each day to commercial pursuits. It
all depends on--on uncertain things."

"You won't come out with me to Vera Cruz?" said Mr. Denyer,
jocosely.

"No; I am a man of the old world. I must live in the atmosphere of
art, or I don't care to live at all."

Madeline's slight suspicion was confirmed. When they were about to
leave the restaurant, Mr. Denyer said that he must go to the
railway-station, to make a few inquiries. There was no use in
Madeline's going such a distance; would Clifford be so good as to
see her safely home? Madeline made a few objections--she would
really prefer to accompany her father; she would not trouble Mr.
Marsh--but in the end she found herself seated by Clifford in a
carriage, passing rapidly through the streets.

Now was Clifford's opportunity; he had prepared for it.

"Madeline--you must let me call you by that name again, even if it
is for the last time--I have heard what has happened."

"Happily it does not affect you, Mr. Marsh."

"Indeed it does. It affects me so far, that it alters the whole
course of my life. In spite of everything that has seemed to come
between us, I have never allowed myself to think of our engagement
as at an end. The parcel you sent me the other day is unopened; if
you do not open it yourself no one ever shall. Whatever _you_ may
do, I cannot break faith. You ought to know me better than to
misinterpret a few foolish and hasty words, and appearances that had
a meaning you should have understood. The time has come now for
putting an end to those misconceptions."

"They no longer concern me. Please to speak of something else."

"You must, at all events, understand my position before we part.
This morning I was as firmly resolved as ever to risk everything, to
renounce the aid of my relatives if it must be and face poverty for
the sake of art. Now all is changed. I shall accept my step-father's
offer, and all its results becoming, if it can't be helped, a mere
man of business. I do this because of my sacred duties to _you_. As
an artist, there's no telling how long it might be before I could
ask you again to be my wife; as a man of business, I may soon be in
a position to do so. Don't interrupt me, I entreat! It is no matter
to me if you repulse me now, in your anger. I consider the
engagement as still existing between us, and, such being the ease,
it is plainly my duty to take such steps as will enable me to offer
you a home. By remaining an artist, I should satisfy one part of my
conscience, but at the expense of all my better feelings; it might
even he supposed--though, I trust, not by you--that I made my
helplessness an excuse for forgetting you when most you needed
kindness. I shall go back to England, and devote myself with energy
to the new task, however repulsive it may prove. Whether you think
of me or not, I do it for your sake; you cannot rob me of that
satisfaction. Some day I shall again stand before you, and ask you
for what you once promised. If then you refuse--well, I must bear
the loss of all my hopes."

"You may direct your life as you choose," Madeline replied
scornfully, "but you will please to understand that I give you no
encouragement to hope anything from me. I almost believe you capable
of saying, some day, that you took this step because I urged you to
it. I have no interest whatever in your future; our paths are
separate. Let this be the end of it."

But it was very far from the end of it. When the carriage stopped at
Mrs. Gluck's, mutual reproaches were at their height.

"You shall not leave me yet, Madeline," said Clifford, as he
alighted. "Come to the other side of the road, and let us walk along
for a few minutes. You shall not go in, if I have to hold you by
force."

Madeline yielded, and in the light of the moon they walked side by
side, continuing their dialogue.

"You are heartless! You have played with me from the first."

"If so, I only treated you as you thought to treat me."

"That you can attribute such baseness to me proves how incapable you
are of distinguishing between truth and falsehood. How wretchedly I
have been deceived in you!"

From upbraiding, he fell to lamentation. His life was wrecked; he
had lost his ideals; and all through her unworthiness. Then, as
Madeline was still unrelenting, he began to humble himself. He
confessed his levity; he had not considered the risk he ran of
losing her respect; all he had done was in pique at her treatment of
him. And in the end he implored her forgiveness, besought her to
restore him to life by accepting his unqualified submission. To part
from her on such terms as these meant despair; the consequences
would be tragic. And when he could go no further in amorous
supplication, when she felt that her injured pride had exacted the
uttermost from his penitence, Madeline at length relented.

"Still," she said, after his outburst of gratitude, "don't think
that I ask you to become a man of business. You shall never charge
me with that. It is your nature to reproach other people when
anything goes wrong with you; I know you only too well. You must
decide for yourself; I will take no responsibility."

Yes, he accepted that; it was purely his own choice. Rather than
lose her, he would toil at any most ignoble pursuit, amply repaid by
the hope she granted him.

They had walked some distance, and were out of sight of the
Mergellina, on the ascending road of Posillipo, all the moonlit
glory of the bay before them.

"It will be long before we see it again," said Madeline, sadly.

"We will spend our honeymoon here," was Clifford's hopeful reply.





CHAPTER XVI

LETTERS




On the thirteenth day after the flight from Capri, Edward Spence,
leaving the villa for his afternoon walk, encountered the postman
and received from him three letters. One was addressed to Ross
Mallard, Esq., care of Edward Spence, Esq.; another, to Mrs. Spence;
the third, to Mrs. Baske. As he reascended the stairs, somewhat more
quickly than his wont, Spence gave narrow attention to the
handwriting on the envelopes. He found Eleanor where he had left her
a few minutes before, at the piano, busy with a difficult passage of
Brahms. She looked round in surprise, and on seeing the letters
started up eagerly.

"Do you know Elgar's hand?" Spence asked. "These two from London are
his, I should imagine. This for you is from Mrs. Lessingham, isn't
it?"

"Yes; I think this is the news, at last," said Eleanor, inspecting
Mrs. Baske's letter, not without feminine emotion. "I'll take it to
her. Shall you go over with the other?"

"He'll he here after dinner; the likelihood is that I shouldn't find
him."

"Occasionally--very occasionally--you lack tact, my husband. He
would hardly care to open this and read it in our presence."

"More than occasionally, my dear girl, you remind me of the woman
whose price is above rubies. I'll go over and leave it for him at
once. Just to show the male superiority, however, I shall be careful
to make my walk a few minutes longer than usual--a thing of which
you would be quite incapable whilst the contents of Miriam's letter
were unknown to you."

Alone again, Eleanor sent the letter to Miriam's room by a servant,
and with uncertain fingers broke the envelope of that addressed to
herself. Already she had heard once from Mrs. Lessingham, who ten
days ago left Naples to join certain friends in Rome; the first
hurried glance over the present missive showed that it contained no
intelligence. She had scarcely begun to read it attentively, when
the door opened and Miriam came in.

Her face was pale with agitation, and her eyes had the strangest
light in them; to one who knew nothing of the circumstances, she
would have appeared exultant. Eleanor could not but gaze at her
intently.

"From Reuben!"

"Yes." Miriam suppressed her voice, and held out the sheet of
note-paper, which fluttered. "Read it."

The body of the letter was as follows:--

"I hope we have caused you no anxiety; from the first moment when
our departure was known, you must have understood that we had
resolved to put an end to useless delay. We travelled to London as
brother and sister, and to-day have become man and wife. The above
will be our address for a short time; we have not yet decided where
we shall ultimately live.

"By this same post I write to Mallard, addressed to him at the
villa. I hope he has had the good sense to wait quietly for news.

"Cecily sends her love to you--though she half fears that you will
reject it. I cannot see why you should. We have done the only
sensible thing, and of course in a month or two it will he just the
same, to everybody concerned, as if we had been married in the most
foolish way that respectability can contrive. Let us hear from you
very soon, dear sister. We talk much of you, and hope to have many a
bright day with you yet--more genuinely happy than that we spent
in tracking out old Tiberius."

Eleanor looked up, and again was struck with the singular light in
her cousin's eyes.

"Well, it only tells us what we anticipated. Of course he made false
declarations. If Mr. Mallard were really as grim as he sometimes
looks, the result to both of them might be unpleasant."

"But the marriage could not be undone?" Miriam asked quickly.

"Oh no. Scarcely desirable that it should be."

Miriam took the letter, and in a few minutes went back again to her
room.

At nine o'clock in the evening, the Spences, who sat alone, received
the foreseen visit from Mallard. They welcomed him silently. As he
sat down, he had a smile on his face; he drew a letter deliberately
from his pocket, and, without preface, began to read it aloud, still
in a deliberate manner.

"Let me first of all make a formal announcement. We have this
morning been married by registrar's licence. We intend to live for a
few weeks at this present address, where we have taken some
furnished rooms until better arrangements can be made. I lose no
time in writing to you, for of course there is business between us
that you will desire to transact as soon as may be.

"In obtaining the licence, I naturally gave false information
regarding Cecily's age; this was an inevitable consequence of the
step we had taken. You know my opinions on laws and customs: for the
multitude they are necessary, and an infraction of them by the
average man is, logically enough, called a sin against society; for
Cecily and myself, in relation to such a matter as our becoming man
and wife, the law is idle form. Personally, I could have wished to
dispense with the absurdity altogether, but, as things are, this
involves an injustice to a woman. I told my falsehoods placidly, for
they were meaningless in my eyes. I have the satisfaction of knowing
that you cannot, without inconsistency, find fault with me.

"And now I speak as one who would gladly be on terms of kindness
with you. You know me, Mallard; you must be aware how impossible it
was for me to wait two years. As for Cecily, her one word, again and
again repeated on the journey, was, 'How unkind I shall seem to
them!' and I know that it was the seeming disrespect to you which
most of all distressed her. For her sake, I make it my petition that
you will let the past be past. She cannot yet write to you, but is
sad in the thought of having incurred your displeasure. Whatever you
say to me, let it be said privately; do not hurt Cecily. I mentioned
'business; the word and the thing are equally hateful to me. I most
sincerely wish Cecily had nothing, that the vile question of money
might never arise. Herein, at all events, you will do me justice; I
am no fortune-hunter.

"If you come to London, send a line and appoint a place of meeting.
But could not everything be done through lawyers? You must judge;
but, again I ask it, do not give Cecily more pain."

The listeners were smiling gravely. After a silence, the letter was
discussed, especially its second paragraph. Mallard was informed of
the note which Miriam had received.

"I shall go to-morrow," he said, "and 'transact my business.' On the
whole, it might as well be done through lawyers, but I had better be
in London."

"And then?" asked Eleanor.

"I shall perhaps go and spend a week with the people at Sowerby
Bridge. But you shall hear from me."

"Will you speak to Mrs. Baske?"

"I don't think it is necessary. She has expressed no wish that I
should?"

"No; but she might like to be assured that her brother won't be
prosecuted for perjury."

"Oh, set her mind at ease!"

"Show Mallard the. letter from Mrs. Lessingham," said Spence, with a
twinkle of the eyes.

"I will read it to him."

She did so. And the letter ran thus:

"Still no news? I am uneasy, though there can be no rational doubt
as to what form the news will take when it comes. The material
interests in question are enough to relieve us from anxiety. But I
wish they would be quick and communicate with us.

"One reconciles one's self to the inevitable, and, for my own part,
the result of my own reflections is that I am something more than
acquiescent. After all, granted that these two must make choice of
each other, was it not in the fitness of things that they should act
as they have done? For us comfortable folk, life is too humdrum;
ought we not to be grateful to those who supply us with a strong
emotion, and who remind us that there is yet poetry in the world? I
should apologize for addressing such thoughts to _you_, dear
Eleanor, for you have still the blessing of a young heart, and
certainly do not lack poetry. I speak for myself, and after all I am
much disposed to praise these young people for their unconventional
behaviour.

"What if our darkest anticipations were fulfilled? Beyond all doubt
they are now sincerely devoted to each other, and will remain so for
at least twelve months. Those twelve months will be worth a
life-time of level satisfaction. We shall be poor creatures in
comparison when we utter our 'Didn't I tell you so?'

"Whilst in a confessing mood, I will admit that I had formed rather
a different idea of Cecily; I was disposed to think of her as the
modern woman who has put unreasoning passion under her feet, and
therefore this revelation was at first a little annoying to me. But
I see now that my view of her failed by incompleteness. The modern
woman need by no means be a mere embodied intellect; she will choose
to enjoy as well as to understand, and to enjoy greatly she will
sacrifice all sorts of things that women have regarded as supremely
important. Indeed, I cannot say that I am disappointed in Cecily;
rightly seen, she has justified the system on which I educated her.
My object was to teach her to think for herself, to be self-reliant.
The _jeune fille_, according to society's pattern, is my abhorrence:
an ignorant, deceitful, vain, immoral creature. Cecily is as unlike
that as possible; she has behaved independently and with sincerity.
I really admire her very much, and hope that her life may not fall
below its beginning.

"Let me hear as soon as a word reaches you. I am with charming
people, and yet I think longingly of the delightful evenings at
Villa Sannazaro, your music and your talk. You and your husband have
a great place in my heart; you are of the salt of the earth. Spare
me a little affection, for I am again a lonely woman."

This letter also was discussed, and its philosophy appreciated.
Mallard spoke little; he had clasped his hands behind his head, and
listened musingly.

There was no effusion in the leave-taking, though it might be for a
long time. Warm clasping of hands, but little said.

"A good-bye for me to Mrs. Baske," was Mallard's last word.

And his haggard but composed face turned from Villa Sannazaro.





VOLUME TWO





CHAPTER I

A CORNER OF SOCIETY




In a London drawing-room, where the murmur of urbane colloquy rose
and fell, broken occasionally by the voice of the nomenclator
announcing new arrivals, two ladies, seated in a recess, were
exchanging confidences. One was a novelist of more ability than
repute; the other was a weekly authority on musical performances.

"Her head is getting turned, poor girl. I feel sorry for her."

"Such ridiculous flattery! And really it is difficult to understand.
She is pretty, and speaks French; neither the one thing nor the
other is uncommon, I believe. Do you see anything remarkable in
her?"

"Well, she is rather more than pretty; and there's a certain
cleverness in her talk. But at her age this kind of thing is
ruinous. I blame Mrs. Lessingham. She should bid her stay at home
and mind her baby."

"By-the-bye, what truth is there in that story? The Naples affair,
you know?"

"_N'en sais rien_. But I hear odd things about her husband. Mr.
Bickerdike knew him a few years ago. He ran through a fortune, and
fell into most disreputable ways of life. Somebody was saying that
he got his living as 'bus-conductor, or something of the kind."

"I could imagine that, from the look of him."

It was Mrs. Lessingham's Wednesday evening. The house at Craven Hill
opened its doors at ten o'clock, and until midnight there was no
lack of company. Singular people, more or less; distinguished from
society proper by the fact that all had a modicum of brains. Some
came from luxurious homes, some from garrets. Visitors from Paris
were frequent; their presence made a characteristic of the salon.
This evening, for instance, honour was paid by the hostess to M.
_Amedeee_ Silvenoire, whose experiment in unromantic drama had not
long ago gloriously failed at the Odeon; and Madame Jacquelin, the
violinist, was looked for.

Mrs. Lessingham had. not passed a season in London for several
years. When, at the end of April, she took this house, there came to
live with her the widow and daughter of a man of letters who had
died in poverty. She had known the Delphs in Paris, in the days when
Cecily was with her and in the winter just past she had come upon
Irene Delph copying at the Louvre; the girl showed a good deal of
talent but was hard beset by the difficulty of living whilst she
worked. In the spirit of her generous brother, Mrs. Lessingham
persuaded the two to come and live with her through the season; a
room in the house was a studio for Irene, who took to portraits.
Mrs. Delph, a timid woman whose nerves had failed under her
misfortunes, did not appear on formal occasions like the present,
but Irene was becoming an ornament of the drawing-room. To be sure,
but for her good looks and her artistic aptitude, she would not have
been here-no reason, perhaps, for stinted praise of her friend's
generosity.

An enjoyable thing to see Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with one
of her French guests. She threw off full fifteen years, and looked
thirty at most. Her handsome features had a vivid play of expression
in harmony with the language she was speaking; her eyes were radiant
as she phrased a thought which in English would have required many
words for the--blunting of its point. M. Silvenoire, who--with
the slight disadvantage of knowing no tongue but his own--was
making a study of English social life, found himself at ease this
evening for the first time since he had been in London. Encouraged
to talk his best, he frankly and amusingly told Mrs. Lessingham of
the ideas he had formed regarding conversation in the drawing-rooms
of English ladies.

"Civilization is spreading among us," she replied, with a laugh.
"Once or twice it has been my privilege to introduce young
Frenchmen, who were studying our language, to English families
abroad, and in those cases I privately recommended to them a careful
study of Anthony Trollope's novels, that they might learn what is
permissible in conversation and what is not. But here and there in
London you will find it possible to discuss things that interest
reasonable beings."

At the door sounded the name of "Mr. Biekerdike," and there advanced
towards the hostess a tall, ugly young man, known by repute to all
the English people present. He was the author of a novel called "A
Crown of Lilies," which was much talked of just now, and excited no
less ridicule than admiration, On the one hand, it was lauded for
delicate purity and idealism; on the other, it was scoffed at for
artificiality and affected refinement. Mrs. Lessingham had met him
for the first time a week ago. Her invitation was not due to
approval of his book, but to personal interest which the author
moved in her; she was curious to discover how far the idealism of "A
Crown of Lilies" was a genuine fruit of the man's nature. Mr.
Bickerdike's countenance did not promise clarity of soul; his
features were distinctly coarse, and the glance he threw round the
room on entering made large demands.

Irene Delph was talking with a young married lady named Mrs. Travis;
they both regarded Mr. Bickerdike with close scrutiny.

"Who could have imagined such an author for the book!" murmured the
girl, in wonder.

"I could perfectly well," murmured back Mrs. Travis, with a smile
which revealed knowledge of humanity.

"I pictured a very youthful man, with a face of effeminate beauty--
probably a hectic colour in his cheeks."

"Such men don't write 'the novel of the season.' This gentleman is
very shrewd; he gauges the public. Some day, if he sees fit, he will
write a brutal book, and it will have merit."

Mr. Bickerdike unfortunately did not speak French, so M. Silvenoire
was unable to exchange ideas with him. The Parisian, having learnt
what this gentleman's claims were, regarded him through his
_pince-nez_ with a subtle smile. But in a few moments he had
something more interesting to observe.

"Mrs. Elgar," cried the voice at the door.

Cecily was met half-way by her aunt, "You are alone?"

"Reuben has a headache. Perhaps he will come to fetch me, but more
likely not."

All the eyes in the room had one direction. Alike those who
ingenuously admired and those who wished to seem indifferent paid
the homage of observation to Mrs. Elgar, as she stood exchanging
greetings with the friends who came forward. Yes, there was
something more than attractive features and a pleasant facility of
speech. In Cecily were blended a fresh loveliness and a grace as of
maidenhood with the perfect charm of wedded youth. The air about her
was charged with something finer than the delicate fragrance which
caressed the senses. One had but to hear her speak, were it only the
most ordinary phrase of courtesy, and that wonderful voice more than
justified profound interest. Strangers took her for a few years
older than she was, not judging so much by her face as the finished
ease of her manners; when she conversed, it was hard to think of her
as only one-and-twenty.

"She is a little pale this evening," said Irene to Mrs. Travis.

The other assented; then asked:

"Why don't you paint her portrait?"

"Heaven forbid! I have quite enough discouragement in my attempts at
painting, as it is."

M. Silvenoire was bowing low, as Mrs. Lessingham presented him. To
his delight, he heard his own language fluently, idiomatically
spoken; he remarked, too, that Mrs. Elgar had a distinct pleasure in
speaking it. She seated herself, and flattered him into ecstasies by
the respect with which she received his every word. She had seen it
mentioned in the _Figaro_ that a new play of his was in preparation;
when was it likely to be put on the stage? The theatre in London--
of course, he understood that no one took it _au serieux_?

The Parisian could do nothing but gaze about the room, following her
movements, when their dialogue was at an end. Mon Dieu! And who,
then, was Mr. Elgar? Might not one hope for an invitation to
madame's assemblies? A wonderful people, these English, after all.

Mr. Bickerdike secured, after much impatience, the desired
introduction. For reasons of his own, he made no mention of his
earlier acquaintance with Elgar. Did she know of it? In any case she
appeared not to, but spoke of things which did not interest Mr.
Bickerdike in the least. At length he was driven to bring forward
the one subject on which he desired her views.

"Have you, by chance, read my book, Mrs. Elgar?"

M. Silvenoire would have understood her smile; the Englishman
thought it merely amiable, and prepared for the accustomed
compliment.

"Yes, I have read it, Mr. Bickerdike. It seemed to me a charmingly
written romance."

The novelist, seated upon too low a chair, leaning forward so that
his knees and chin almost touched, was not in himself a very
graceful object; the contrast with his neighbour made him worse than
grotesque. His visage was disagree ably animal as it smiled with
condescension.

"You mean something by that," he remarked, with awkward attempt at
light fencing.

There was barely a perceptible movement of Cecily's brows.

"I try to mean something as often as I speak," she said, in an
amused tone.

"In this ease it is a censure. You take the side of those who find
fault with my idealism."

"Not so; I simply form my own judgment."

Mr. Bickerdike was nervous at all times in the society of a refined
woman; Mrs. Elgar's quiet rebuke brought the perspiration to his
forehead, and made him rub his hands together. Like many a better
man, he could not do justice to the parts he really possessed. save
when sitting in solitude with a sheet of paper before him. Though he
had a confused perception that Mrs. Elgar was punishing him for
forcing her to speak of his book, he was unable to change the topic
and so win her approval for his tact. In the endeavour to seem at
ease, he became blunt.

"And what has your judgment to say on the subject?"

"I think I have already told you, Mr. Bickerdike."

"You mean by a romance a work that is not soiled with the common
realism of to-day."

"I am willing to mean that."

"But you will admit, Mrs. Elgar, that my mode of fiction has as much
to say for itself as that which you prefer?"

"In asking for one admission you take for granted another. That is a
little confusing."

It was made sufficiently so to Mr. Bickerdike. He thrust out his
long legs, and exclaimed:

"I should be grateful to you if you would tell me what your view of
the question really is--I mean, of the question at issue between
the two schools of fiction."

"But will you first make clear to me the characteristics of the
school you represent?"

"It would take a long time to do that satisfactorily. I proceed on
the assumption that fiction is poetry, and that poetry deals only
with the noble and the pure."

"Yes," said Cecily, as he paused for a moment, "I see that it would
take too long. You must deal with so many prejudices--such, for
example, as that which supposes 'King Lear' and 'Othello' to be
poems."

Mr. Bickerdike began a reply, but it was too late; Mrs. Lessingham
had approached with some one else who wished to be presented to Mrs.
Elgar, and the novelist could only bite his lips as be moved away to
find a more reverent listener.

It was not often that Cecily trifled in this way. As a rule, her
manner of speech was direct and earnest. She had a very uncommon
habit of telling the truth whenever it was possible; rather than
utter smooth falsehoods, she would keep silence, and sometimes when
to do so was to run much danger of giving offence. Beautiful women
have very different ways of using the privilege their charm assures
them; Cecily chose to make it a protection of her integrity. She was
much criticized by acquaintances of her own sex. Some held her
presumptuous, conceited, spoilt by adulation; some accused her of
bad taste and blue-stockingism; some declared that she had no object
but to win men's admiration and outshine women. Without a thought of
such comments, she behaved as was natural to her. Where she felt her
superiority, she made no pretence of appearing femininely humble.
Yet persons like Mrs. Delph, who kept themselves in shadow and spoke
only with simple kindness, knew well how unassuming Cecily was, and
with what deference she spoke when good feeling dictated it. Or
again, there was her manner with the people who, by the very respect
with which they inspired her, gave her encouragement to speak
without false restraint; such as Mr. Bird, the art critic, a
grizzle-headed man with whom she sat for a quarter of an hour this
evening, looking her very brightest and talking in her happiest
vein, yet showing all the time her gratitude for what she learnt
from his conversation.

It was nearly twelve o'clock when Mrs. Travis, who had made one or
two careless efforts to draw near to Cecily, succeeded in speaking a
word aside with her.

"I hope you didn't go to see me yesterday? I left home in the
morning, and am staying with friends at Hampstead, not far from
you."

"For long?"

"I don't know. I should like to talk to you, if I could. Shall you
be driving back alone?"

"Yes. Will you come with me?"

"Thank you. Please let me know when you are going."

And Mrs. Travis turned away. In a few minutes Cecily went to take
leave of her aunt.

"How is Clarence?" asked Mrs. Lessingham.

"Still better, I believe. I left him to-night without uneasiness."

"Oh, I had a letter this morning from Mrs. Spence. No talk of
England yet. In the autumn they are going to Greece, then for the
winter to Sicily."

"Miriam with them?"

"As though it were a matter of course."

They both smiled. Then Cecily took leave of two or three other
people, and quitted the room. Mrs. Travis followed her, and in a few
minutes they were seated in the brougham.

Mrs. Travis had a face one could not regard without curiosity. It
was not beautiful in any ordinary sense, but strange and striking
and rich in suggestiveness. In the chance, flickering light that
entered the carriage, she looked haggard, and at all times her
thinness and pallor give her the appearance of suffering both in
body and mind. Her complexion was dark, her hair of a rich brown;
she had very large eyes, which generally wandered in an absent,
restless, discontented way. If she smiled, it was with a touch of
bitterness, and her talk was wont to be caustic. Cecily had only
known her for a few weeks, and did not feel much drawn to her, but
she compassionated her for sorrows known and suspected. Though only
six and twenty, Mrs. Travis had been married seven years, and had
had two children; the first died at birth, the second was carried
off by diphtheria. Her husband Cecily had never seen, but she heard
disagreeable things of him, and Mrs. Travis herself had dropped
hints which signified domestic unhappiness.

After a minute or two of silence, Cecily was beginning to speak on
some indifferent subject, when her companion interrupted her.

"Will you let me tell you something about myself?"

"Whatever you wish, Mrs. Travis," Cecily answered, with sympathy.

"I've left my husband. Perhaps you thought of that?"

"No."

The sudden disclosure gave her a shock. She had the sensation of
standing for the first time face to face with one of the sterner
miseries of life.

"I did it once before," pursued the other, "two years ago. Then I
was foolish enough to be wheedled back again. That shan't happen
this time."

"Have you really no choice but to do this?" Cecily asked, with much
earnestness.

"Oh, I could have stayed if I had chosen. He doesn't beat me. I have
as much of my own way as I could expect. Perhaps you'll think me
unreasonable. A Turkish woman would."

Cecily sat mute. She could not but resent the harsh tone in which
she was addressed, in spite of her pity.

"It's only that I suffer in my self-respect--a little," Mrs.
Travis continued. "Of course, this is no reason for taking such a
step, except to those who have suffered in the same way. Perhaps you
would like to stop the carriage and let me leave you?"

"Your suffering makes you unjust to me," replied Cecily, much
embarrassed by this strange impulsiveness. "Indeed I sympathize with
you. I think it quite possible that you are behaving most rightly."

"You don't maintain, then, that it is a wife's duty to bear every
indignity from her husband?"

"Surely not. On the contrary, I think there are some indignities
which no wife _ought_ to bear."

"I'm glad to hear that. I had a feeling that you would think in this
way, and that's why I wanted to talk to you. Of course you have only
the evidence of my word for believing me."

"I can see that you are very unhappy, and the cause you name is
quite sufficient."

"In one respect, I am very lucky. I have a little money of my own,
and that enables me to go and live by myself. Most women haven't
this resource: many are compelled to live in degradation only for
want of it. I should like to see how many homes would be broken up,
if all women were suddenly made independent in the same way that I
am. How I should enjoy that! I hate the very word 'marriage'!"

Cecily averted her face, and said nothing. After a pause, her
companion continued in a calm voice:

"You can't sympathize with that, I know. And you are comparing my
position with your own."

No answer was possible, for Mrs. Travis had spoken the truth.

"In the first year of my marriage, I used to do the same whenever I
heard of any woman who was miserable with her husband."

"Is there no possibility of winning back your husband?" Cecily
asked, in a veiled voice.

"Winning him back? Oh, he is affectionate enough. But you mean
winning him back to faithfulness. My husband happens to be the
average man, and the average man isn't a pleasant person to talk
about, in this respect."

"Are you not too general in your condemnation, Mrs. Travis?"

"I am content you should think so. You are very young still, and
there's no good in making the world ugly for you as long as it can
seem rosy."

"Please don't use that word," said Cecily, with emphasis. It annoyed
her to be treated as immature in mind. "I am the last person to take
rosy views of life. But there is something between the distrust to
which you are driven by misery and the optimism of foolish people."

"We won't argue about it. Every woman must take life as she finds
it. To me it is a hateful weariness. I hope I mayn't have much of it
still before me; what there is, I will live in independence. You
know Mrs. Calder?"

"Yes."

"Her position is the same as mine has been, but she has more
philosophy; she lets things take their course, just turning her eyes
away."

"That is ignoble, hateful!" exclaimed Cecily.

"So I think, but women as a rule don't. At all events, they are
content to whine a little, and do nothing. Poor wretches, what _can_
they do, as I said?"

"They can go away, and, if need be, starve."

"They have children."

Cecily became mute.

"Will you let me come and see you now and then?" Mrs. Travis asked
presently.

"Come whenever you feel you would like to," Cecily answered, rousing
herself from reverie.

The house in which Mrs. Travis now lived was a quarter of an hour's
drive beyond that of the Elgars; she would have alighted and walked,
making nothing of it, but of course Cecily could not allow this. The
coachman was directed to make the circuit. When Cecily reached home,
it was after one o'clock.





CHAPTER II

THE PROPRIETIES DEFENDED




The house was in Belsize Park. Light shone through the blind of one
of the upper windows, but the rest of the front was lifeless.
Cecily's ring at the bell sounded distinctly; it was answered at
once by a maid-servant, who said that Mr. Elgar was still in the
library. Having spoken a few words, ending with a kind good night,
Cecily passed through the hall and opened the library door.

A reading-lamp made a bright sphere on the table, but no one sat
within its rays. After a fruitless glance round the room, Cecily
called her husband's name. There was a sound of moving, and she saw
that Reuben was on a sofa which the shadow veiled.

"Have you been asleep?" she asked merrily, as she approached him.

He stood up and stretched himself, muttering.

"Why didn't you go to bed, poor boy? I'm dreadfully late; I went out
of my way to take some one home."

"Who was that?" Elgar inquired, coming forward and seating himself
on the corner of the writing-table.

"Mrs. Travis. She has come to stay with friends at Hampstead. But to
bed, to bed! You look like Hamlet when he came and frightened
Ophelia. Have you had an evil dream?"

"That's the truth; I have."

"What about?"

"Oh, a stupid jumble." He moved the lamp-shade, so that the light
fell suddenly full upon her. "Why have you made such friends all at
once with Mrs. Travis?"

"How is your headache?"

"I don't know--much the same. Did she ask you to take her home?"

"Yes, she did--or suggested it, at all events."

"Why has she come to Hampstead?"

"How can I tell, dear? Put the lamp out, and let us go."

He sat swinging his leg. The snatch of uncomfortable sleep had left
him pale and swollen-eyed, and his hair was tumbled.

"Who was there to-night?"

"Several new people. Amedee Silvenoire--the dramatist, you know;
an interesting man. He paid me the compliment of refraining from
compliments on my French. Madame Jacquelin, a stout and very plain
woman, who told us anecdotes of George Sand; remind me to repeat
them to-morrow. And Mr. Bickerdike, the pillar of idealism."

"Bickerdike was there?" Elgar exclaimed, with an air of displeasure.

"He didn't refer to his acquaintance with you. I wonder why not?"

"Did you talk to the fellow?"

"Rather pertly, I'm afraid. He was silly enough to ask me what I
thought of his book, though I hadn't mentioned it. I put on my
superior air and snubbed him; it was like tapping a frog on the head
each time it pokes up out of the water. He will go about and say
what an insufferable person that Mrs. Elgar is."

Reuben was silent for a while.

"I don't like your associating with such people," he said suddenly.
"I wish you didn't go there. It's all very well for a woman like
your aunt to gather about her all the disreputable men and women who
claim to be of some account, but they are not fit companions for
you. I don't like it at all."

She looked at him in astonishment, with bewildered eyes, that were
on the verge of laughter.

"What _are_ you talking about, Reuben?"

"I'm quite serious." He rose and began to walk about the room. "And
it surprised me that you didn't think of staying at home this
evening. I said nothing, because I wanted to see whether it would
occur to you that you oughtn't to go alone."

"How should such a thing occur to me? Surely I am as much at home in
aunt's house as in my own? I can hardly believe that you mean what
you say."

"You will understand it if you think for a moment. A year ago you
wouldn't have dreamt of going out at night when I stayed at home.
But you find the temptation of society irresistible. People admire
you and talk about you and crowd round you, and you enjoy it--
never mind who the people are. Presently we shall be seeing your
portrait in the shop-windows. I noticed what a satisfaction it was
to you when your name was mentioned among the other people in that
idiotic society journal."

Cecily laughed, but not quite so naturally as she wished it to
sound.

"This is too absurd Your dream has unsettled your wits, Reuben. How
could I imagine that you had begun to think of me in such a light?
You used to give me credit for at least average common sense. I
can't talk about it; I am ashamed to defend myself."

He had not spoken angrily, but in a curiously dogged tone, with
awkward emphasis, as if struggling to say what did not come
naturally to his lips. Still walking about, and keeping his eyes on
the floor, he continued in the same half-embarrassed way:

"There's no need for you to defend yourself. I don't exactly mean to
blame you, but to point out a danger."

"Forgetting that you degrade my character in doing so."

"Nothing of the kind, Cecily. But remember how young you are. You
know very little of the world, and often see things in an ideal
light. It is your tendency to idealize. You haven't the experience
necessary to a woman who goes about in promiscuous society."

Cecily knitted her brows.

"Instead of using that vague, commonplace language--which I never
thought to hear from _you_--I wish you would tell me exactly what
you mean. What things do I see in an ideal light? That means, I
suppose, that I am childishly ignorant of common evils in the world.
You couldn't speak otherwise if I had just come out of a convent.
And, indeed, you don't believe what you say. Speak more simply,
Reuben. Say that you distrust my discretion."

"To a certain extent, I do."

"Then there is no more to be said, dear. Please to tell me in future
exactly what you wish me to do, and what to avoid. I will go to
school to your prudence."

The clock ticked very loudly, and, before the silence was again
broken, chimed half-past one.

"Let me give you an instance of what I mean," said Elgar, again
seating himself on the table and fingering his watch-chain
nervously. "You have been making friends with Mrs. Travis. Now, you
are certainly quite ignorant of her character. You don't know that
she left home not long ago."

Cecily asked in a low voice:

"And why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because I don't choose to talk with you about such disagreeable
things."

"Then I begin to see what the difficulty is between us. It is not I
who idealize things, but you. Unless I am much mistaken, this is the
common error of husbands--of those who are at heart the best. They
wish their wives to remain children, as far as possible. Everything
'disagreeable' must be shunned--and we know what the result often
is. But I had supposed all this time that you and I were on other
terms. I thought you regarded me as not quite the everyday woman. In
some things it is certain you do; why not in the most important of
all? Knowing that I was likely to see Mrs. Travis often, it was your
duty to tell me what you knew of her."

Elgar kept silence.

"Now let me give you another version of that story," Cecily
continued. "To-night she has been telling me about herself. She says
that she left home because her husband was unfaithful to her. I
think the reason quite sufficient, and I told her so. But there is
something more. She has again been driven away. She has come to live
at Hampstead because her home is intolerable, and she says that
nothing will ever induce her to return."

"And this has been the subject of your conversation as you drove
back? Then I think such an acquaintance is very unsatisfactory, and
it must come to an end."

"Please to tell me why you spoke just now as if Mrs. Travis were to
blame."

"I have heard that she was."

"Heard from whom?"

"That doesn't matter. There's a doubt about it, and she's no
companion for you."

"As you think it necessary to lay commands on me, I shall of course
obey you. But I believe Mrs. Travis is wronged by the rumours you
have heard; I believe she acted then, and has done now, just as it
behoved her to."

"And you have been encouraging her?"

"Yes, on the assumption that she told me the truth. She asked if she
might come and see me, and I told her to do so whenever she wished.
I needn't say that I shall write and withdraw this invitation."

Elgar hesitated before replying.

"I'm afraid you can't do that. You have tact enough to end the
acquaintance gradually."

"Indeed I have not, Reuben. I either condemn her or pity her; I
can't shuffle contemptibly between the two."

"Of course you prefer to pity her!" he exclaimed impatiently. "There
comes in the idealism of which I was speaking. The vulgar woman's
instinct would be to condemn her; naturally enough, you take the
opposite course. You like to think nobly of people, with the result
that more often than not you will be wrong. You don't know the
world."

"And I am very young; pray finish the formula. But why do you prefer
to take the side of 'the vulgar woman' of whom you speak? I see that
you have no evidence against Mrs. Travis; why lean towards
condemnation?"

"Well, I'll put it in another way. A woman who lives apart from her
husband is always amid temptations, always in doubtful
circumstances. Friends who put faith in her may, of course, keep up
their intimacy; but a slight acquaintance, and particularly one in
your position, will get harm by associating with her. This is simple
and obvious enough."

"If you knew for certain that she was blameless, you would speak in
the same way?"

"If it regarded you, I should. Not if Mrs. Lessingham were in
question."

"That is a distinction which repeats your distrust. We won't say any
more about it. I will bear in mind my want of experience, and in
future never act without consulting you."

She moved towards the door.

"You are coming?"

"Look here, Ciss, you are not so foolish as to misunderstand me.
When I said that I distrusted your discretion, I meant, of course,
that you might innocently do things which would make people talk
about you. There is no harm in reminding you of the danger."

"Perhaps not; though it would be more like yourself to scorn
people's talk."

"That is only possible if we chose to go back to our life of
solitude. I'm afraid it wouldn't suit you very well now."

"No; I am far too eager to see my name in fashionable lists. Has not
all my life pointed to that noble ambition?"

She regarded him with a smile from her distance, a smile that
trembled a little about her lips, and in which her clear eyes had
small part. Elgar, without replying, began to turn down the lamp.

"This is what has made you so absent and uneasy for the last week or
two?" Cecily added.

The lamp was extinguished

"Yes, it is," answered Elgar's voice in the darkness. "I don't like
the course things have been taking."

"Then you were quite right to speak plainly. Be at rest; you shall
have no more anxiety."

She opened the door, and they went upstairs together. In the bedroom
Cecily found her little boy sleeping quietly; she bent above him for
a few moments, and with soft fingers smoothed the coverlet.

There was no further conversation between them--except that Cecily
just mentioned the news her aunt had received from Mrs. Spence.

At breakfast they spoke of the usual subjects, in the usual way.
Elgar had his ride, amused himself in the library till luncheon,
lolled about the drawing-room whilst Cecily played, went to his
club, came back to dinner,--all in customary order. Neither look
nor word, from him or Cecily, made allusion to last night's
incident.

The next morning, when breakfast was over, he came behind his wife's
chair and pointed to an envelope she had opened.

"What strange writing! Whose is it?"

"From Mrs. Travis."

He moved away, and Cecily rose. As she was passing him, he said:

"What has she to say to you?"

"She acknowledges the letter I sent her yesterday morning, that's
all."

"You wrote--in the way you proposed?"

"Certainly."

He allowed her to pass without saying anything more.





CHAPTER III

GRADATION




During the first six months of her wedded life, Cecily wrote from
time to time in a handsomely-bound book which had a little silver
lock to it. She was then living at the seaside in Cornwall, and
Reuben occasionally went out for some hours with the fishers, or
took a long solitary ride inland, just to have the delight of
returning to his home after a semblance of separation; in his
absence, Cecily made a confidant of the clasped volume. On some of
its fair pages were verses, written when verse came to her more
easily than prose, but read not even to him who occasioned them. A
passage or two of the unrhymed thoughts, with long periods of
interval, will suggest the course of her mental history.

"I have no more doubts, and take shame to myself for those I ever
entertained. Presently I will confess to him how my mind was tossed
and troubled on that flight from Capri; I now feel able to do so,
and to make of the confession one more delight. It was impossible
for me not to be haunted by the fear that I had yielded to impulse,
and acted unworthily of one who could reflect. I had not a doubt of
my lover, but the foolish pride which is in a girl's heart whispered
to me that I had been too eager--had allowed myself to be won too
readily; that I should have been more precious to him if more
difficulty had been put in his way. Would it not have been good to
give him proof of constancy through long months of waiting? But the
secret was that I dreaded to lose him. I reproached him for want of
faith in my steadfastness; but just as well he might have reproached
me. It was horrible to think of his going back into the world and
living among people of whom I knew nothing. I knew in some degree
what his life had been; by force of passionate love I understood, or
thought I understood him; and I feared most ignobly.

"And I was putting myself in opposition to all those older and more
experienced people. How could I help distrusting myself at times? I
saw them all looking coldly and reproachfully at me. Here again my
pride had something to say. They would smile among themselves, and
tell each other that they had held a mistakenly high opinion of me.
That was hard to bear. I like to be thought much of; it is delicious
to feel that people respect me, that they apply other judgments to
me than to girls in general. Mr. Mallard hurt me more than he
thought in pretending--I feel sure he only pretended--to regard
my words as trivial. How it rejoices me that there are some things I
know better than my husband does! I have read of women liking to
humble themselves, and in a way I can understand it; I do like to
_say_ that he is far above me--oh! and I mean it, I believe it;
but the joy of joys is to see him look at me with admiration. I
rejoice that I have beauty; I rejoice that I have read much, and can
think for myself now and then, and sometimes say a thing 'that every
one would not think of. Suppose I were an uneducated girl, not
particularly good-looking, and a man loved me; well, in that case
perhaps the one joy would be mere worship of him and intense
gratitude--blind belief in his superiority to every other man that
lived. But then Reuben would never have loved me; he must have
something to admire, to stand a little in awe of. And for this very
reason, perhaps I feel such constant--self-esteem, for that is the
only word.". . .

"All the doubts and fears are over. I acted rightly, and because I
obeyed my passion. The poets are right, and all the prudent people
only grovel in their worldly wisdom. It may not be true for every
one, but for me to love and be loved, infinitely, with the love that
conquers everything, is the sole end of life. It is enough; come
what will, if love remain nothing else is missed. In the direst
poverty, we should be as much to each other as we are now. If he
died, I would live only to remember the days I passed with him. What
folly, what a crime, it would have been to waste two years, as
though we were immortal!

"I never think of Capri but I see it in the light of a magnificent
sunrise. Beloved, sacred island, where the morning of my life indeed
began! No spot in all the earth has beauty like yours; no name of
any place sounds to me as yours does!"

"I know that our life cannot always be what it is now. This is a
long honeymoon; we do not walk on the paths that are trodden by
ordinary mortals; the sky above us is not the same that others see
as they go about their day's business or pleasure. By what process
shall we fall to the common existence? We have all our wants
provided for; there is no need for my husband to work that he may
earn money, no need for me to take anxious thought about expenses;
so that we are tempted to believe that life will always be the same.
That cannot be; I am not so idle as to hope it.

"He certainly has powers which should be put to use. We have talked
much of things that he might possibly do, and I am sure that before
long his mind will hit the right path. I am so greedy of happiness
that even what we enjoy does not suffice me; I want my husband to
distinguish himself among men, that I may glory in his honour.
Yesterday he told me that my own abilities exceeded his, and that I
was more likely to make use of them; but in this case my ambition
takes a humble form. Even if I were sure that I could, say, write a
good book, I would infinitely prefer him to do it and receive the
reward of it. I like him to _say_ such things, but in fact he must
be more than I. Do I need a justification of the love I bear him?
Surely not; that would be a contradiction of love. But it is true
that I would gladly have him justify to others my belief in his
superiority.

"And yet--why not be content with what is well? If _he_ could
remain so; but will he? We have a long life before us, and I know
that it cannot be all honeymoon."

"I have been reading a French novel that has made me angry--in
spite of my better sense. Of course, it is not the first book of the
kind that I have read, but it comes home to me now. What right has
this author to say that no man was ever absolutely faithful? It is a
commonplace, but how can any one have evidence enough to justify
such a statement? I shall not speak of it to Reuben, for I don't
care to think long about it. Does that mean, I wonder, that I am
afraid to think of it?

"Well, f had rather have been taught to read and think about
everything, than be foolishly ignorant as so many women are. This
French author would laugh at my confidence, but I could laugh back
at his narrow cynicism. He knows nothing of love in its highest
sense. I am firm in my optimism, which has a very different base
from that of ignorance.

"This does not concern me; I won't occupy my mind with it; I won't
read any more of the cynics. My husband loves me, and I believe his
love incapable of receiving a soil. If ever I cease to believe that,
time enough then to be miserable and to fight out the problem."

The end of the six months found them still undecided as to where
they should fix a permanent abode. In no part of England had either
of them relatives or friends whose proximity would be of any value.
Cecily inclined towards London, feeling that there only would her
husband find incentives to exertion; but Reuben was more disposed to
settle somewhere on the Continent. He talked of going back to Italy,
living in Florence, and--writing something new about the
Renaissance. Cecily shook her head; Italy she loved, and she had
seen nothing of it north of Naples, but it was the land of
lotus-eaters. They would go there again, but not until life had
seriously shaped itself.

Whilst they talked and dreamed, decision came to them in the shape
of Mrs. Lessingham. Without warning, she one day presented herself
at their lodgings, having come direct from Paris. Her spirits were
delightful; she could not have behaved more graciously had this
marriage been the one desire of her life. The result of her private
talk with Cecily was that within a week all three travelled down to
London; there they remained for a fortnight, then went on to Paris.
Mrs. Lessingham's quarters were in Rue de Belle Chasse, and the
Elgars found a suitable dwelling in the same street.

Their child was born, and for a few months all questions were
postponed to that of its health and Cecily's. The infant gave a good
deal of trouble, was anything but robust; the mother did not regain
her strength speedily. The first three months of the new year were
spent at Bordighera; then came three months of Paris; then the
family returned to England (without Mrs. Lessingham), and
established themselves in the house in Belsize Park.

The immediate effect of paternity upon Elgar was amusing. His
self-importance visibly increased. He spoke with more gravity;
whatever step he took was seriously considered; if he read a
newspaper, it was with an air of sober reflection.

"This is the turning-point in his life," Cecily said to her aunt.
"He seems to me several years older; don't you notice it? I am quite
sure that as soon as things are in order again he will begin to
work."

And the prophecy seemed to find fulfilment. Not many days after
their taking possession of the English home, Reuben declared a
project that his mind had been forming. It was not, to be sure,
thoroughly fashioned; its limits must necessarily be indeterminate
until fixed by long and serious study; but what he had in view was
to write a history of the English mind in its relation to
Puritanism.

"I have a notion, Ciss, that this is the one thing into which I can
throw all my energies. The one need of my intellectual life is to
deal a savage blow at the influences which ruined all my early
years. You can't look at the matter quite as I do; you don't know
the fierce hatred with which I am moved when I look back. If I am to
do literary work at all, it must be on some subject which deeply
concerns me--me myself, as an individual. I feel sure that my bent
isn't to fiction; I am not objective enough. But I enjoy the study
of history, and I have a good deal of acuteness. If I'm not
mistaken, I can make a brilliant book, a book that will excite
hatred and make my name known."

They were sitting in the library, late at night. As usual when he
was stirred, Reuben paced up and down the room and gesticulated.

"Do you mean it to be a big book!" Cecily asked, after reflection.

"Not very big. I should have French models before me, rather than
English."

"It would take you a long time to prepare."

"Two or three years, perhaps. But what does that matter? I shall
work a good deal at the British Museum. It will oblige me to be away
from you a good deal, but--"

"You mustn't trouble about that. I have my own work. If your
mornings are regularly occupied, I shall be able to make flied plans
of study there are so many things I want to work at."

"Capital! It's high time we came to that. And then, you know, you
might be able to give me substantial help--reading, making notes,
and so on--if you cared to."

Cecily smiled.

"Yes, if I care to.--But hasn't the subject been dealt with
already?"

"Oh, of course, in all sorts of ways. But not in _my_ way. No man
ever wrote about it with such energy of hatred as I shall bring to
the task."

Cecily was musing.

"It won't be a history in the ordinary sense," she said. "You will
make no pretence of historic calm and impartiality."

"Not I, indeed! My book shall be cited as a splendid example of
_odium antitheologicum_. There are passages of eloquence rolling in
my mind! And this is just the time for such a work. Throughout
intellectual England, Puritanism is dead; but we know how vigorously
it survives among the half-educated classes. My book shall declare
the emancipation of all the better minds and be a help to those who
are struggling upwards. It will be a demand, also, for a new
literature, free from the absurd restraints that Puritanism has put
upon us. All the younger writers will rally about me. It shall be a
'movement.' The name of my book shall be a watchword."

They talked about it till one in the morning.

For several weeks Elgar was constantly at the Museum. He read
prodigiously; he brought home a great quantity of notes; every night
Cecily and he talked over his acquisitions, and excited themselves.
But the weather grew oppressively hot, and it was plain that they
could not carry out the project of remaining in town all through the
autumn. Already Reuben was languishing in his zeal, when little
Clarence had a sudden and alarming illness. As soon as possible, all
went off to the seaside.

Since his work had begun, Reuben's interest in the child had fallen
off. Its ailments were soon little more than an annoyance to him;
Cecily perceived this, and seldom spoke on the subject. The fact of
the sudden illness affording an opportunity for rest led him to
express more solicitude than he really felt, but when the child got
back into its normal state, Reuben was more plainly indifferent to
it than ever. He spoke impatiently if the mother's cares occupied
her when he wished for her society.

"A baby isn't a rational creature," he said once. "When he is old
enough to begin to be educated, that will be a different thing. At
present he is only a burden. Perhaps you think me an unfatherly
brute?"

"No; I can understand you quite well. I should very often be
impatient myself if I had no servants to help me."

"What a horrible thought! Suppose, Ciss, we all of a sudden lost
everything, and we had to go and live in a garret, and I had to get
work as a clerk at five-and-twenty shillings a week. How soon should
we hate the sight of each other, and the sound of each other's
voices?"

"It might come to that," replied Cecily, with half a smile.
"Perhaps."

"There's no doubt about it."

Cecily remembered something she had written in the book with the
silver lock--a book which had not been opened for a long time.

"I used to think nothing could bring that about. And I am not sure
yet."

"I should behave like a ruffian. I know myself well enough."

"I think that would kill my love in time."

"Of course it would. How can any one love what is not lovable?"

"Yet we hear," suggested Cecily, "of wretched women remaining
devoted to husbands who all but murder them now and then."

"You are not so foolish as to call _that_ love! That is mere
unreasoning and degraded habit--the same kind of thing one may
find in a dog."

"Has love anything to do with reason, Reuben?"

"As I understand it, it has everything to do with reason. Animal
passion has not, of course; but love is made of that with something
added. Can my reason discover any argument why I should not love
you? I won't say that it might not, some day, and then my love would
by so much be diminished."

"You believe that reason is free to exercise itself, where love is
in possession?"

"I believe that love can only come when reason invites. Of course,
we are talking of love between men and women; the word has so many
senses. In this highest sense, it is one of the rarest of things.
How many wives and husbands love each other? Not one pair in five
thousand. In the average pair that have lived together as long as we
have, there is not only mutual criticism, but something even of
mutual dislike. That makes love impossible. Habit takes its place."

"Happily for the world."

"I don't know. Perhaps so. It is an ignoble necessity; but then, the
world largely consists of ignoble creatures."

Cecily reflected often on this conversation. Was there any
significance in such reasonings? It gave her keen pleasure to hear
Reuben maintain such a view, but did it mean anything? If, in
meditating about him, she discovered characteristics of his which
she could have wished to change, which in themselves were certainly
not lovable, had she in that moment ceased to love him, in love's
highest sense?

But in that case love might be self-deception. In that case, perfect
love was impossible save as a result of perfect knowledge.

What part had reason in the impulses which possessed her from her
first meeting with Reuben in Italy, unless that name were given to
the working of mysterious affinities, afterwards to be justified by
experience?

Cecily had been long content to accept love as an ultimate fact of
her being. But it was not Reuben's arguments only that led her to
ponder its nature and find names for its qualities. By this time she
had become conscious that her love as a wife was somehow altered,
modified, since she had been a mother. The time of passionate
reveries was gone by. She no longer wrote verses. The book was
locked up and kept hidden; if ever she resumed her diary, it must be
in a new volume, for that other was sacred to an undivided love. It
would now have been mere idle phrasing, to say that Reuben was all
in all to her. And she could not think of this without some sadness.

To the average woman maternity is absorbing. Naturally so, for the
average woman is incapable of poetical passion, and only too glad to
find something that occupies her thoughts from morning to night, a
relief from the weariness of her unfruitful mind. It was not to he
expected that Cecily, because she had given birth to a child, should
of a sudden convert herself into a combination of wet and dry nurse,
after the common model. The mother's love was strong in her, but it
could not destroy, nor even keep in long abeyance, those
intellectual energies which characterized her. Had she been
constrained to occupy herself ceaselessly with the demands of
babyhood, something more than impatience would shortly have been
roused in her: she would have rebelled against the conditions of her
sex; the gentle melancholy with which she now looked back upon the
early days of marriage would have become a bitter protest against
her slavery to nature. These possibilities in the modern woman
correspond to that spirit in the modern man which is in revolt
against the law of labour. Picture Reuben Elgar reduced to the
necessity of toiling for daily bread--that is to say, brought down
from his pleasant heights of civilization to the dull plain where
nature tells a man that if he would eat he must first sweat at the
furrow; one hears his fierce objurgations, his haughty railing
against the gods. Cecily did not represent that extreme type of
woman to whom the bearing of children has become in itself
repugnant; but she was very far removed from that other type which
the world at large still makes its ideal of the feminine. With what
temper would she have heard the lady in her aunt's drawing-room, who
was of opinion that she should "stay at home and mind the baby"?
Education had made her an individual; she was nurtured into the
disease of thought This child of hers showed in the frail tenure on
which it held its breath how unfit the mother was for fulfilling her
natural functions. Both parents seemed in admirable health, yet
their offspring was a poor, delicate, nervous creature, formed for
exquisite sensibility to every evil of life. Cecily saw this, and
partly understood it; her heart was heavy through the long anxious
nights passed in watching by the cradle.

When they returned to London, Reuben at first made a pretence of
resuming his work. He went now and then to the reading-room, and at
home shut himself up in the study; but he no longer voluntarily
talked of his task. Cecily knew what had happened; the fatal lack of
perseverance had once more declared itself. For some weeks she
refrained from inviting his confidence, but of necessity they spoke
together at last. Reuben could no longer disguise the ennui under
which he was labouring. Instead of sitting in the library, he
loitered about the drawing-room; he was often absent through the
whole day, and Cecily knew that he had not been at the Museum.

"I'm at a stand-still," he admitted, when the opportunity came. "I
don't see my way so clearly as at first. I must take up some other
subject for a time, and rest my mind."

They had no society worth speaking of. Mrs. Lessingham had supplied
them with a few introductions, but these people were now out of
town. Earlier in the year neither of them had cared to be assiduous
in discharging social obligations, with the natural result that
little notice was taken of them in turn. Reuben had resumed two or
three of his old connections; a bachelor acquaintance now and then
came to dine; but this was not the kind of society they needed.
Impossible for them to utter the truth, and confess that each
other's companionship was no longer all-sufficient. Had Reuben been
veritably engaged in serious work, Cecily might have gone on for a
long time with her own studies before she wearied for lack of
variety and friendly voices; as it was, the situation became
impossible.

"Wouldn't you like to belong to a club?" she one day asked.

And Reuben caught at the suggestion. Not long ago, it would have
caused him to smile rather scornfully.

Cecily had lost her faith in the great militant book on Puritanism.
Thinking about it, when it had been quite out of her mind for a few
days, she saw the project in a light of such absurdity that, in
spite of herself, she laughed. It was laughter that pained her, like
a sob. No, that was not the kind of work for him. What was?

She would think rather of her child and its future. If Clarence
lived--if he lived--she herself would take charge of his
education for the first years. She must read the best books that had
been written on the training of children's minds; everything should
be smoothed for him by skilful methods. There could be little doubt
that he would prove a quick child, and the delight of watching his
progress! She imagined him a boy of ten, bright, trustful, happy; he
would have no nearer friend than his mother; between him and her
should exist limitless confidence. But a firm hand would be
necessary; he would exhibit traits inherited from his father--

Cecily remembered the day when she first knew that she did not wish
him to be altogether like his father. Perhaps in no other way could
she have come to so clear an understanding of Reuben's character--
at all events, of those parts of it which had as yet revealed
themselves in their wedded life. She thought of him with an
impartiality which had till of late been impossible. And then it
occurred to her: Had the same change come over his mind concerning
her? Did he feel secret dissatisfactions? If he had a daughter,
would he say to himself that in this and that he would wish her not
to resemble her mother?

About once in three months they received a letter from Miriam,
addressed always to Cecily. She was living still with the Spences,
and still in Italy. Her letters offered no explanation of this
singular fact; indeed, they threw as little light as was possible on
the state of her mind, so brief were they, and so closely confined
to statements of events. Still, it was clear that Miriam no longer
shrank from the study of profane things. Of Bartles she never spoke.

Mrs. Spence also wrote to Cecily, the kind of letter to be expected
from her, delightful in the reading and pleasant in the memory. But
she said nothing significant concerning Miriam.

"Would they welcome us, if we went to see them?" Cecily asked, one
cheerless day this winter--it was Clarence's birthday.

"You can't take the child," answered Reuben, with some discontent.

"No; I should not dare to. And it is just as impossible to leave him
with any one. In another year, perhaps."

Mrs. Lessingham occasionally mentioned Miriam in her letters, and
always with a jest. "I strongly suspect she is studying Greek. Is
she, perchance, the author of that delightful paper on 'Modern
Paganism,' in the current _Fortnightly_? Something strange awaits
us, be sure of that."

The winter dragged to its end, and with the spring came Mrs.
Lessingham herself. Instantly the life of the Elgars underwent a
complete change. The vivacious lady from Paris saw in the twinkling
of an eye how matters stood; she considered the situation perilous,
and set to work most efficaciously to alter it. With what result,
you are aware. The first incident of any importance in the new life
was that which has already been related, yet something happened one
day at the Academy of which it is worth while speaking.

Cecily had looked in her catalogue for the name of a certain artist,
and had found it; he exhibited one picture only. Walking on through
the rooms with her husband, she came at length to the number she had
in mind, and paused before it.

"Whose is that?" Reuben inquired, looking at the same picture.

"Mr. Mallard's," she answered, with a smile, meeting his eyes.

"Old Mallard's? Really? I was wondering whether he had anything this
year."

He seemed to receive the information with genuine pleasure. A little
to Cecily's surprise, for the name was never mentioned between them,
and she had felt uneasy in uttering it. The picture was a piece of
coast-scenery in Norway, very grand, cold, desolate; not at all
likely to hold the gaze of Academy visitors, but significant enough
for the few who see with the imagination.

"Nobody looks at it, you notice," said Elgar, when they had stood on
the spot for five minutes.

"Nobody."

Yet as soon as they had spoken, an old and a young lady came in
front of them, and they heard the young lady say, as she pointed to
Mallard's canvas:

"Where is that, mamma?"

"Oh, Land's End, or some such place," was the careless reply. "_Do_
just look at that _sweet_ little creature playing with the dog! Look
at its collar! And that ribbon!"

Reuben turned away and muttered contemptuous epithets; Cecily cast a
haughty and angry glance at the speaker. They passed on, and for the
present spoke no more of Mallard; but Cecily thought of him, and
would have liked to return to the picture before leaving. There was
a man who _did_ something, and something worth the doing. Reuben
must have had a thought not unlike this, for he said, later in the
same day:

"I am sorry I never took up painting. I believe I could have made
something of it. To a certain extent, you see, it is a handicraft
that any man may learn; if one can handle the tools, there's always
the incentive to work and produce. By-the-bye, why do you never draw
nowadays?"

"I hold the opinion of Miss Denyer--I wonder what's become of her,
poor girl?--that it's no use 'pottering.' Strange how a casual
word can affect one. I've never cared to draw since she spoke of my
'pottering.'"

This day was the last on which Reuben was quite his wonted self.
Cecily, who was not studying him closely just now, did not for a
while observe any change, but in the end it forced itself upon her
attention. She said nothing, thinking it not impossible that he was
again dissatisfied with the fruitlessness of his life, and had been
made to feel it more strongly by associating with so many new
people. Any sign of that kind was still grateful to her.

She knew now how amiss was her interpretation. The truth she could
not accept as she would have done a year ago; it would then have
seemed more than pardonable, as proving that Reuben's love of her
could drive him into grotesque inconsistencies. But now she only
felt it an injury, and in sitting down to write her painful letter
to Mrs. Travis, she acted for the first time in deliberate
resentment of her husband's conduct.

When the reply from Mrs. Travis instructed him in what had been
done, Reuben left the house, and did not return till late at night.
Cecily stayed at home, idle. Visitors called in the afternoon, but
she received no one. After her solitary dinner, she spent weary
hours, now in one room, now in another, unable to occupy herself in
any way. At eleven o'clock she went down to the library, resolving
to wait there for Reuben's return.

She heard him enter, and heard the servant speaking with him. He
came into the room, closed the door, sauntered forwards, his hands
in his pockets.

"Why didn't you tell me you would be away all day?" Cecily asked,
without stress of remonstrance.

"I didn't know that I should be."

He took his favourite position on the corner of the table Examining
him, Cecily saw that his face expressed ennui rather than active
displeasure; there was a little sullenness about his lips, but the
knitting of his brows was not of the kind that threatens tempest.

"Where have you been, dear?"

"At the Museum, the club, and a music-hall."

"A music-hall?" she repeated, in surprise.

"Why not? I had to get through the time somehow. I was in a surly
temper; if I'd come home sooner, I should have raged at you. Don't
say anything to irritate me, Ciss; I'm not quite sure of myself yet"

"But I think the raging would have been preferable; I've had the
dreariest day I ever spent"

"I suppose some one or other called?"

"Yes, but I didn't see them. You have made me very uncertain of howl
ought to behave. I thought it better to keep to myself till we had
come to a clearer understanding."

"That is perversity, you know. And it was perversity that led you to
write in such a way to Mrs. Travis."

"You are quite right. But the provocation was great. And after all I
don't see that there is much difference between writing to her that
she mustn't come, and giving directions to a servant that she isn't
to be admitted."

"You said in the letter that _I_ had forbidden it?"

"Yes, I did."

"And so made me ridiculous!" he exclaimed petulantly.

"My dear, you _were_ ridiculous. It's better that you should see it
plainly."

"The letter will be shown to all sorts of people. Your aunt will see
it, of course. You are ingenious in revenging yourself."

Cecily bent her head, and could not trust herself to speak. All day
she had been thinking of this, and had repented of her foolish
haste. Yet confession of error was impossible in her present mood.

"As you make such a parade of obedience," he continued, with
increasing anger, "I should think it would be better to obey
honestly. I never said that I wished you to break with her in this
fashion."

"Anything else would be contemptible. I can't subdue myself to
that."

"Very well; then to be logical you must give up society altogether.
It demands no end of contemptible things."

"Will you explain to me why you think that letter will make you
ridiculous?"

Reuben hesitated.

"Is it ridiculous," she added, "for a man to forbid his wife to
associate with a woman of doubtful character?"

"I told you distinctly that I had no definite charge to bring
against her. Caution would have been reasonable enough, but to act
as you have represented me is sheer Philistinism."

"Precisely. And it _was_ Philistinism in you to take the matter as
you did. Be frank with me. Why should you wish to have a name for
liberal thinking among your acquaintances, and yet behave in private
like the most narrow of men?"

"That is your misrepresentation. Of course, if you refuse to
understand me--"

He broke off, and went to another part of the room.

"Shall I tell you what all this means, Reuben?" said Cecily, turning
towards him. "We have lived so long in solitude, that the common
circumstances of society are strange and disturbing to us. Solitary
people are theoretical people. You would never have thought of
forbidding me to read such and such a book, on the ground that it
took me into doubtful company; the suggestion of such intolerance
would have made you laugh scornfully. You have become an idealist of
a curious kind; you like to think of me as an emancipated woman, and
yet, when I have the opportunity of making my independence
practical, you show yourself alarmed. I am not sure that I
understand you entirely; I should be very sorry to explain your
words of the other night in the sense they would bear on the lips of
an ordinary man. Can't you help me out of this difficulty?"

Reuben was reflecting, and had no reply ready.

"If there is to be all this difference between theory and practice,"
Cecily continued, "it must either mean that you think otherwise than
you speak, or else that I have shown myself in some way very
untrustworthy. You say you have been angry with me; I have felt both
angry and deeply hurt. Suppose you had known certainly that Mrs.
Travis was not an honourable woman, even then it was wrong to speak
to me as you did. Even then it would have been inconsistent to
forbid me to see her. You put yourself and me on different levels.
You make me your inferior--morally your inferior. What should you
say if I began to warn you against one or other of the men you
know--if I put on a stern face, and told you that your morals were in
danger?"

"Pooh! what harm can a man take?"

"And pray what harm can a woman take, if her name happens to be
Cecily Elgar?"

She drew herself up, and stood regarding him with superb
self-confidence.

"Without meaning it, you insult me, Reuben. You treat me as a vulgar
husband treats a vulgar wife. What harm to me do you imagine? Don't
let us deal in silly evasions and roundabout phrases. Do you
distrust my honour? Do you think I can be degraded by association?
What woman living has power to make me untrue to myself?"

"You are getting rhetorical, Cecily. Then at this rate I should
_never_ be justified in interfering?"

"In interfering with mere command, never."

"Not if I saw you going to destruction?"

She smiled haughtily.

"When it comes to that, we'll discuss the question anew. But I see
that you think it possible. Evidently I have given proof of some
dangerous weakness. Tell me what it is, and I shall understand you
better."

"I'm afraid all this talk leads to nothing. You claim an
independence which will make it very difficult for us to live on the
old terms."

"I claim nothing more than your own theories have always granted."

"Then practice shows that the theories are untenable, as in many
another case."

"You refuse me the right to think for myself."

"In some things, yes. Because, as I said before, you haven't
experience enough to go upon."

Cecily cast down her eyes. She forced herself to keep silence until
that rush of indignant rebellion had gone by. Reuben looked at her
askance.

"If you still loved me as you once did," he said, in a lower voice,
"this would be no hardship. Indeed, I should never have had to utter
such words."

"I still do love you," she answered, very quietly. "If I did not, I
should revolt against your claim. But it is too certain that we no
longer live on the old terms."

They avoided each other's eyes, and after a long silence left the
room without again speaking.





CHAPTER IV

THE DENYERS IN ENGLAND




"There!" said Mrs. Denyer, laying money on the table. "There are
your wages, up to the end of April--notwithstanding your
impertinence to me this morning, you see. Once more I forgive you.
And new get on with your work, and let us have no more
unpleasantness."

It was in the back parlour of a small house at Hampstead, a room
scantily furnished and not remarkably clean. Mrs. Denyer sat at the
table, some loose papers before her. She was in mourning, but still
fresh of complexion, and a trifle stouter than when she lived at
Naples, two years and a half ago. Her words were addressed to a
domestic (most plainly, of all work), who without ceremony gathered
the coins up in both her hands, counted them, and then said with
decision:

"Now I'm goin', mum."

"Going? Indeed you are not, my girl! You don't leave this house
without the due notice."

"Notice or no notice, I'm a-goin'," said the other, firmly. "I never
thought to a' got even this much, an' now I've got it, I'm a-goin'.
It's wore me out, has this 'ouse; what with--"

The conflict lasted for a good quarter of an hour, but the domestic
was to be shaken neither with threats nor prayers. Resolutely did
she ascend to her bedroom, promptly did she pack her box. Almost
before Mrs. Denyer could realize the disaster that had befallen, her
house was servantless.

She again sat in the back parlour, gazing blankly at the table, when
there came the sound of the house-door opening, followed by a light
tread in the passage.

"Barbara!" called Mrs. Denyer.

Barbara presented herself. She also wore mourning, genteel but
inexpensive. Her prettiness endured, but she was pale, and had a
chronic look of discontent.

"Well, now, what do you think has happened? Shut the door. I paid
Charlotte the wages, and the very first thing she did was to pack
and go!"

"And you mean to say you let her? Why, you must be crazy!"

"Don't speak to me in that way!" cried her mother, hotly. "How could
I prevent her, when she was determined? I did my utmost, but nothing
could induce her to stay. Was ever anything so distracting? The very
day after letting our rooms! How are we to manage?"

"I shall have nothing to do with it. The girl wouldn't have gone if
I'd been here. You must manage how you can."

"It's no use talking like that, Barbara. You're bound to wait upon
Mrs. Travis until we get another girl."

"I?" exclaimed her daughter. "Wait on her yourself! I certainly
shall do nothing of the kind."

"You're a bad, cruel, undutiful girl!" cried Mrs. Denyer, her face
on fire. "Nether of your sisters ever treated me as you do. You're
the only one of the family that has never given the least help, and
you're the only one that day by day insults me and behaves with
heartless selfishness! I'm to wait on the lodger myself, am I? Very
well! I will do so, and see if anything in the world will shame you.
She shall know _why_ I wait on her, be sure of that!"

Barbara swept out of the room, and ascended the stairs to the second
floor. Here again she heard her name called, in a soft voice and
interrogatively in reply, she entered a small bedroom, saying
impatiently:

"What is it, Mad?"

It was seen at the first glance that this had long been a
sick-chamber. The arrangement of the furniture, the
medicine-bottles, the appliances for the use of one who cannot rise
from bed, all told their story. The air had a peculiar scent; an
unnatural stillness seemed to pervade it. Against the raised white
pillow showed a face hardly less white.

"Isn't it provoking, Barbara?" said the invalid, without moving in
the least. "Whatever shall you do?"

"As best we can, I suppose. I've to turn cook and housemaid and
parlour-maid, now. Scullery-maid too. I suppose I shall clean the
steps to-morrow morning."

"Oh, but you must go to the registry-office the very first thing.
Don't upset yourself about it. If you can just manage to get that
lady's dinner."

"It's all very well for you to talk! How would _you_ like to _wait_
on people, like a girl in a restaurant?"

"Ah, if only I could!" replied Madeline, with a little laugh that
was heart-breaking. "If only I could!"

In a month it would be two years since Madeline stood and walked
like other people; live as long as she might, she would never rise
from her bed. It came about in this way. Whilst the Denyers were
living in the second-class hotel at Southampton, and when Mr. Denyer
had been gone to Vera Cruz some five months, a little ramble was
taken one day in a part of the New Forest. Madeline was in
particularly good spirits; she had succeeded in getting an
engagement to teach some children, and her work was to begin the
next day. In a frolic she set herself to jump over a fallen tree;
her feet slipped on the dry grass beyond, and she fell with her back
upon the trunk.

This was pleasant news to send to her father! With him things were
going as well as he had anticipated, and before long he was able to
make substantial remittances, but his letters were profoundly sad.
In a year's time, the family quitted Southampton and took the house
at Hampstead; with much expense and difficulty Madeline was removed.
Mrs. Denyer and Barbara were weary of provincial life, and
considered nothing in their resolve to be within reach of London
amusements. Zillah was living as governess with a family in
Yorkshire.

They had been settled at Hampstead three weeks, when information
reached them that Mr. Denyer was dead of yellow fever.

On the day when this news came, the house received no less important
a visitor than Mr. Musselwhite. Long ago, Mrs. Denyer had written to
him from Southampton, addressing her letter to the club in London of
which he had spoken; she had received a prompt reply, dated from
rooms in London, and thenceforth the correspondence was established.
But Mr. Musselwhite never spoke of coming to Southampton; his
letters ended with "Sincere regards to Miss Denyer and the other
young ladies," but they contained nothing that was more to the
point. He wrote about the weather chiefly. Arrived in London, Mrs.
Denyer at once sent an invitation, and to her annoyance this
remained unanswered. To-day the explanation was forthcoming; Mr.
Musselwhite had been on a journey, and by some mistake the letter
had only come into his hands when he returned. He was most
gentlemanly in his expressions of condolement with the family in
their distress; he sat with them, moreover, much longer than was
permissible under the circumstances by the code of society. And on
going, he begged to be allowed to see them frequently--that was
all.

Barbara could not control herself for irritation; Mrs. Denyer was
indignant. Yet, after all, was it to be expected that the visitor
should say or do more on such an occasion as this? In any case, he
knew what their position was; all had been put before him, as though
he were a member of the family. If they succeeded in obtaining
whatever Mr. Denyer had died possessed of, it would certainly be
nothing more than a provision for the present. When they spoke of
taking a lodger for their first floor, Mr. Musselwhite agreed that
this was a good thought, whilst shaking his gentlemanly head over
the necessity.

He came again and again, always sadly sympathetic. He would sit in
the drawing-room for an hour, pulling his whiskers and moustaches
nervously, often glancing at Barbara, making the kindest inquiries
concerning Madeline, for whom he actually brought flowers. On one of
these occasions, he told them that his brother the baronet was very
ill, down at the "place in Lincolnshire." And after mentioning this,
he fell into abstraction.

As for Madeline, she still received letters from Clifford Marsh. On
first hearing of the accident, Clifford at once came to Southampton;
his distress was extreme. But it was useless for him to remain, and
business demanded his return to Leeds. Neither he nor Madeline was
yet aware of the gravity of what had happened; they talked of
recovery. Before long Madeline knew how her situation was generally
regarded, but she could not abandon hope; she was able to write, and
not a word in her letters betrayed a doubt of the possibility that
she might yet be well again. Clifford wrote very frequently for the
first year, with a great deal of genuine tenderness, with compassion
and encouragement. Never mind how long her illness lasted, let her
be assured of his fidelity; no one but Madeline should ever be his
wife. A considerable part of his letters was always occupied with
lamentation over the cursed fate that bound him to the Philistines,
though he took care to repeat that this was the result of his own
choice, and that he blamed no one--unless it were his gross-minded
step-father, who had driven him to such an alternative. These
bewailings grew less vehement as his letters became shorter and
arrived at longer intervals; there began to be a sameness in the
tone, even in the words. When his yearly holiday came round, he
promised to visit Southampton, but after all never did so. What was
the use? he wrote. It only meant keener misery to both. Instead of
coming south, he had gone into Scotland.

And Madeline no longer expressed a wish to see him. Her own letters
grew shorter and calmer, containing at length very little about
herself, but for the most part news of family affairs. Every now and
then Clifford seemed to rouse himself to the effort of repeating his
protestations, of affirming his deathless faith; but as a rule he
wrote about trifles, sometimes even of newspaper matters. So did the
second year of Madeline's martyrdom come to its close.

Quarrelling incessantly, Mrs. Denyer and Barbara prepared the
lodger's dinner between them. This Mrs. Travis was not exacting; she
had stipulated only for a cutlet, or something of the kind, with two
vegetables, and a milk pudding. Whatever was proposed seemed to suit
her. The Denyers knew nothing about her, except that she was able to
refer them to a lady who had a house in Mayfair; her husband, she
said, was abroad. She had brought a great deal of luggage, including
books to the number of fifty or so.

When the moment for decision came, Barbara snatched up the folded
white table-cloth, threw it with knives, forks, and plates upon a
tray, and ascended to the lodger's sitting-room. Her cheeks were
hot; her eyes flashed. She had donned the most elegant attire in her
possession, had made her hair magnificent. Her knock at the door was
meant to be a declaration of independence; it sounded peremptory.

Mrs. Travis was in an easy-chair, reading. She looked up absently;
then smiled.

"Good evening, Miss Denyer. How close it has been again!"

"Very. I must ask you to excuse me, Mrs. Travis, if I do these
things rather awkwardly. At a moment's notice, we have lost the
servant whose duty it was."

"Oh, I am only sorry that you should have the trouble. Let us lay
the table together. I've done it often enough for myself. No, that's
the wrong side of the cloth. I'll put these things in order, whilst
you go for the rest."

Barbara looked at Mrs. Travis with secret disdain. The girl's nature
was plebeian; a little arrogance would have constrained her to
respect, however she might have seemed to resent it. This
good-natured indifference made her feel that her preparations were
thrown away. She would have preferred to see herself as a martyr.

When dinner was over and the table being cleared, Mrs. Travis spoke
of Madeline.

"Does she sleep well at night?"

"Never till very late," replied Barbara.

"Does she like to be read to?"

"Oh yes--reading of certain kinds. I often read Italian poetry to
her."

Mrs. Travis had not now to learn for the first time of the family's
superior attainments; it had been Mrs. Denyer's care to impress upon
her that they were no ordinary letters of lodgings. Indeed, said
Mrs. Denyer, they were rather _depaysees_' here in England; they
had so long been accustomed to the larger intellectual atmosphere of
Continental centres. "The poor girls pine for Italy; they have
always adored Italy. My eldest daughter is far more Italian than
English."

"Well, I don't read Italian," said Mrs. Travis to Barbara, "but if
English would do, I should really like to sit with her for an hour
sometimes. I never sleep myself if I go to bed before midnight. Do
you think she would care for my company?"

"I am sure she would be grateful to you," answered Barbara, who felt
that she might now exhibit a little politeness.

"Then please ask her if I may come to-night."

This request was readily granted, and at about half-past nine Mrs.
Travis went into the sick-chamber, taking in her hand a volume of
Browning. Madeline had not yet seen the lodger; she returned her
greeting in a murmur, and examined her with the steady eyes of one
whom great suffering has delivered from all petty embarrassments.
Her face was not so calm as when Barbara came to speak to her in the
afternoon; lines of pain showed themselves on her forehead, and her
thin lips were compressed.

"It's very good of you to come," she said, when Mrs. Travis had
taken a seat by the bed. "But please don't read anything to-night. I
don't feel that I could take any interest. It is so sometimes."

"Naturally enough. But do you feel able to talk?"

"Yes; I had rather talk. Can you tell me something quite new and
different from what I'm accustomed to hear? Do you know any country
where I haven't been?"

"I haven't travelled much. Last autumn I was in Iceland for a few
weeks; would you care to hear of that?"

"Very much. Just talk as if you were going over it in your memory.
Don't mind if I close my eyes; I shan't be asleep; it helps me to
imagine, that's all."

Mrs. Travis did as she was asked. Now and then Madeline put a
question. When at length there came a pause, she said abruptly:

"I suppose it seems dreadful to you, to see me lying here like
this?"

"It makes me wish I had it in my power to relieve you."

"But does it seem dreadful? Could you bear to imagine yourself in
the same case? I want you to tell me truthfully. I'm not an
uneducated girl, you know; I can think about life and death as
people do nowadays."

Mrs. Travis looked at her curiously.

"I can imagine positions far worse," she answered.

"That means, of course, that you could not bear to picture yourself
in this. But it's strange how one can get used to it. The first year
I suffered horribly--in mind, I mean. But then I still had hope. I
have none now, and that keeps my mind calmer. A paradox, isn't it?
It's always possible, you know, that I may feel such a life
unendurable at last, and then I should hope to find a means of
bringing it to an end. For instance, if we become so poor that I am
too great a burden. Of course I wouldn't live in a hospital. I don't
mean I should be too proud, but the atmosphere would be intolerable.
And one really needn't live, after one has decided that it's no
use."

"I don't know what to say about that," murmured Mrs. Travis.

"No; you haven't had the opportunity of thinking it over, as I have.
I can imagine myself reaching the point when I should not care to
have health again, even if it were offered me. I haven't come to
that yet; oh no! To-night I am feeling dreadfully what I have lost--not
like I used to, but still dreadfully. Will you tell me
something about yourself? What kind of books do you like?"

"Pretty much the same as you do, I should fancy. I like to know what
new things people are discovering, and how the world looks to clever
men. But I can't study; I have no perseverance. I read the reviews a
good deal."

"You'd never guess the last book I have read. It lies on the chest
of drawers there--a treatise on all the various kinds of
paralysis. The word 'paralysis' used to have the most awful sound to
me; now I'm so familiar with it that it has ceased to be shocking
and become interesting. What I am suffering from is called
_paraplegia_; that's when the lower half of the body is affected; it
comes from injury or disease of the spinal cord. The paralysis
begins at the point in the vertebral column where the injury was
received. But it tends to spread upward. If it gets as far as
certain nerves upon which the movements of the diaphragm depend,
then you die. I wonder whether that will be my case?"

Mrs. Travis kept her eyes on the girl during this singular little
lecture; she felt the fascination which is exercised by strange
mental phenomena.

"Do you know Italy?" Madeline asked, with sudden transition.

"I have travelled through it, like other tourists."

"You went to Naples?"

"Yes."

"If I close my eyes, how well I can see Naples! Now I am walking
through the Villa Nazionale. I come out into the Largo Vittoria,
where the palm-trees are--do you remember? Now I might go into the
Chiatamone, between the high houses; but instead of that I'll turn
down into Via Caracciolo and go along by the sea, till I'm opposite
the Castel dell' Ovo. Now I'm turning the corner and coming on to
Santa Lucia, where there are stalls with shells and ices and fish. I
can smell the Santa Lucia. And to think that I shall never see it
again, never again.--Don't stay any longer now, Mrs. Travis. I
can't talk any more. Thank you for being so kind."

In a week's time it had become a regular thing for Mrs. Travis to
spend an hour or two daily with Madeline. Their conversation was
suitable enough to a sick-chamber, yet strangely unlike what is wont
to pass in such places. On Madeline's side it was thoroughly morbid;
on that of her visitor, a curious mixture of unhealthy speculation
and pure feeling. Mrs. Travis was at first surprised that the
suffering girl never seemed to think of ordinary religion as a
solace. She herself had no fixity of faith; her mind played
constantly with creeds of negation; but she felt it as an unnatural
thing for one of Madeline's age to profess herself wholly without
guidance on so dark a journey. And presently she began to doubt
whether the profession were genuine. The characteristic of the
family was pretence and posing; Mrs. Denyer and Barbara illustrated
that every time they spoke. Not impossibly Madeline did but declare
the same tendency in her rambling and quasi-philosophic talk. She
was fond of warning Mrs. Travis against attributing to her the
common prejudices of women. And yet, were it affectation, then the
habit must be so inextricably blended with her nature as to have
become in practice a genuine motive in the mind's working. Madeline
would speculate on the difference between one of her "culture" in
the circumstances and the woman who is a slave of tradition; and a
moment after she would say something so profoundly pathetic that it
brought tears to her companion's eyes.

Mrs. Travis never spoke of her personal affairs; Madeline could
supply no food for the curiosity of her mother and sister when they
questioned her about the long private conversations. The lodger
received no visitors, and seldom a letter. In the morning she went
out for an hour, generally towards the heath; occasionally she was
from home until late at night. About the quality of the attendance
given her she was wholly indifferent; in spite of frequent
inconveniences, she made her weekly payments without a word of
dissatisfaction. She had a few eccentricities of behaviour which the
Denyers found it difficult to reconcile with the refinement of her
ordinary conduct. Once or twice, when the servant went into her
sitting-room the first thing in the morning, she was surprised to
find Mrs. Travis lying asleep on the couch, evidently just as she
had come home the previous night, except that her bonnet was
removed. It had happened, too, that when some one came and knocked
at her door during the day, she vouchsafed no answer, and yet made
the sound of moving about, as if to show that she did not choose to
be disturbed, for whatever reason.

The household went its regular way. Mrs. Denyer sat in her wonted
idle dignity, or scolded the hard-driven maid-of-all-work, or
quarrelled fiercely with Barbara. Barbara was sullen, insolent,
rebellious against fate, by turns. Up in the still room lay poor
Madeline, seldom visited by either of the two save when it was
necessary. All knew that the position of things had no security;
before long there must come a crisis worse than any the family had
yet experienced. Unless, indeed, that one hope which remained to
them could be realized.

One afternoon at the end of July, mother and daughter were sitting
over their tea, lamenting the necessity which kept them in London
when the eternal fitness of things demanded that they should be
preparing for travel. They heard a vehicle draw up before the house,
and Barbara, making cautious espial from the windows, exclaimed that
it was Mr. Musselwhite.

"He has a lot of flowers, as usual," she added, scornfully, watching
him as he paid the cabman. "Go into the back room, mamma. Let's say
you're not at home to-day. Send for the teapot, and get some more
tea made."

There came a high-bred knock at the front door, and Mrs. Denyer
disappeared.

Mr. Musselwhite entered with a look and bearing much graver than
usual. He made the proper remarks, and gave Barbara the flowers for
her sister then seated himself, and stroked his moustache.

"Miss Denyer," he began, when Barbara waited wearily for the
familiar topic, "my brother, Sir Grant, died a week ago."

"I am very grieved to hear it," she replied, mechanically, at once
absorbed in speculation as to whether this would make any change
that concerned her.

"It was a long and painful illness, and recovery was known to be
impossible. Yet I too cannot help grieving. As you know, we had not
seen much of each other for some years, but I had the very highest
opinion of Sir Grant, and it always gave me pleasure to think of him
as the head of our family. He was a man of great abilities, and a
kind man."

"I am sure he was--from what you have told me of him."

"My nephew succeeds to the title and the estate; he is now Sir
Roland Musselwhite. I have mentioned him in our conversations. He is
about thirty-four, a very able man, and very kind, very generous."

There was a distinct tremor in his voice; he pulled his moustache
vigorously. Barbara listened with painful eagerness.

"If you will forgive me for speaking of my private circumstances,
Miss Denyer, I should like to tell you that for some years I have
enjoyed only a very restricted income; a bachelor's allowance--
really it amounted to nothing more than that. In consequence of
that, my life has been rather unsettled; I scarcely knew what to do
with myself, in fact; now and then time has been rather heavy on my
hands. You may have noticed that, for I know you are observant."

He waited for her to say whether she had or had not observed this
peculiarity in him.

"I have sometimes been afraid that was the case," said Barbara.

"I quite thought so." He smiled with gratification. "But now--if I
may speak a little longer of these personal matters--all that is
altered, and by the very great kindness, the generosity, of my
nephew Sir Roland. Sir Roland has seen fit to put me in possession
of an income just three times what I have hitherto commanded. This
does not, Miss Denyer, make me a wealthy man; far from it. But it
puts certain things within my reach that I could not think of
formerly. For instance, I shall be able to take a modest house,
either in the country, or here in one of the suburbs. It's my wish
to do so. My one great wish is to settle down and have something
to--to occupy my time."

Barbara breathed a faint approval.

"You may wonder, Miss Denyer, why I trouble you with these details.
Perhaps I might be pardoned for doing so, if I spoke with--with a
desire for your friendly sympathy. But there is more than that in my
mind. The day is come, Miss Denyer, when I am able to say what I
would gladly have said before our parting at Naples, if it had been
justifiable in me. That is rather a long time ago, but the feeling I
then had has only increased in the meanwhile. Miss Denyer, I desire
humbly to ask if you will share with me my new prosperity, such as
it is?"

The interview lasted an hour and a quarter. Mrs. Denyer panted with
impatience in the back parlour. Such an extended visit could not but
have unusual significance. On hearing the door of the other room
open, she stood up and listened. But there was no word in the
passage, no audible murmur.

The front door closed, and in two ticks of the clock Barbara came
headlong into the parlour. With broken breath, with hysterical
laughing and sobbing, she made known what had happened. It was too
much for her; the relief of suspense, the absolute triumph, were
more than she could support with decency. Mrs. Denyer shed tears,
and embraced her daughter as if they had always been on the fondest
terms.

"Go up and tell Maddy!"

But, as not seldom befalls, happiness inspired Barbara with a
delicacy of feeling to which as a rule she was a stranger.

"I don't like to, mamma. It seems cruel."

"But you can't help it, my dear; and she must know tomorrow if not
to-day."

So before long Barbara went upstairs. She entered the room softly.
Madeline had her eyes fixed on the ceiling, and did not move them as
her sister approached the bed.

"Maddy!"

Then indeed she looked at the speaker, and with surprise, so
unwonted was this tone on Barbara's lips. Surprise was quickly
succeeded by a smile.

"I know, Barbara; I understand."

"What? How can you?"

"I heard a cab drive up, and I heard a knock at the door. 'That's
Mr. Musselwhite,' I thought. He has been here a long time, and now I
understand. You needn't tell me."

"But there's a good deal to tell that you can't have found out,
quick as you are."

And she related the circumstances. Madeline listened with her eyes
on the ceiling.

"We shall be married very soon," Barbara added; "as soon as a house
can be chosen. Of course it must be in London, or very near. We
shall go somewhere or other, and then, very likely, pay a formal
visit to the 'place in Lincolnshire.' Think of that! Sir Roland
seems a good sort of man; he will welcome us. Think of visiting at
the 'place in Lincolnshire'! Isn't it all like a dream?"

"What will mamma do without you?"

"Oh, Zillah is to come home. We'll see about that."

"I suppose he forgot to bring me some flowers today?"

"No But I declare I forgot to bring them up. I'll fetch them at
once."

She did so, running downstairs and up again like a child, with a
jump at the landings. The flowers were put in the usual place.
Madeline looked at them, and listened to her sister's chatter for
five minutes. Then she said absently:

"Go away now, please. I've heard enough for the present."

"You shall have all sorts of comforts, Maddy."

"Go away, Barbara."

The sister obeyed, looking back with compassion from the door. She
closed it softly, and in the room there was the old perfect
stillness. Madeline had let her eyelids fall, and the white face
against the white pillows was like that of one dead. But upon the
eyelashes there presently shone a tear; it swelled, broke away, and
left a track of moisture. Poor white face, with the dark hair softly
shadowing its temples! Poor troubled brain, wearying itself in idle
questioning of powers that heeded not!





CHAPTER V

MULTUM IN PARVO




Elgar's marriage had been a great success. For a year and a half,
for even more than that, he had lived the fullest and most
consistent life of which he was capable; what proportion of the sons
of men can look back on an equal span of time in their own existence
and say the same of it?

Life with Cecily gave predominance to all the noblest energies in
his nature. He loved with absolute sincerity; his ideal of womanhood
was for the time realized and possessed; the vagrant habit of his
senses seemed permanently subdued; his mind was occupied with high
admirations and creative fancies; in thought and speech he was
ardent, generous, constant, hopeful. A happy marriage can do no more
for man than make unshadowed revelation of such aspiring faculty as
he is endowed withal. It cannot supply him with a force greater than
he is born to; even as the happiest concurrence of healthful
circumstances cannot give more strength to a physical constitution
than its origin warrants. At this period of his life, Reuben Elgar
could not have been more than, with Cecily's help, he showed
himself. Be the future advance or retrogression, he had lived the
possible life.

Whose the fault that it did not continue? Cecily's, if it were
blameworthy to demand too much; Elgar's, if it be wrong to learn
one's own limitations.

His making definite choice of a subject whereon to employ his
intellect was at one and the same time a proof of how far his
development had progressed and a warning of what lay before him.
However chaotic the material in which he proposed to work, however
inadequate his powers, it was yet a truth that, could he execute
anything at all, it would be something of the kind thus vaguely
contemplated. His intellect was combative, and no subject excited it
to such activity as this of Hebraic constraint in the modern world.
Elgar's book, supposing him to have been capable of writing it,
would have resembled no other; it would have been, as he justly
said, unique in its anti-dogmatic passion. It was quite in the order
of things that he should propose to write it; equally so, that the
attempt should mark the end of his happiness.

For all that she seemed to welcome the proposal with enthusiasm,
Cecily's mind secretly misgave her. She had begun to understand
Reuben, and she foresaw, with a certainty which she in vain tried to
combat, how soon his energy would fail upon so great a task.
Impossible to admonish him; impossible to direct him on a humbler
path, where he might attain some result. With Reuben's temperament
to deal with, that would mean a fatal disturbance of their relations
to each other. That the disturbance must come in any case, now that
he was about to prove himself, she anticipated in many a troubled
moment, but would not let the forecast discourage her.

Elgar knew how his failure in perseverance affected her; he looked
for the signs of her disappointment, and was at no loss to find
them. it was natural to him to exaggerate the diminution of her
esteem; he attributed to her what, in her place, he would himself
have felt; he soon imagined that she had as good as ceased to love
him. He could not bear to be less in her eyes than formerly; a
jealous shame stung him, and at length made him almost bitter
against her.

In this way came about his extraordinary outbreak that night when
Cecily had been alone to her aunt's. Pent-up irritation drove him
into the extravagances which to Cecily were at first incredible. He
could not utter what was really in his mind, and the charges he made
against her were modes of relieving himself. Yet, as soon as they
had once taken shape, these rebukes obtained a real significance of
their own. Coincident with Cecily's disappointment in him had been
the sudden exhibition of her pleasure in society. Under other
circumstances, his wife's brilliancy among strangers might have been
pleasurable to Elgar. His faith in her was perfect, and jealousy of
the ignobler kind came not near him. But he felt that she was taking
refuge from the dulness of her home; he imagined people speaking of
him as "the husband of Mrs. Elgar;" it exasperated him to think of
her talking with clever men who must necessarily suggest comparisons
to her.

He himself was not the kind of man who shines in company. He had
never been trained to social usages, and he could not feel at ease
in any drawing-room but his own. The Bohemianism of his early life
had even given him a positive distaste for social obligations and
formalities. Among men of his own way of thinking, he could talk
vigorously, and as a rule keep the lead in conversation; but where
restraint in phrase was needful, he easily became flaccid, and the
feeling that he did not show to advantage filled him with disgust.
So there was little chance of his ever winning that sort of
reputation which would have enabled him to accompany his wife into
society without the galling sense of playing an inferior _role_.

In the matter of Mrs. Travis, he was conscious of his own
arbitrariness, but, having once committed himself to a point of
view, he could not withdraw from it. He had to find fault with his
wife and her society, and here was an obvious resource. Its very
obviousness should, of course, have warned him away, but his reason
for attacking Mrs. Travis had an intimate connection with the
general causes of his discontent. Disguise it how he might, he was
simply in the position of a husband who fears that his authority
over his wife is weakening. Mrs. Travis, as he knew, was a rebel
against her own husband--no matter the cause. She would fill
Cecily's mind with sympathetic indignation; the effect would be to
make Cecily more resolute in independence. Added to this, there was,
in truth, something of that conflict between theoretical and
practical morality of which his wife spoke. It developed in the
course of argument; he recognized that, whilst having all confidence
in Cecily, he could not reconcile himself to her associating with a
woman whose conduct was under discussion. The more he felt his
inconsistency, the more arbitrary he was compelled to be. Motives
confused themselves and harassed him. In his present mood, the
danger of such a state of things was greater than he knew, and of
quite another kind than Cecily was prepared for.

"What is all this about Mrs. Travis?" inquired Mrs. Lessingham, with
a smile, when she came to visit Cecily. Reuben was out, and the
ladies sat alone in the drawing-room.

Cecily explained what had happened, but in simple terms, and without
meaning to show that any difference of opinion had arisen between
her and Reuben.

"You have heard of it from Mrs. Travis herself?" she asked, in
conclusion.

"Yes. She expressed no resentment, however; spoke as if she thought
it a little odd, that was all. But what has Reuben got into his
head?"

"It seems he has heard unpleasant rumours about her."

"Then why didn't he come and speak to me? She is absolutely
blameless: I can answer for it. Her husband is the kind of man--
Did you ever read Fielding's 'Amelia'? To be sure; well, you
understand. I much doubt whether she is wise in leaving him; ten to
one, she'll go back again, and that is more demoralizing than
putting up with the other indignity. She has a very small income of
her own, and what is her life to be? Surely you are the last people
who should abandon her. That is the kind of thing that makes such a
woman desperate. She seems to have made a sort of appeal to you. I
am but moderately in her confidence, and I believe she hasn't one
bosom friend. It's most fortunate that Reuben took such a whim. Send
him to me, will you?"

Cecily made known this request to her husband, and there followed
another long dialogue between them, the only result of which was to
increase their mutual coldness. Cecily proposed that they should at
once leave town, instead of waiting for the end of the season; in
this way all their difficulties would be obviated. Elgar declined
the proposal; he had no desire to spoil her social pleasures.

"That is already done, past help," Cecily rejoined, with the first
note of bitterness. "I no longer care to visit, nor to receive
guests."

"I noticed the other day your ingenuity in revenging yourself."

"I say nothing but the simple truth. Had you rather I went out and
enjoyed myself without any reference to your wishes?"

"From the first you made up your mind to misunderstand me," said
Reuben, with the common evasion of one who cannot defend his course.

Cecily brought the dispute to an end by her silence. The next
morning Reuben went to see Mrs. Lessingham, and heard what she had
to say about Mrs. Travis.

"What is your evidence against her?" she inquired, after a little
banter.

"Some one who knows Travis very well assured me that the fault was
not all on his side."

"Of course. It is more to the point to hear what those have to say
who know his wife, Surely you acted with extraordinary haste."

With characteristic weakness, Elgar defended himself by detailing
the course of events. It was not he who had been precipitate, but
Cecily; he was never more annoyed than when he heard of that foolish
letter.

"Go home and persuade her to write another," said Mrs. Lessingham.
"Let her confess that there was a misunderstanding. I am sure Mrs.
Travis will accept it. She has a curious character; very sensitive,
and very impulsive, but essentially trustful and warm-hearted. You
should have heard the pathetic surprise with which she told me of
Cecily's letter."

"I should rather have imagined her speaking contemptuously."

"It would have been excusable," replied the other, with a laugh.
"And very likely that would have been her tone had it concerned any
one else. But she has a liking for Cecily. Go home, and get this
foolish mistake remedied, there's a good boy."

Elgar left the house and walked eastward, into Praed Street. As he
walked, he grew less and less inclined to go home at once. He could
not resolve how to act. It would be a satisfaction to have done with
discord, but he had no mind to submit to Cecily and entreat her to a
peace.

He walked on, across Edgware Road, into Marylebone Road, absorbed in
his thoughts. Their complexion became darker. He found a perverse
satisfaction in picturing Cecily's unhappiness. Let her suffer a
little; she was causing _him_ uneasiness enough. The probability was
that she derided his recent behaviour; it had doubtless sunk him
still more in her estimation. The only way to recover his lost
ground was to be as open with her as formerly, to confess all his
weaknesses and foolish motives; but his will resisted. He felt
coldly towards her; she was no longer the woman he loved and
worshipped, but one who had asserted a superiority of mind and
character, and belittled him to himself. He was tired of her
society--the simple formula which sufficiently explains so many
domestic troubles.

He would have lunch somewhere in town; then see whether he felt
disposed to go home or not.

In the afternoon he loitered about the Strand, looking at portraits
in shop-windows and at the theatre-doors. Home was more, instead of
less, repugnant to him. He wanted to postpone decision; but if he
returned to Cecily, it would be necessary to say something, and in
his present mood he would be sure to make matters worse, for he felt
quarrelsome. How absurd it was for two people, just because they
were married, to live perpetually within sight of each other! Wasn't
it Godwin who, on marrying, made an arrangement that he and his wife
should inhabit separate abodes, and be together only when they
wished? The only rational plan, that. Should he take train and go
out of town for a few days? If only he had some one for company; but
it was wearisome to spend the time in solitude.

To aggravate his dulness, the sky had clouded over, and presently it
began to rain. He had no umbrella. Quite unable to determine whither
he should go if he took a cab, he turned aside to the shelter of an
archway. Some one was already standing there, but in his abstraction
he did not know whether it was man or woman, until a little cough,
twice or thrice repeated, made him turn his eyes. Then he saw that
his companion was a girl of about five-and-twenty, with a pretty,
good-natured face, which wore an embarrassed smile. He gazed at her
with a look of surprised recognition.

"Well, it really _is_ you!" she exclaimed, laughing and looking
down.

"And it is really _you_!"

They shook hands, again examining each other.

"I thought you didn't mean to know me."

"I hadn't once looked at you. But you have changed a good deal."

"Not more than you have, I'm sure."

"And what are you doing? You look much more cheerful than you used
to."

"I can't say the same of you."

"Have you been in London all the time?"

"Oh no. Two years ago I went back to Liverpool, and had a place
there for nearly six months. But I got tired of it. In a few days
I'm going to Brighton; I've got a place in a restaurant. Quite time,
too; I've had nothing for seven weeks."

"I've often thought about you," said Elgar, after a pause.

"But you never came to see how I was getting on."

"Oh, I supposed you were married long since."

She laughed, and shook her head.

"You are, though, I suppose?" she asked.

"Not I!"

They talked with increasing friendliness until the rain stopped,
then walked away together in the direction of the City.

About dinner-time, Cecily received a telegram. It was from her
husband, and informed her that he had left town with a friend for a
day or two.

This was the first instance of such a proceeding on Reuben's part.
For a moment, it astonished her. Which of his friends could it be?
But when the surprise had passed, she reflected more on his reasons
for absenting himself, and believed that she understood them. He
wished to punish her; he thought she would be anxious about him, and
so come to adopt a different demeanour when he returned. Ever so
slight a suspicion of another kind occurred to her once or twice,
but she had no difficulty in dismissing it. No; this was merely one
of his tactics in the conflict that had begun between them

And his absence was a relief. She too wanted to think for a while,
undisturbed. When she had seen the child bed and asleep, she moved
about the house with a strange sense of freedom, seeming to breathe
more naturally than for several days. She went to the piano, and
played some favourite pieces, among them one which she had learnt
long ago in Paris. It gave her a curiously keen pleasure, like a
revival of her girlhood; she lingered over it, and nursed the
impression. Then she read a little--not continuously, but dipping
into familiar books. It was holiday with her. And when she lay down
to rest, the sense of being alone was still grateful. Sleep came
very soon, and she did not stir till morning.

On the third day Elgar returned, at noon. She heard the cab that
brought him. He lingered in the hall, opened the library door; then
came to the drawing-room, humming an air. His look was as different
as could be from that she had last seen on his face; he came towards
her with his pleasantest smile, and first kissed her hand, then
embraced her in the old way.

"You haven't been anxious about me, Ciss?"

"Not at all," she replied quietly, rather permitting his caresses
than encouraging them.

"Some one I hadn't met for several years. He was going down to
Brighton, and persuaded me to accompany him. I didn't write
because--well, I thought it would be better if we kept quite apart
for a day or two. Things were getting wrong, weren't they?"

"I'm afraid so. But how are they improved?"

"Why, I had a talk with your aunt about Mrs. Travis. I quite believe
I was misled by that fellow that talked scandal. She seems very much
to be pitied, and I'm really sorry that I caused you to break with
her."

Cecily watched him as he spoke, and he avoided her eyes. He was
holding her hands and fondling them; now he bent and put them to his
lips. She said nothing.

"Suppose you write to her, Ciss, and say that I made a fool of
myself. You're quite at liberty to do so. Tell her exactly how it
was, and ask her to forgive us."

She did not answer immediately.

"Will you do that?"

"I feel ashamed to. I know very well how _I_ should receive such a
letter."

"Oh, you! But every one hasn't your superb arrogance!" He laughed.
"And it's hard to imagine you in such a situation."

"I hope so."

"Aunt tells me that the poor woman has very few friends."

"It's very unlikely that she will ever make one of me. I don't see
how it is possible, after this."

"But write the letter, just to make things simpler if you meet
anywhere. As a piece of justice, too."

Not that day, but the following, Cecily decided herself to write.
She could only frame her excuse in the way Reuben had suggested;
necessarily the blame lay on him. The composition cost her a long
time, though it was only two pages of note-paper; and when it was
despatched, she could not think without hot cheeks of its recipient
reading it She did not greatly care for Mrs. Travis's intimacy, but
she did desire to remove from herself the imputation of
censoriousness.

There came an answer in a day or two.

"I was surprised that you (or Mr. Elgar) should so readily believe
ill of me, but I am accustomed to such judgments, and no longer
resent them. A wife is always in the wrong; when a woman marries,
she should prepare herself for this. Or rather, her friends should
prepare her, as she has always been kept in celestial ignorance by
their care. Pray let us forget what has happened. I won't renew my
request to be allowed to visit you; if that is to be, it will
somehow come to pass naturally, in the course of time. If we meet at
Mrs. Lessingham's, please let us speak not a word of this affair. I
hate scenes."

In a week's time, the Elgars' life had resumed the course it held
before that interruption--with the exception that Reuben, as often
as it was possible, avoided accompanying his wife when she went from
home. His own engagements multiplied, and twice before the end of
July he spent Saturday and Sunday out of town. Cecily made no close
inquiries concerning his employment of his time; on their meeting
again, he always gave her an account of what he had been doing, and
she readily accepted it. For she had now abandoned all hope of his
doing serious work; she never spoke a word which hinted regret at
his mode of life. They were on placid terms, and she had no such
faith in anything better as would justify her in endangering the
recovered calm.

It became necessary at length to discuss what they should do with
themselves during the autumn. Mrs. Lessingham was going with friends
to the Pyrenees. The Delphs would take a short holiday in Sussex;
Irene could not spare much time from her work.

"I don't care to be away long myself," Reuben said, when Cecily
mentioned this. "I feel as if I should be able to get on with my
Puritanic pursuits again when we return."

Cecily looked at him, to see if he spoke in earnest. In spite of his
jesting tone, he seemed to be serious, for he was pacing the floor,
his head bent as if in meditation.

"Make your own plans," was her reply. "But we won't go into
Cornwall, I think."

"No, not this year."

They spent a month at Eastbourne. Some agreeable people whom they
were accustomed to meet at Mrs. Lessingham's had a house there, and
supplied them with society. Towards the end of the month, Reuben
grew restless and uncertain of temper; he wandered on the downs by
himself, and when at home kept silence. The child, too, was
constantly ailing, and its cry irritated him.

"The fact of the matter is," he exclaimed one evening, "I don't feel
altogether well! I ought to have had more change than this. If I go
back and settle to work, I shall break down."

"What kind of change do you wish for?" Cecily asked.

"I should have liked to take a ramble in Germany, or, Norway--some
new part. But nothing of that is possible. Clarence makes slaves of
us."

Cecily reflected.

"There's no reason why he should hinder you from going."

"Oh, I can't leave you alone," he returned impatiently.

"I think you might, for a few weeks--if you feel it necessary. I
don't think Clarence ought to leave the seaside till the middle of
September. The Robinsons will be here still, you know."

He muttered and grumbled, but in the end proposed that he should go
over by one of the Harwich boats, and take what course happened to
attract him. Cecily assented, and in a few hours he was ready to bid
her good-bye. She had said that it wasn't worth while going with him
to the station, and when he gave her the kiss at starting she kept
perfectly tranquil.

"You're not sorry to get rid of me," he said, with a forced laugh.

"I don't wish you to stay at the expense of your health."

"I hope Clarence mayn't damage yours. These sleepless nights are
telling on you."

"Go. You'll miss the train."

He looked back from the door, but Cecily had turned away.

He was absent for more than six weeks, during which he wrote
frequently from various out-of-the-way places on the Rhine. On
returning, he found Cecily in London, very anxious about the child,
and herself looking very ill. He, on the other hand, was robust and
in excellent spirits; in a day or two he began to go regularly to
the British Museum--to say, at all events, that he went there. And
so time passed to the year's end.

One night in January Reuben went to the theatre. He left Cecily
sitting in the bedroom, by the fireside, with Clarence on her lap.
For several weeks the child had been so ill that Cecily seldom
quitted it.

Three hours later she was sitting in the same position, still bent
forward, the child still on her lap. But no movement, no cry ever
claimed her attention. Tears had stained her face, but they no
longer fell. Holding a waxen little hand that would never again
caress her, she gazed at the dying fire as though striving to read
her destiny.





CHAPTER VI

AT PAESTUM




The English artist had finished his work, and the dirty little inn
at Paestum would to-day lose its solitary guest.

This morning he rose much later than usual, and strolled out idly
into the spring sunshine, a rug thrown over his shoulder. Often
plucking a flower or a leaf, and seeming to examine it with close
thoughtfulness, he made a long circuit by the old walls; now and
then he paused to take a view of the temples, always with eye of
grave meditation. At one elevated point, he stood for several
minutes looking along the road to Salerno.

March rains had brought the vegetation into luxurious life; fern,
acanthus, brambles, and all the densely intermingled growths that
cover the ground about the ruins, spread forth their innumerable
tints of green. Between shore and mountains, the wide plain smiled
in its desolation.

At length he went up into the Temple of Neptune, spread the rug on a
spot where he had been accustomed, each day at noon, to eat his
salame and drink his Calabrian wine, and seated himself against a
column. Here he could enjoy a view from both ends of the ruin. In
the one direction it was only a narrow strip of sea, with the barren
coast below, and the cloudless sky above it; in the other, a purple
valley, rising far away on the flank of the Apennines; both pictures
set between Doric pillars. He lit a cigar, and with a smile of
contented thought abandoned himself to the delicious warmth, the
restful silence. Within reach of his hand was a fern that had shot
up between the massive stones; be gently caressed its fronds, as
though it were a sentient creature. Or his eyes dwelt upon the huge
column just in front of him--now scanning its superb proportions,
now enjoying the hue of the sunny-golden travertine, now observing
the myriad crevices of its time-eaten surface, the petrified forms
of vegetable growth, the little pink snails that housed within its
chinks.

It was not an artistic impulse only that had brought Mallard to
Italy, after three years of work under northern skies. He wished to
convince himself that his freedom was proof against memories revived
on the very ground where he had suffered so intensely. He had put
aside repeated invitations from the Spences, because of the doubt
whether he could trust himself within sight of the Mediterranean.
Liberty from oppressive thought he had long recovered; the old zeal
for labour was so strong in him that he found it difficult to
imagine the mood in which he had bidden good-bye to his life's
purposes. But there was always the danger lest that witch of the
south should again overcome his will and lull him into impotence of
vain regret. For such a long time he had believed that Italy was for
ever closed against him, that the old delights were henceforth
converted into a pain which memory must avoid. At length he resolved
to answer his friends' summons, and meet them on their return from
Sicily. They had wished to have him with them in Greece, but always
his departure was postponed; habits of solitude and characteristic
diffidence kept him aloof as long as possible.

Evidently, his health was sound enough. He had loitered about the
familiar places in Naples; he took the road by Pompeii to Sorrento,
and over the hills to Amalfi; and at each step he could smile with
contemptuous pity for the self which he had outlived. More than
that. When he came hither three years ago, it was with the intention
of doing certain definite work; this purpose he now at last
fulfilled, thus completing his revenge upon the by-gone obstacles,
and reinstating himself in his own good opinion, as a man who did
that which he set himself to do. At Amalfi he had made a number of
studies which would be useful; at Paestum he had worked towards a
picture, such a one as had from the first been in his mind. Yes, he
was a sound man once more.

Tempestuous love is for boys, who have still to know themselves, and
for poets, who can turn their suffering into song. But to him it
meant only hindrance. Because he had been a prey to frantic desires,
did he look upon earth's beauty with a clearer eye, or was his hand
endowed with subtler craft? He saw no reason to suppose it. The
misery of those first months of northern exile--his battling with
fierce winds on sea and moorland and mountain, his grim vigils under
stormy stars--had it given him new strength? Of body perhaps;
otherwise, he might have spent the time with decidedly more of
satisfaction and profit.

Let it be accepted as one of the unavoidable ills of humanity--
something that has to be gone through, like measles. But it had come
disagreeably late. No doubt he had to thank the monastic habits of
his life that it assailed him with such violence. That he had
endured it, therein lay the happy assurance that it would not again
trouble him.

If it be true that love ever has it in its power to make or mar a
man, this love that he had experienced was assuredly not of such
quality. From the first his reason had opposed it, and now that it
was all over he tried to rejoice at the circumstances which had made
his desire vain. Herein he went a little beyond sincerity; yet there
were arguments which, at all events, fortified his wish to see that
everything was well. It was not mere perversity that in the
beginning had warned him against thinking of Cecily as a possible
wife for him. Had she betrayed the least inclination to love him,
such considerations would have gone to the winds; he would have
called the gods to witness that the one perfect woman on the earth
was his. But the fact of her passionate self-surrender to Reuben
Elgar, did it not prove that the possibilities of her nature were
quite other than those which could have assured _his_ happiness? To
be sure, so young a girl is liable to wretched errors--but of that
he would take no account; against that he resolutely closed his
mind. From Edward Spence he heard that she was delighting herself
and others in a London season. Precisely; this justified his
forethought; for this she was adapted. But as his wife nothing of
the kind would have been within her scope. He knew him self too
well. His notion of married life was inconsistent with that kind of
pleasure. As his wife, perhaps she would have had no desire save to
fit herself to him. Possibly; but that again was a reflection not to
be admitted. He had only to deal with facts. Sufficient that he
could think of her without a pang, that he could even hope to meet
her again before long. And, best of all, no ungenerous feeling ever
tempted him to wish her anything but wholly happy.

Stretched lazily in the Temple of Neptune, he once or twice looked
at his watch, as though the hour in some way concerned him. How it
did was at length shown. He heard voices approaching, and had just
time to rise to his feet before there appeared figures, rising
between the columns of the entrance against the background of hills.
He moved forward, a bright smile on his face. The arrivals were
Edward Spence, with his wife and Mrs. Baske.

All undemonstrative people, they shook hands much as if they had
parted only a week ago.

"Done your work?" asked Spence, laying his palm on one of the
pillars, with affectionate greeting.

"All I can do here."

"Can we see it?" Eleanor inquired.

"I've packed it for travelling."

Mallard took the first opportunity of looking with scrutiny at Mrs.
Baske. Alone of the three, she was changed noticeably. Her health
had so much improved that, if anything, she looked younger;
certainly her face had more distinct beauty. Reserve and conscious
dignity were still its characteristics--these were inseparable
from the mould of feature; but her eyes no longer had the somewhat
sullen gleam which had been wont to harm her aspect, and when she
smiled it was without the hint of disdainful reticence. Yet the
smile was not frequent; her lips had an habitual melancholy, and
very often she knitted her brows in an expression of troubled
thought. Whilst the others were talking with Mallard, she kept
slightly in the rear, and seemed to be occupied in examining the
different parts of the temple.

In attire she was transformed. No suggestion now of the lady from
provincial England. She was very well, because most fittingly,
dressed; neither too youthfully, nor with undue disregard of the
fact that she was still young; a travelling-costume apt to the
season and the country.

"They speak much of Signor Mal-lard at the osteria," said Spence.
"Your departure afflicts them, naturally, no doubt. Do you know
whether any other Englishman ever braved that accommodation?"

A country lad appeared, carrying a small hamper, wherein the party
had brought their midday meal from Salerno.

"Why did you trouble?" said Mallard. "We have cheese and salame in
abundance."

"So I supposed," Spence replied, drily. "I recall the quality of
both. Also the _vino di Calabria_, which is villanously sweet. Show
us what point of view you chose."

For an hour they walked and talked. Miriam alone was almost silent,
but she paid constant attention to the ruins. Mallard heard her say
something to Eleanor about the difference between the columns of the
middle temple and those of the so-called Basilica; three years ago,
such a remark would have been impossible on her lips, and when he
glanced at her with curiosity, she seemed conscious of his look.

They at length opened the hamper, and seated themselves near the
spot where Mallard had been reclining.

"There's a smack of profanity in this," said Spence. "The least we
can do is to pour a libation to Poseidon, before we begin the meal."

And he did so, filling a tumbler with wine arid solemnly emptying
half of it on to the floor of the _cella_. Mallard watched the
effect on Mrs. Baske; she met his look for an instant and smiled,
then relapsed into thoughtfulness.

The only other visitors to-day were a couple of Germans, who looked
like artists and went about in enthusiastic talk; one kept dealing
the other severe blows on the chest, which occasionally made the
recipient stagger--all in pure joy and friendship. They measured
some of the columns, and in one place, for a special piece of
observation, the smaller man mounted on his companion's shoulders.
Miriam happened to see them whilst they were thus posed, and the
spectacle struck her with such ludicrous effect that she turned away
to disguise sudden laughter. In doing so, she by chance faced
Mallard, and he too began to laugh. For the first time since they
had been acquainted, they looked into each other's eyes with frank,
hearty merriment. Miriam speedily controlled herself, and there came
a flush to her cheeks.

"You may laugh," said Spence, observing them, "but when did you see
two Englishmen abroad who did themselves so much honour?"

"True enough," replied Mallard. "One supposes that Englishmen with
brains are occasionally to be found in Italy, but I don't know where
they hide themselves."

"You will meet one in Rome in a few days," remarked Eleanor, "if you
go on with us--as I hope you intend to?"

"Yes, I shall go with you to Rome. Who is the man?"

"Mr. Seaborne--your most reverent admirer."

"Ah, I should like to know the fellow."

Miriam looked at him and smiled.

"You know Mr. Seaborne?" he inquired of her, abruptly.

"He was with us a fortnight in Athens."

As they were idling about, after their lunch, Mallard kept near to
Miriam, but without speaking. He saw her stoop to pick up a piece of
stone; presently another. She glanced at him.

"Bits of Paestum," he said, smiling; "perhaps of Poseidonia. Look at
the field over there, where the oxen are; they have walled it in
with fragments dug up out of the earth,--the remnants of a city."

She just bent her head, in sign of sympathy. A minute or two after,
she held out to him the two stones she had taken up.

"How cold one is, and how warm the other!"

One was marble, one travertine. Mallard held them for a moment, and
smiled assent; then gave them back to her. She threw them away.

When it was time to think of departure, they went to the inn;
Mallard's baggage was brought out and put into the carriage. They
drove across the silent plain towards Salerno. In a pause of his
conversation with Spence, Mallard drew Miriam's attention to the
unfamiliar shape of Capri, as seen from this side of the Sorrento
promontory. She looked, and murmured an affirmative.

"You have been to Amalfi?" he asked.

"Yes; we went last year."

"I hope you hadn't such a day as your brother and I spent there--
incessant pouring rain."

"No; we had perfect weather."

At Salerno they caught a train which enabled them to reach Naples
late in the evening. Mallard accompanied his friends to their hotel,
and dined with them. As he and Spence were smoking together
afterwards, the latter communicated some news which he had reserved
for privacy.

"By-the-bye, we hear that Cecily and her aunt are at Florence, and
are coming to Rome next week."

"Elgar with them?" Mallard asked, with nothing more than friendly
interest.

"No. They say he is so hard at work that he couldn't leave London."

"What work?"

"The same I told you of last year."

Mallard regarded him with curious inquiry.

"His wife travels for her health?"

"She seems to be all right again, but Mrs. Lessingham judged that a
change was necessary. Won't you use the opportunity of meeting her?"

"As it comes naturally, there's no reason why I shouldn't. In fact,
I shall be glad to see her. But I should have preferred to meet them
both together. What faith do you put in this same work of Elgar's?"

"That he _is_ working, I take it there can be no doubt, and I await
the results with no little curiosity. Mrs. Lessingham writes
vaguely, which, by-the-bye, is not her habit. Whether she is a
believer or not, we can't determine."

"Did the child's death affect him much?"

"I know nothing about it."

They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Then Mallard observed,
without taking the cigar from his lips:

"How much better Mrs. Baske looks!"

"Naturally the change is more noticeable to you than to us. It has
come very slowly. I dare say you see other changes as well?"

Spence's eye twinkled as he spoke.

"I was prepared for them. That she should stay abroad with you all
this time is in itself significant. Where does she propose to live
when you are back in England?"

"Why, there hasn't been a word said on the subject. Eleanor is
waiting; doesn't like to ask questions. We shall have our house in
Chelsea again, and she is very welcome to share it with us if she
likes. I think it is certain she won't go back to Lancashire; and
the notion of her living with the Elgars is improbable."

"How far does the change go?" inquired Mallard, with hesitancy.

"I can't tell you, for we are neither of us in her confidence. But
she is no longer a precisian. She has read a great deal; most of it
reading of a very substantial kind. Not at all connected with
religion; it would be a mistake to suppose that she has been going
in for a course of modern criticism, and that kind of thing. The
Greek and Latin authors she knows very fairly, in English or French
translations. What would our friend Bradshaw say? She has grappled
with whole libraries of solid historians. She knows the Italian
poets Really, no common case of a woman educating herself at that
age."

"Would you mind telling me what her age is?"

"Twenty-seven, last February. To-day she has been mute; generally,
when we are in interesting places, she rather likes to show her
knowledge--of course we encourage her to do so. A blessed form of
vanity, compared with certain things one remembers!"

"She looks as if she had by no means conquered peace of mind,"
observed Mallard, after another silence.

"I don't suppose she has. I don't even know whether she's on the way
to it."

"How about the chapel at Bartles?"

Spence shook his head and laughed, and the dialogue came to an end.

The next morning all started for Rome.





CHAPTER VII

LEARNING AND TEACHING




Easter was just gone by. The Spences had timed their arrival in Rome
so as to be able to spend a few days with certain friends,
undisturbed by bell-clanging and the rush of trippers, before at
length returning to England. Their hotel was in the Babuino.
Mallard, who was uncertain about his movements during the next month
or two, went to quarters with which he was familiar in the Via Bocca
di Leone. He brought his Paestum picture to the hotel, but declined
to leave it there. Mallard was deficient in those properties of the
showman which are so necessary to an artist if he would make his
work widely known and sell it for substantial sums; he hated
anything like private exhibition, and dreaded an offer to purchase
from any one who had come in contact with him by way of friendly
introduction.

"I'm not satisfied with it, now I come to look at it again. It's
nothing but a rough sketch."

"But Seaborne will be here this afternoon," urged Spence. "He will
be grateful if you let him see it."

"If he cares to come to my room, he shall."

Miriam made no remark on the picture, but kept looking at it as long
as it was uncovered. The temples stood in the light of early
morning, a wonderful, indescribable light, perfectly true and
rendered with great skill.

"Is it likely to be soon sold?" she asked, when the artist had gone
off with his canvas.

"As likely as not, he'll keep it by him for a year or two, till he
hates it for a few faults that no one else can perceive or be taught
to understand," was Mr. Spence's reply. "I wish I could somehow
become possessed of it. But if I hinted such a wish, he would insist
on my taking it as a present. An impracticable fellow, Mallard. He
suspects I want to sell it for him; that's why he won't leave it.
And if Seaborne goes to his room, ten to one he'll be received with
growls of surly independence."

This Mr. Seaborne was a man of letters. Spence had made his
acquaintance in Rome a year ago; they conversed casually in Piale's
reading-room, and Seaborne happened to say that the one English
landscape-painter who strongly interested him was a little-known
man, Ross Mallard. His own work was mostly anonymous; he wrote for
one of the quarterlies and one of the weekly reviews. He was a
little younger than Mallard, whom in certain respects he resembled;
he had much the same way of speaking, the same reticence with regard
to his own doings, even a slight similarity of feature, and his life
seemed to be rather a lonely one.

When the two met, they behaved precisely as Spence predicted they
would--with reserve, almost with coldness. For all that, Seaborne
paid a visit to the artist's room, and in a couple of hours' talk
they arrived at a fair degree of mutual understanding. The next day
they smoked together in an odd abode occupied by the literary man
near Porto di Ripetta, and thenceforth were good friends.

The morning after that, Mallard went early to the Vatican. He
ascended the Scala Regia, and knocked at the little red door over
which is written, "Cappella Sistina." On entering, he observed only
a gentleman and a young girl, who stood in the middle of the floor,
consulting their guide-book; but when be had taken a few steps
forward, he saw a lady come from the far end and seat herself to
look at the ceiling through an opera-glass. It was Mrs. Baske, and
he approached whilst she was still intent on the frescoes. The
pausing of his footstep close to her caused her to put down the
glass and regard him. Mallard noticed the sudden change from cold
remoteness of countenance to pleased recognition. The brightening in
her eyes was only for a moment; then she smiled in her usual
half-absent way, and received him formally.

"You are not alone?" he said, taking a place by her as she resumed
her seat.

"Yes, I have come alone." And, after a pause, she added, "We don't
think it necessary always to keep together. That would become
burdensome. I often leave them, and go to places by myself."

Her look was still turned upwards. Mallard followed its direction.

"Which of the Sibyls is your favourite?" he asked.

At once she indicated the Delphic, but without speaking.

"Mine too."

Both fixed their eyes upon the figure, and were silent.

"You have been here very often?" were Mallard's next words.

"Last year very often."

"From genuine love of it, or a sense of duty?" he asked, examining
her face.

She considered before replying.

"Not only from a sense of duty, though of course I have felt that. I
don't _love_ anything of Michael Angelo's, but I am compelled to
look and study. I came here this morning only to refresh my memory
of one of those faces"--she pointed to the lower part of the Last
Judgment--"and yet the face is dreadful to me."

She found that he was smiling, and abruptly she added the question:

"Do you love that picture?"

"Why, no; but I often delight in it. I wouldn't have it always
before me (for that matter, no more would I have the things that I
love). A great work of art may be painful at all times, and
sometimes unendurable."

"I have learnt to understand that," she said, with something of
humility, which came upon Mallard as new and agreeable. "But--it
is not long since that scene represented a reality to me. I think I
shall never see it as you do."

Mallard wished to look at her, but did not.

"I have sometimes been repelled by a feeling of the same kind," he
answered. "Not that I myself ever thought of it as a reality, but I
have felt angry and miserable in remembering that a great part of
the world does. You see the pretty girl there, with her father. I
noticed her awed face as I passed, and heard a word or two of the
man's, which told me that from them there was no question of art.
Poor child! I should have liked to pat her hand, and tell her to be
good and have no fear."

"Did Michael Angelo believe it?" Miriam asked diffidently, when she
had glanced with anxious eyes at the pair of whom he spoke.

"I suppose so. And yet I am far from sure. What about Dante? Haven't
you sometimes stumbled over his grave assurances that this and that
did really befall him? Putting aside the feeble notion that he was a
deluded visionary, how does one reconcile the artist's management of
his poem with the Christian's stem faith? In any case, he was more
poet than Christian when he wrote. Milton makes no such claims; he
merely prays for the enlightenment of his imagination."

Miriam turned from the great fresco, and again gazed at the Sibyls
and Prophets.

"Do the Stanze interest you?" was Mallard's next question.

"Very little, I am sorry to say. They soon weary me."

"And the Loggia?"

"I never paid much attention to it."

"That surprises me. Those little pictures are my favourites of all
Raphael's work. For those and the Psyche, I would give everything
else."

Miriam looked at him inquiringly.

"Are you again thinking of the subjects?" he asked.

"Yes. I can't help it. I have avoided them, because I knew how
impossible it was for me to judge them only as art."

"Then you have the same difficulty with nearly all Italian
pictures?"

She hesitated; but, without turning her eyes to him, said at length:

"I can't easily explain to you the distinction there is for me
between the Old Testament and the New. I was taught almost
exclusively out of the Old--at least, it seems so to me. I have
had to study the New for myself, and it helps rather than hinders my
enjoyment of pictures taken from it. The religion of my childhood
was one of bitterness and violence and arbitrary judgment and
hatred."

"Ah, but there is quite another side to the Old Testament--those
parts of it, at all events, that are illustrated up in the Loggia.
Will you come up there with me?"

She rose without speaking. They left the chapel, and ascended the
stairs.

"You are not under the impression," he said, with a smile, as they
walked side by side, "that the Old Testament is responsible for
those horrors we have just been speaking of?"

"They are in _that_ spirit. My reading of the New omits everything
of the kind."

"So does mine. But we have no justification."

"We can select what is useful to us, and reject what does harm."

"Yes; but then--"

He did not finish the sentence, and they went into the pictured
Loggia. Here, choosing out his favourites, Mallard endeavoured to
explain all his joy in them. He showed her how it was Hebrew history
made into a series of exquisite and touching legends; he dwelt on
the sweet, idyllic treatment, the lovely landscape, the tender
idealism throughout, the perfect adaptedness of gem-like colouring.

Miriam endeavoured to see with his eyes, but did not pretend to be
wholly successful. The very names were discordant to her ear.

"I will buy some photographs of them to take away," she said.

"Don't do that; they are useless. Colour and design are here
inseparable."

They stayed not more than half an hour; then left the Vatican
together, and walked to the front of St. Peter's in silence. Mallard
looked at his watch.

"You are going back to the hotel?"

"I suppose so."

"Shall I call one of those carriages?--I am going to have a walk
on to the Janiculum."

She glanced at the sky.

"There will be a fine view to-day."

"You wouldn't care to come so far?"

"Yes, I should enjoy the walk."

"To walk? It would tire you too much."

"Oh no!" replied Miriam, looking away and smiling. "You mustn't
think I am what I was that winter at Naples. I can walk a good many
miles, and only feel better for it."

Her tone amused him, for it became something like that of a child in
self-defence when accused of some childlike incapacity.

"Then let us go, by all means."

They turned into the Borgo San Spirito, and then went by the quiet
Longara. Mallard soon found that it was necessary to moderate his
swinging stride. He was not in the habit of walking with ladies, and
he felt ashamed of himself when a glance told him that his companion
was put to overmuch exertion. The glance led him to observe Miriam's
gait; its grace and refinement gave him a sudden sensation of keen
pleasure. He thought, without wishing to do so, of Cecily; her
matchless, maidenly charm in movement was something of quite another
kind. Mrs. Baske trod the common earth, yet with, it seemed to him,
a dignity that distinguished her from ordinary women.

There had been silence for a long time. They were alike in the
custom of forgetting what had last been said, or how long since.

"Do you care for sculpture?" Mallard asked, led to the inquiry by
his thoughts of form and motion.

"Yes; but not so much as for painting."

He noticed a reluctance in her voice, and for a moment was quite
unconscious of the reason for it. But reflection quickly explained
her slight embarrassment.

"Edward makes it one of his chief studies," she added at once,
looking straight before her. "He has told me what to read about it."

Mallard let the subject fall. But presently they passed a yoke of
oxen drawing a cart, and, as he paused to look at them, he said:

"Don't you like to watch those animals? I can never be near them
without stopping. Look at their grand heads, their horns, their
majestic movement! They always remind me of the antique--of
splendid power fixed in marble, These are the kind of oxen that
Homer saw, and Virgil."

Miriam gazed, but said nothing.

"Does your silence mean that you can't sympathize with me?"

"No. It means that you have given me a new way of looking at a
thing; and I have to think."

She paused; then, with a curious inflection of her voice, as though
she were not quite certain of the tone she wished to strike, whether
playful or sarcastic:

"You wouldn't prefer me to make an exclamation?"

He laughed.

"Decidedly not. If you were accustomed to do so, I should not be
expressing my serious thoughts."

The pleasant mood continued with him, and, a smile still on his
face, he asked presently:

"Do you remember telling me that you thought I was wasting my life
on futilities?"

Miriam flushed, and for an instant he thought he had offended her.
But her reply corrected this impression.

"You admitted, I think, that there was much to be said for my view."

"Did I? Well, so there is. But the same conviction may be reached by
very different paths. If we agreed in that one result, I fancy it
was the sole and singular point of concord."

Miriam inquired diffidently:

"Do you still think of most things just as you did then?"

"Of most things, yes."

"You have found no firmer hope in which to work?"

"Hope? I am not sure that I understand you."

He looked her in the face, and she said hurriedly:

"Are you still as far as ever from satisfying yourself? Does your
work bring you nothing but a comparative satisfaction?"

"I am conscious of having progressed an inch or two on the way of
infinity," Mallard replied. "That brings me no nearer to an end."

"But you _have_ a purpose; you follow it steadily. It is much to be
able to say that."

"Do you mean it for consolation?"

"Not in any sense that you need resent," Miriam gave answer, a
little coldly.

"I felt no resentment. But I should like to know what sanction of a
life's effort you look for, now? We talked once, perhaps you
remember, of one kind of work being 'higher' than another. How do
you think now on that subject?"

She made delay before saying:

"It is long since I thought of it at all. I have been too busy
learning the simplest things to trouble about the most difficult."

"To learn, then, has been _your_ object all this time. Let me
question you in turn. Do you find it all-sufficient?"

"No; because I have begun too late. I am doing now what I ought to
have done when I was a girl, and I have always the feeling of being
behindhand."

"But the object, in itself, quite apart from your progress? Is it
enough to study a variety of things, and feel that you make some
progress towards a possible ideal of education? Does this suffice to
your life?"

She answered confusedly:

"I can't know yet; I can't see before me clearly enough."

Mallard was on the point of pressing the question, but he refrained,
and shaped his thought in a different way.

"Do you think of remaining in England?"

"Probably I shall."

"You will return to your home in Lancashire?"

"I haven't yet determined," she replied formally.

The dialogue seemed to be at an end. Unobservant of each other, they
reached the Via Crucis, which leads up to S. Pietro in Montorio.
Arrived at the terrace, they stood to look down on Rome.

"After all, you are tired," said Mallard, when he had glanced at
her.

"Indeed I am not."

"But you are hungry. We have been forgetting that it is
luncheon-time."

"I pay little attention to such hours. One can always get something
to eat."

"It's all very well for people like myself to talk in that way,"
said Mallard, with a smile, "but women have orderly habits of life."

"For which you a little despise them?" she returned, with grave face
fixed on the landscape.

"Certainly not. It's only that I regard their life as wholly
different from my own. Since I was a boy, I have known nothing of
domestic regularity."

"You sometimes visit your relatives?"

"Yes. But their life cannot he mine. It is domestic in such a degree
that it only serves to remind me how far apart I am."

"Do you hold that an artist cannot live like other people, in the
habits of home?"

"I think such habits are a danger to him. He _may_ find a home, if
fate is exceptionally kind."

Pointing northwards to a ridged hill on the horizon, he asked in
another voice if she knew its name.

"You mean Mount Soracte?"

"Yes. You don't know Latin, or it would make you quote Horace."

She shook her head, looked down, and spoke more humbly than he had
ever yet heard her.

"But I know it in an English translation."

"Well, that's more than most women do."

He said it in a grudging way. The remark itself was scarcely civil,
but he seemed all at once to have a pleasure in speaking roughly, in
reminding her of her shortcomings. Miriam turned her eyes in another
quarter, and presently pointed to the far blue hills just seen
between the Alban and the Sabine ranges.

"Through there is the country of the Volsci," she said, in a subdued
voice. "Some Roman must have stood here and looked towards it, in
days when Rome was struggling for supremacy with them. Think of all
that happened between that day and the time when Horace saw the snow
on Soracte; and then, of all that has happened since."

He watched her face, and nodded several times. They pursued the
subject, and reminded each other of what the scene suggested, point
by point. Mallard felt surprise, though he showed none. Cecily,
standing here, would have spoken with more enthusiasm, but it was
doubtful whether she would have displayed Miriam's accuracy of
knowledge.

"Well, let us go," he said at length. "You don't insist on walking
home?"

"There is no need to, I think. I could quite well, if I wished."

"I am going to run through a few of the galleries for a morning or
two. I wonder whether you would care to come with me to-morrow?"

"I will come with pleasure."

"That is how people speak when they don't like to refuse a
troublesome invitation."

"Then what am I to say? I spoke the truth, in quite simple words."

"I suppose it was your tone; you seemed too polite."

"But what is your objection to politeness?" Miriam asked naively.

"Oh, I have none, when it is sincere. But as soon as I had asked
you, I felt afraid that I was troublesome."

"If I had felt that, I should have expressed it unmistakably," she
replied, in a voice which reminded him of the road from Baiae to
Naples.

"Thank you; that is what I should wish."

Having found a carriage for her, and made an appointment for the
morning, he watched her drive away.

A few hours later, he encountered Spence in the Piazza Colonna, and
they went together into a _caffe_. Spence had the news that Mrs.
Lessingham and her niece would arrive on the third day from now.
Their stay would be of a fortnight at longest.

"I met Mrs. Baske at the Vatican this morning," said Mallard
presently, as he knocked the ash off his cigar. "We had some talk."

"On Vatican subjects?"

"Yes. I find her views of art somewhat changed. But sculpture still
alarms her."

"Still? Do you suppose she will ever overcome that feeling? Are you
wholly free from it yourself? Imagine yourself invited. to conduct a
party of ladies through the marbles, and to direct their attention
to the merits that strike you."

"No doubt I should invent an excuse. But it would be weakness."

"A weakness inseparable from our civilization. The nude in art. is
an anachronism."

"Pooh! That is encouraging the vulgar prejudice."

"No; it is merely stating a vulgar fact. These collections of nude
figures in marble have only an historical interest. They are kept
out of the way, in places which no one is obliged to visit. Modern
work of that kind is tolerated, nothing more. What on earth is the
good of an artistic production of which people in general are afraid
to speak freely? You take your stand before the Venus of the
Capitol; you bid the attendant make it revolve slowly, and you begin
a lecture to your wife, your sister, or your young cousin, on the
glories of the masterpiece. You point out in detail how admirably
Praxiteles has exhibited every beauty of the female frame. Other
ladies are standing by you smile blandly, and include them in your
audience."

Mallard interrupted with a laugh.

"Well, why not?" continued the other. "This isn't the _gabinetto_ at
Naples, surely?"

"But you are well aware that, practically, it comes to the same
thing. How often is one half pained, half amused, at the behaviour
of women in the Tribune at Florence! They are in a false position;
it is absurd to ridicule them for what your own sensations justify.
For my own part, I always leave my wife and Mrs. Baske to go about
these galleries without my company. If I can't be honestly at my
ease, I won't make pretence of being so."

"All this is true enough, but the prejudice is absurd. We ought to
despise it and struggle against it."

"Despise it, many of us do, theoretically. But to make practical
demonstrations against it, is to oppose, as I said, all the
civilization of our world. Perhaps there will come a time once more
when sculpture will be justified; at present the art doesn't and
can't exist. Its relics belong to museums--in the English sense of
the word."

"You only mean by this," said Mallard, "that art isn't for the
multitude. We know that well enough."

"But there's a special difficulty about this point. We come across
it in literature as well. How is it that certain pages in
literature, which all intellectual people agree in pro flouncing
just as pure as they are great, could never be read aloud, say, in a
family circle, without occasioning pain and dismay? No need to give
illustrations; they occur to you in abundance. We skip them, or we
read mutteringly, or we say frankly that this is not adapted for
reading aloud. Yet no man would frown if he found his daughter bent
over the book. There's something radically wrong here."

"This is the old question of our English Puritanism. In France, here
in Italy, there is far less of such feeling."

"Far less; but why must there be any at all? And Puritanism isn't a
sufficient explanation. The English Puritans of the really Puritan
time had freedom of conversation which would horrify us of to-day.
We become more and more prudish as what we call civilization
advances. It is a hateful fact that, from the domestic point of
view, there exists no difference between some of the noblest things
in art and poetry, and the obscenities which are prosecuted; the one
is as impossible of frank discussion as the other."

"The domestic point of view is contemptible. It means the bourgeois
point of view, the Philistine point of view."

"Then I myself, if I had children, should be both bourgeois and
Philistine. And so, I have a strong suspicion, would you too."

"Very well," replied Mallard, with some annoyance, "then it is one
more reason why an artist should have nothing to do with
domesticities. But look here, you are wrong as regards me. If ever I
marry, _amico mio_, my wife shall learn to make more than a
theoretical distinction between what is art and what is grossness.
If ever I have children, they shall from the first he taught a
natural morality, and not the conventional. If I can afford good
casts of noble statues, they shall stand freely about my house. When
I read aloud, by the fire side, there shall be no skipping or
muttering or frank omissions; no, by Apollo! If a daughter of mine
cannot describe to me the points of difference between the Venus of
the Capitol and that of the Medici, she shall be bidden to use her
eyes and her brains better. I'll have no contemptible prudery in my
house!"

"Bravissimo!" cried Spenee, laughing. "I see that my cousin Miriam
is not the only person who has progressed during these years. Do you
remember a certain conversation of ours at Posillipo about the
education of a certain young lady?"

"Yes, I do. But that was a different matter. The question was not of
Greek statues and classical books, but of modern pruriencies and
shallowness and irresponsibility."

"You exaggerated then, and you do so now," said Spence; "at present
with less excuse."

Mallard kept silence for a space; then said:

"Let us speak of what we have been avoiding. How has that marriage
turned out?"

"I have told you all I know. There's no reason to suppose that
things are anything but well."

"I don't like her coming abroad alone; I have no faith in that plea
of work. I suspect things are _not_ well."

"A cynic--which I am not--would suggest that a wish had
something to do with the thought."

"He would be cynically wrong," replied Mallard, with calmness.

"Why shouldn't she come abroad alone? There's nothing alarming in
the fact that they no longer need to see each other every hour. And
one takes for granted that _they_, at all events, are not bourgeois;
their life won't be arranged exactly like that of Mr. and Mrs. Jones
the greengrocers."

"No," said the other, musingly.

"In what direction do you imagine that Cecily will progress?
Possibly she has become acquainted with disillusion."

"Possibly?"

"Well, take it for certain. Isn't that an inevitable step in her
education? Things may still be well enough, philosophically
speaking. She has her life to live--we know it will be to the end
a modern life. _Servetur ad imum_--and so on; that's what one
would wish, I suppose? We have no longer to take thought for her."

"But we are allowed to wish the best."

"What _is_ the best?" said Spenee, sustaining his tone of impartial
speculation. "Are you quite sure that Mr. and Mrs. Jones are not too
much in your mind?"

"Whatever modern happiness may mean, I am inclined to think that
modern unhappiness is not unlike that of old-fashioned people."

"My dear fellow, you are a halter between two opinions. You can't
make up your mind in which direction to look. You are a sort of
Janus, with anxiety on both faces."

"There's a good deal of truth in that," admitted the artist, with a
growl.

"Get on with your painting, and whatever else of practical you have
in mind. Leave philosophy to men of large leisure and placid pulses,
like myself. Accept the inevitable."

"I do so."

"But not with modern detachment," said Spence, smiling.

"Be hanged with your modernity! I believe myself distinctly the more
modern of the two."

"Not with regard to women. When you marry, you will be a rigid
autocrat, and make no pretence about it. You don't think of women as
independent beings, who must save or lose themselves on their own
responsibility. You are not willing to trust them alone."

"Well, perhaps you are right."

"Of course I am. Come and dine at the hotel. I think Seaborne will
be there."

"No, thank you."

Mallard had waited but a few minutes in the court of the Palazzo
Borghese next morning, when Miriam joined him. There was some
constraint on both sides. Miriam looked as if she did not wish
yesterday's conversation to be revived in their manner of meeting.
Her "Good-morning, Mr. Mallard," had as little reference as possible
to the fact of this being an appointment. The artist was in quite
another mood than that of yesterday; his smile was formal, and he
seemed indisposed for conversation.

"I have the _permesso_," he said, leading at once to the door of the
gallery.

They sauntered about the first room, exchanging a few idle remarks.
In the second, a woman past the prime of life was copying a large
picture. They looked at her work from a distance, and Miriam asked
if it was well done.

"What do you think yourself?" asked Mallard.

"It seems to me skilful and accurate, but I know that perhaps it is
neither one nor the other."

He pointed out several faults, which she at once recognized.

"I wonder I could not see them at first That confirms me in distrust
of myself. I am as likely as not to admire a thing that is utterly
worthless."

"As likely as not--no; at least, I think not. But of course your
eye is untrained, and you have no real knowledge to go upon. You can
judge an original picture sentimentally, and your sentiment will not
be wholly misleading. You can't judge a copy technically, but I
think you have more than average observation. How would you like to
spend your life like this copyist?"

"I would give my left hand to have her skill in my right."

"You would?"

"I should be able to _do_ something--something definite and
tolerably good."

"Why, so you can already; one thing in particular."

"What is that?"

"Learn your own deficiencies; a thing that most people neither will
nor can. Look at this Francia, and tell me your thoughts about it."

She examined the picture for a minute or two. Then, without moving
her eyes, she murmured

"I can say nothing that is worth saying."

"Never mind. Say what you think, or what you feel."

"Why should you wish me to talk commonplace?"

"That is precisely what I don't wish you to talk. You know what is
commonplace, and therefore you can avoid it. Never mind his school
or his date. What did the man want to express here, and how far do
you think he has succeeded? That's the main thing; I wish a few
critics would understand it."

Miriam obeyed him, and said what she had to say diffidently, but in
clear terms. Mallard was silent when she ceased, and she looked up
at him. He rewarded her with a smile, and one or two nods--as his
manner was.

"I have not made myself ridiculous?"

"I think not."

They had walked on a little, when Mallard said to her unexpectedly:

"Please to bear in mind that I make no claim to infallibility. I am
a painter of landscape; out of my own sphere, I become an amateur.
You are not hound to accept my judgment."

"Of course not," she replied simply.

"It occurred to me that I had been rather dictatorial."

"So you have, Mr. Mallard," she returned, looking at a picture. "I
am sorry. It's the failing of men who have often to be combative,
and who live much in solitude. I will try to use a less offensive
tone."

"I didn't mean that your tone was in the least offensive."

"A more polite tone, then--as you taught me yesterday."

"I had rather you spoke just as is natural to you."

Mallard laughed.

"Politeness is not natural to me, I admit. I am horribly
uncomfortable whenever I have to pick my words out of regard to
polite people. That is why I shun what is called society. What
little I have seen of it has been more than enough for me."

"I have seen still less of it; but I understand your dislike."

"Before you left home, didn't you associate a great deal with
people?"

"People of a certain kind," she replied coldly. "It was not society
as you mean it."

"You will be glad to mix more freely with the world, when you are
back in England?"

"I can't tell. By whom is that Madonna?"

Thus they went slowly on, until they came to the little hall where
the fountain plays, and whence is the outlook over the Tiber. It was
delightful to sit here in the shadows, made cooler and fresher by
that plashing water, and to see the glorious sunlight gleam upon the
river's tawny flow.

"Each time that I have been in Rome," said Mallard, "I have felt,
after the first few days, a peculiar mental calm. The other cities
of Italy haven't the same effect on me. Perhaps every one
experiences it, more or less. There comes back to me at moments the
kind of happiness which I knew as a boy--a freedom from the sense
of duties and responsibilities, of work to be done, and of
disagreeable things to be faced; the kind of contentment I used to
have when I was reading lives of artists, or looking at prints of
famous pictures, or myself trying to draw. It is possible that this
mood is not such a strange one with many people as with me, when it
comes, I feel grateful to the powers that rule life Since boyhood, I
have never known it in the north. Out of Rome, perhaps only in fine
weather on the Mediterranean. But in Rome is its perfection."

"I thought you preferred the north," said Miriam.

"Because I so often choose to work there? I can do better work when
I take subjects in wild scenery and stern climates, but when my
thoughts go out for pleasure, they choose Italy. I don't enjoy
myself in the Hebrides or in Norway, but what powers I have are all
brought out there. Hero I am not disposed to work. I want to live,
and I feel that life can be a satisfaction in itself without labour.
I am naturally the idlest of men. Work is always pain to me. I like
to dream pictures; but it's terrible to drag myself before the blank
canvas."

Miriam gazed at the Tiber.

"Do these palaces," he asked, "ever make you wish you owned them?
Did you ever imagine yourself walking among the marbles and the
pictures with the sense of this being your home?"

"I have wondered what that must be. But I never wished it had fallen
to my lot."

"No? You are not ambitious?"

"Not in that way. To own a palace such as this would make one
insignificant."

"That is admirably true! I should give it away, to recover
self-respect. Shakespeare or Michael Angelo might live here and make
it subordinate to him; I should be nothing but the owner of the
palace. You like to feel your individuality?"

"Who does not?"

"In you, I think, it is strong."

Miriam smiled a little, as if she liked the compliment. Before
either spoke again, other visitors came to look at the view, and
disturbed them.

"I shan't ask you to come anywhere to-morrow," said Mallard, when
they had again talked for awhile of pictures. "And the next day Mrs.
Elgar will be here."

She looked at him.

"That wouldn't prevent me from going to a gallery--if you thought
of it."

"You will have much to talk of. And your stay in Rome won't be long
after that."

Miriam made no reply.

"I wish your brother had been coming," he went on. "I should have
liked to hear from him about the book he is writing."

"Shall you not he in London before long?" she asked, without show of
much interest.

"I think so, but I have absolutely no plans. Probably it is raining
hard in England, or even snowing. I must enjoy the sunshine a little
longer. I hope your health won't suffer from the change of climate."

"I hope not," she answered mechanically.

"Perhaps you will find you can't live there?"

"What does it matter? I have no ties."

"No, you are independent; that is a great blessing."

Chatting as if of indifferent things, they left the gallery.





CHAPTER VIII

STUMBLINGS




Rolled tightly together, and tied up with string, at the bottom of
one of Miriam's trunks lay the plans of that new chapel for which
Bartles still waited. Miriam did not like to come upon them, in
packing or unpacking; she had covered them with things which
probably would not be moved until she was again in England.

But the thought of them could not be so satisfactorily hidden. It
lay in a corner of her mind, and many were the new acquisitions
heaped upon it; but in spite of herself she frequently burrowed
through all those accumulations of travel, and sought the thing
beneath. Sometimes the impulse was so harassing, the process so
distressful, that she might have been compared to a murderer who
haunts the burial-place of his victim, and cannot restrain himself
from disturbing the earth.

It was by no methodic inquiry, no deliberate reasoning, that Miriam
had set aside her old convictions and ordered her intellectual life
on the new scheme. Of those who are destined to pass beyond the
bounds of dogma, very few indeed do so by the way of studious
investigation. How many of those who abide by inherited faith owe
their steadfastness to a convinced understanding? Convictions, in
the proper sense of the word, Miriam had never possessed; she
accepted what she was taught, without reflecting upon it, and pride
subsequently made her stubborn in consistency. The same pride, aided
by the ennui of mental faculties just becoming self-conscious, and
the desires of a heart for the first time humanly touched,
constrained her to turn abruptly from the ideal she had pursued, and
with unforeseen energy begin to qualify herself for the assertion of
new claims. No barriers of logic stood in her way; it was a simple
matter of facing round about. True, she still had to endure the
sense of having chosen the wide way instead of that strait one which
is authoritatively prescribed. It was a long time before she made
any endeavour to justify herself; but the wide way ran through a
country that delighted her, and her progress was so notable that
self-commendation and the respect of others made her careless of the
occasional stings of conscience.

She was able now to review the process of change, and to compare the
two ideals. Without the support of a single argument of logical
value, she stamped all the beliefs of her childhood as superstition,
and marvelled that they had so long held their power over her. Her
childhood, indeed, seemed to her to have lasted until she came to
Naples; with hot shame she reflected on her speech and behaviour at
that time. What did the Spences think of her? How did they speak of
her to their friends? What impression did she make upon Mallard?
These memories were torture; they explained the mixture of humility
and assumption which on certain days made her company disagreeable
to Eleanor, and the dark moods which now and then held her in sullen
solitude.

But the word "superstition" was no guarantee against the haunting of
superstition itself. Miriam was far from being one of the
emancipated, however arrogantly she would have met a doubt of her
freedom. Just as little as ever had she genuine convictions, capable
of supporting her in hours of weakness and unsatisfied longing.
Several times of late she had all but brought herself to speak
plainly with Eleanor, and ask on what foundation was built that calm
life which seemed independent of supernatural belief; but shame
always restrained her. It would be the same as confessing that she
had not really the liberty to which she pretended. There was,
however, an indirect way of approaching the subject, by which her
dignity would possibly be rather enhanced than suffer; and this she
at length took. After her return from the Palazzo Borghese, she was
beset with a confusion of anxious thoughts. The need of confidential
or semi-confidential speech with one of her own sex became
irresistible. In the evening she found an opportunity of speaking
privately with Eleanor.

"I want to ask your opinion about something. It's a question I am
obliged to decide now I am going back to England."

Eleanor smiled inquiringly. She was not a little curious to have a
glimpse into her cousin's mind just now.

"You remember," pursued Miriam, leaning forward on a table by which
she sat, and playing with a twisted piece of paper, "that I once had
the silly desire to build a chapel at Bartles."

She reddened in hearing the words upon her own lips--so strange a
sound they had after all this time.

"I remember you talked of doing so," replied Eleanor, with her usual
quiet good-nature.

"Unfortunately, I did more than talk about it. I made a distinct
promise to certain people gravely interested. The promise was
registered in a Bartles newspaper. And you know that I went so far
as to have my plans made."

"Do you feel bound by this promise, my dear?"

Miriam propped her cheek on one hand, and with the other kept
rolling the piece of paper on the table.

"Yes," she answered, "I can't help thinking that I ought to keep my
word. How does it strike you, Eleanor?"

"I am not quite clear how you regard the matter. Are you speaking of
the promise only as a promise?"

It was no use. Miriam could not tell the truth; she could not
confess her position. At once a smile trembled scornfully upon her
lips.

"What else could I mean?"

"Then it seems to me that the obligation has passed away with the
circumstances that occasioned it."

Miriam kept her eyes on the table, and for a few moments seemed to
reflect.

"A promise is a promise, Eleanor."

"So it is. And a fact is a fact. I take it for granted that you are
no longer the person who made the promise. I have a faint
recollection that when I was about eight years old, I pledged
myself, on reaching maturity, to give my nurse the exact half of my
worldly possessions. I don't feel the least ashamed of having made
such a promise, and just as little of not having kept it."

Miriam smiled, but still had an unconvinced face.

"I was not eight years old," she said, "but about four-and-twenty."

"Then let us put it in this way. Do you still feel a desire to
benefit that religious community in Bartles? Would it distress you
to think that they shook their heads in mentioning your name?"

"I do feel rather in that way," Miriam admitted slowly.

"But is this enough to justify you in giving them half or more of
all you possess? You spoke of pulling down Redbeck House, and
building on the site, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"In any case, should you ever live there again?"

"Never."

"You prefer to be with us in London?"

"I think you have been troubled with me quite long enough. Perhaps I
might take rooms."

"If you are as willing to share our house as we are to have you with
us, there can be no need for you to live alone."

"I can't make up my mind about that, Eleanor. Let us talk only about
the chapel just now. Are you sure that other people would see it as
you do?"

"Other people of my way of thinking would no doubt think the same--
which is a pretty piece of tautology. Edward would be amazed to hear
that you have such scruples. It isn't as if you had promised to
support a family in dire need, or anything of that kind. The chapel
is a superfluity."

"Not to them."

"They have one already."

"But very small and inconvenient."

"Suppose you ask Mr. Mallard for his thoughts on the subject?" said
Eleanor, as if at the bidding of a caprice.

"Does Mr. Mallard know that I once had this purpose?"

"I think so," replied the other, with a little hesitation. "You know
that there was no kind of reserve about it when you first came to
Naples."

"No, of course not. Do you feel as sure of his opinion as of
Edward's?"

"I can't say that I do. There's no foreseeing his judgment about
anything. As you are such good friends, why not consult him?"

"Our friendship doesn't go so far as that."

"And after all, I don't see what use other people's opinions can be
to you," said Eleanor, waiving the point. "It's a matter of
sentiment. Strict obligation you see, of course, that there is none
whatever. If it would please you to use a large sum of money in this
way, you have a perfect right to do so. But, by-the-bye, oughtn't
you to make the Bartles people clearly understand who it is that
builds their chapel?"

"Surely there is no need of that?"

"I think so. The scruple, in my case, would be far more on this side
than on the other."

Miriam did not care to pursue the conversation. The one result of it
was that she had an added uncertainty. She had thought that her
proposal to fulfil the promise would at least earn the respect which
is due to stern conscientiousness; but Eleanor clearly regarded it
as matter for the smile one bestows on good-natured folly. Her
questions even showed that she was at first in doubt as to the
motives which had revived this project--a doubt galling to Miriam,
because of its justification. She said, in going away:

"Please to consider that this was in confidence, Eleanor."

Confidence of a barren kind. It was the same now as it had ever
been; she had no one with whom she could communicate her secrets, no
friend in the nearer sense. On this loneliness she threw the blame
of those faults which she painfully recognized in herself--her
frequent insincerity, her speeches and silences calculated for
effect, her pride based on disingenuousness. If she could but have
disclosed her heart in the humility of love and trust, how would its
aching have been eased!

For a long time she had been absorbed, or nearly so, in studying and
observing; but Mallard's inquiry whether she found this sufficient
touched the source whence trouble was again arising for her. Three
years ago it did not cost her much to subdue a desire which had
hopelessness for its birthright; the revival of this desire now
united itself with disquietudes of the maturing intellect, and she
looked forward in dread to a continuation of her loneliness. Some
change in her life there must be. Sudden hope had in a day or two
brought to full growth the causes of unrest which would otherwise
have developed slowly.

It seemed to be her fate to live in pretences. As the mistress of
Redbeck House, and the light of dissenting piety in Bartles, she
knew herself for less than she wished to appear to others; not a
hypocrite, indeed, but a pretender to extraordinary zeal, and at the
same time a flagrant instance of spiritual pride. Now she was guilty
of like simulation directed to a contrary end. In truth neither bond
nor free, she could not suffer herself to seem less liberal-minded
than those with whom she associated. And yet her soul was weary of
untruth. The one need of her life was to taste the happiness of
submission to a stronger than herself. Religious devotion is the
resource of women in general who suffer thus and are denied the
natural solace; but for Miriam it was impossible. Her temperament
was not devout, and, however persistent the visitings of uneasy
conscience, she had no longer the power of making her old beliefs a
reality. The abstract would not avail her; philosophic comforts had
as little to say to her as the Churches' creeds. Only by a strong
human band could she be raised from her unworthy position and led
into the way of sincerity.

She had counted on having another morning with Mallard before
Cecily's arrival. Disappointed in this hope, she invented a variety
of tormenting reasons for Mallard's behaviour. As there was a chance
of his calling at the hotel, she stayed in all day. But he did not
come. The next afternoon Mrs. Lessingham and her companion reached
Rome.

It was known that Cecily's health had suffered from her watchings by
the sick child, and from her grief at its death; so no one was
surprised at finding her rather thin-faced. She had a warm greeting
for her friends, and seemed happy to be with them again; but the
brightness of the first hour was not sustained. Conversation cost
her a perceptible effort; she seldom talked freely of anything, and
generally with an unnatural weighing of her words, an artificiality
of thought and phrase, which was a great contrast to the
spontaneousness of former times. When Eleanor wanted her to speak
about herself, she preferred to tell of what she had lately read or
heard or seen. That the simple grace of the girl should be modified
in the wife and mother was of course to be expected, but Cecily
looked older than she ought to have done, and occasionally bore
herself with a little too much consciousness, as if she felt the
observation even of intimate friends something of a restraint.

Miriam, when she had made inquiries about her brother's health, took
little part in the general conversation, and it was not till late in
the evening that she spoke with Cecily in private.

"May I come and sit with you for a few minutes?" Cecily asked, when
Miriam was going to her bedroom.

They were far less at ease with each other than when their
differences of opinion were a recognized obstacle to intimacy.
Cecily was uncertain how far her sister-in-law had progressed from
the old standpoint, and she saw in her even an increase of the
wonted reticence. On her own side there was no longer a warm impulse
of sisterly affection. But her first words, when they were alone
together, sounded like an appeal for tender confidence.

"I do so wish you had seen my poor little boy!"

"I wish I had been nearer," Miriam answered kindly. "It is very sad
that you have suffered such a loss."

Cecily spoke of the child, and with simple feeling, which made her
more like herself than hitherto.

"When a little thing dies at that age," she said presently, "it is
only the mother's grief. The father cannot have much interest in so
young a child."

"But Reuben wrote very affectionately of Clarence in one letter I
had from him."

"Yes, but it is natural that he shouldn't feel the loss as I do. A
man has his business in life; a woman, if she needn't work for
bread, has nothing to do but be glad or sorry for what happens in
her home."

"I shouldn't have thought you took that view of a woman's life,"
said Miriam, after a silence, regarding the other with uncertain
eyes.

"'Views' have become rather a weariness to me," answered Cecily,
smiling sadly. "Sorrow is sorrow to me as much as to the woman who
never questioned one of society's beliefs; it makes me despondent.
No doubt I ought to find all sorts of superior consolations. But I
don't and can't. A woman's natural lot is to care for her husband
and bring up children. Do you believe, Miriam, that anything will
ever take the place of these occupations?"

"I suppose not. But time will help you, and your interests will come
back again."

"True. On the other hand, it is equally true that I am now seeing
how little those interests really amount to. They are pastime, if
you like, but nothing more. Some women do serious work, however; I
wish I could be one of them. To them, perhaps, 'views' are something
real and helpful. But never mind myself; you were glad to hear that
Reuben is working on?"

"Very glad."

Cecily waited a little; then, watching the other's face, asked:

"You know what he is writing?"

"In a general way," Miriam answered, averting her eyes. "Do you
think he has made a wise choice?"

"I dare say it is the subject on which he will write best," Cecily
answered, smiling.

"I doubt whether he understands it sufficiently," said Miriam, with
balanced tone. "He has really nothing but prejudice to go upon.
There will be a great deal of misrepresentation in his book--if he
ever finishes it."

"Yes, I am afraid that is true. But it may be useful, after all.
Here and there he will hit the mark."

Cecily was tentative. She saw Miriam's brows work uneasily.

"Perhaps so," was the reply. "But I know quite well that such a book
would have been no use to me when I stood in need of the kind of
help you mean."

"To be sure; it is for people who have already helped themselves,"
said Cecily, in a jesting tone.

Miriam turned to another subject, and very soon said good night.
Reflecting on the conversation, she was annoyed with herself for
having been led by her familiar weakness to admit that she had
changed her way of thinking. Certainly she had no intention of
disguising the fact, but this explicit confession had seemed to make
her Cecily's inferior; she was like a school-girl claiming
recognition of progress.

The next morning Mallard called. He came into a room where Mrs.
Lessingham, Eleanor, and Miriam were waiting for Cecily to join
them, that all might go out together. Miriam had never seen him
behave with such ease of manner. He was in good spirits, and talked
with a facility most unusual in him. Mrs. Lessingham said she would
go and see why Cecily delayed; Eleanor also made an excuse for
leaving the room. But Miriam remained, standing by the window and
looking into the street; Mallard stood near her, but did not speak.
The silence lasted for a minute or two; then Cecily entered, and at
once the artist greeted her with warm friendliness. Miriam had
turned, but did not regard the pair directly; her eye caught their
reflection in a mirror, and she watched them closely without seeming
to do so. Cecily had made her appearance with a face of pleased
anticipation; she looked for the first moment with much earnestness
at her old friend, and when she spoke to him it was with the
unmistakable accent of emotion. Mallard was gentle, reverent; he
held her hand a little longer than was necessary, but his eyes
quickly fell from her countenance.

"Your husband is well?" he asked in a full, steady voice.

They seated themselves, and Miriam again turned to the window.
Cecily's voice made a jarring upon her ear; it was so much sweeter
and more youthful, so much more like the voice of Cecily Doran, than
when it addressed other people. Mallard, too, continued in a soft,
pleasant tone, quite different from his usual speech; Miriam
thrilled with irritation as she heard him.

"They have told me of the picture you painted at Paestum. When may
Mrs. Lessingham and I come and see it?"

"I haven't a place in which I could receive you. I'll bring the
thing here, whenever you like."

Miriam moved. She wished to leave the room, but could not decide
herself to do so. In the same moment Mallard glanced round at her.
She interpreted his look as one of impatience, and at once said to
Cecily:

"I think I'll change my mind, and write some letters this morning.
Perhaps you could persuade Mr. Mallard to take my place for the
drive."

"Oh!" exclaimed Cecily, with a laugh, "I'm quite sure Mr. Mallard
has no desire to go to the English cemetery." She added in
explanation, to Mallard himself, "My aunt has promised to visit a
certain grave, and copy the inscription for a friend at Florence."

Whilst she was speaking, Mrs. Lessingham and Eleanor returned.
Mallard, rising, looked at Miriam with a singular smile; then talked
a little longer, and, with a promise to come again, soon took his
leave.

"Don't disappoint us," said Cecily to Miriam, in the most natural
tone.

"It was only that I felt we were making Mr. Mallard's visit very
short," answered Miriam, constrained by shame.

"He detests ceremony. You couldn't please him better than by saying,
'Please don't hinder me now, but come when I'm at leisure.'"

It was peculiarly distasteful to Miriam to have information
concerning the artist's character offered her by Cecily, in spite of
the playful tone. During the drive, she persuaded herself that
Cecily's improved spirits were entirely due to the conversation with
Mallard, and this stirred fresh resentment in her. She had foreseen
the effect upon her own feelings of the meeting which had just come
about; it was extreme folly, but she could not control it.

The next day Mallard brought his picture again to the hotel, and
spent nearly an hour with Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily in their
sitting-room. Miriam heard of this on her return from a. solitary
walk, and heard, moreover, that Mallard had been showing his friends
a number of little drawings which he had never offered to let her or
the Spences see. In the afternoon she again went out by herself,
and, whilst looking into a shop-window in the Piazza di Spagna,
became aware of Mallard's face reflected in the glass. She drew
aside before looking round at him.

"That is a clever piece of work," he said, indicating a water-colour
in the window, and speaking as if they had already been in
conversation. He had not even made the hat-salute.

"I thought so," Miriam replied, very coldly, looking at something
else.

"Are you going home, Mrs. Baske?"

"Yes. I only came out to buy something."

"I am just going to see the studio of an Italian to whom Mr.
Seaborne introduced me yesterday. It's in the Quattro-Fontane. Would
it interest you?"

"Thank you, Mr. Mallard; I had rather not go this afternoon."

He accepted the refusal with a courteous smile, raised his hat in
approved manner, and turned to cross the Piazza as she went her way.

This evening they had a visit from Seaborne, who met Mrs. Lessingham
and Cecily for the first time. These ladies were predisposed to like
him, and before he left they did so genuinely. In his pleasantly
quiet way, he showed much respectful admiration of Mrs. Elgar.

"Now, isn't there a resemblance to Mr. Mallard?" asked Eleanor, when
the visitor was gone.

"Just--just a little," admitted Cecily, with fastidiousness and an
amused smile. "But Mr. Seaborne doesn't impress me as so original,
so strong."

"Oh, that he certainly isn't," said Spence. "But acuter, and perhaps
a finer feeling in several directions."

Miriam listened, and was tortured.

She had suffered all the evening from observing Cecily, whose powers
of conversation and charms of manner made her bitterly envious. How
far she herself was from this ideal of the instructed and socially
trained woman! The presence of a stranger had banished Cecily's
despondent mood, and put all her capacities in display. With a
miserable sense of humiliation, Miriam compared her own
insignificant utterances and that bright, often brilliant, talk
which held the attention of every one. Beside Cecily, she was still
indeed nothing but a school-girl, who with much labour was getting a
smattering of common knowledge; for, though Cecily had no profound
acquirements, the use she made of what she did know was always
suggestive, intellectual, individual.

What wonder that Mallard brought out his drawings to show them to
Cecily? There would be nothing commonplace in _her_ remarks and
admiration.

She felt herself a paltry pretender to those possibilities of modern
womanhood which were open to Cecily from her birth. In the course of
natural development, Cecily, whilst still a girl, threw for ever
behind her all superstitions and harassing doubts; she was in the
true sense "emancipated"--a word Edward Spence was accustomed to
use jestingly. And this was Mallard's conception of the admirable in
woman.





CHAPTER IX

SILENCES




Cecily was seeing Rome for the first time, but she could not enjoy
it in the way natural to her. It was only at rare moments that she
_felt_ Rome. One of the most precious of her life's anticipations
was fading into memory, displaced by a dull experience, numbered
among disillusionings. Not that what she beheld disappointed her,
but that she was not herself in beholding. Had she stayed here on
her first visit to Italy, on what a strong current of enthusiasm
would the hours and the days have borne her! What a light would have
glowed upon the Seven Hills, and how would every vulgarity of the
modern streets have been transformed by her imagination! But now she
was in no haste to visit the most sacred spots; she was content to
take each in its turn, and her powers of attention soon flagged. It
had been the same in Florence. She felt herself reduced to a lower
level of existence than was native to her. Had she lived her life--
all that was worth calling life?

Her chief solace was in the society of Mrs. Spence. Formerly she had
not been prepared for appreciating Eleanor, but now she felt the
beauties of that calm, self-reliant character, rich in a mode of
happiness which it seemed impossible for herself ever to attain.
Fortune had been Eleanor's friend. Disillusion had come to her only
in the form of beneficent wisdom; no dolorous dead leaves rustled
about her feet and clogged her walk. Happy even in the fact that she
had never been a mother. She was a free woman; free in the love of
her husband, free in the pursuit of knowledge and the cultivation of
all her tastes. She had outlived passion without mourning it; what
greater happiness than that can a woman expect? Cecily had once
believed that life was to be all passion, or a failure. She
understood now that there was a middle path. But against her it was
closed.

In a few days she could talk with Eleanor even of bygone things in a
perfectly simple tone, without danger of betraying the thoughts she
must keep secret. One such conversation reminded her of something
she had learnt shortly before she left London.

"Do you remember," she asked, "a family named Denyer, who were at
Mrs. Gluck's?"

Eleanor recollected the name, and the characteristics attached to
it.

"An acquaintance of mine who has rooms at Hampstead happened to
speak of the people she is with, and it surprised me to discover
that they were those very Denyers. One of the daughters is
paralyzed, poor girl; I was shocked to remember her, and think of
her visited by such a fate. I believe she was to have married that
artist, Mr. Marsh, who gave Mr. Bradshaw so much amusement. And the
eldest--"

She broke off to inquire why Eleanor had looked at her so
expressively.

"I'll tell you when you have finished your story. What of the
eldest?"

"She has recently married Mr. Musselwhite, who was also one of our
old acquaintances. Mrs. Travis--the lady who tells me all this--
says that Mrs. Denyer is overjoyed at this marriage, for Mr.
Musselwhite is the brother of a baronet!"

"Very satisfactory indeed. Well, now for Mr. Marsh. Edward heard
from Mr. Bradshaw when we were in Sicily, and this young gentleman
had a great part in the letter. It seems he has long abandoned his
artistic career, and gone into commerce."

"That most superior young man? But I remember something about that."

"His business takes him often to Manchester, and he has been
cultivating the acquaintance of the Bradshaws. And now there is an
engagement between him and their eldest daughter."

"Charlotte? What a queer thing to happen! Isn't she about my age?"

"Yes; and, if she fulfils her promise, one of the plainest girls in
existence. Her father jokes about the affair, but evidently doesn't
disapprove."

It was Thursday, and the Spences had decided to start for London on
Friday night. Miriam had been keeping much alone these last few
days, and this morning was out by herself in the usual way. Spence
was engaged with Seaborne. Mrs. Lessingham, Eleanor, and Cecily went
to the Vatican.

Where also was Mallard. He had visited the chapel, and the Stanze,
and the Loggia, and the picture-gallery, not looking at things, but
seeming to look for some one; then he came out, and walked round St.
Peter's to the Museum. In the Sala Rotonda he encountered his
friends.

They talked about the busts. Cecily was studying them with the
catalogue, and wished Mallard to share her pleasure.

"The empresses interest me most," she said. "Come and do homage to
them."

They look with immortal eyes, those three women who once saw the
world at their feet: Plotina, the wife of Trajan; Faustina, the wife
of Antoninus Pius; Julia, the wife of Septimius Severus. Noble
heads, each so unlike the other. Plotina, with her strong, not
beautiful, features, the high cheek-bones, the male chin; on her
forehead a subdued anxiety. Faustina, the type of aristocratic
self-consciousness, gloriously arrogant, splendidly beautiful, with
her superb coronet of woven hair. Julia Domna, a fine, patrician
face, with a touch of idleness and good-natured scorn about her
lips, taking her dignity as a matter of course.

"These women awe me," Cecily murmured, as Mallard stood beside her.
"They are not of our world. They make me feel as if I belonged to an
inferior race."

"Glorious barbarians," returned Mallard.

"We of to-day have no right to say so."

Then the Antinous, the finest of all his heads. It must be caught in
profile, and one stands marvelling at the perfection of soulless
beauty. And the Jupiter of Otricoli, most majestic of marble faces;
in that one deep line across the brow lies not only profound
thought, but something of the care of rule, or something of pity for
mankind; as though he had just uttered his words in Homer: "For
verily there is no creature more afflicted than man, of all that
breathe and move upon the earth." But that other, the Serapis, is
above care of every kind; on his countenance is a divine placidity,
a supernal blandness; he gazes for ever in sublime and passionless
reverie.

Thence they passed to the Hall of the Muses, and spoke of Thalia,
whose sweet and noble face, with its deep, far-looking eyes, bears
such a weary sadness, Comedy? Yes; comedy itself, when comedy is
rightly understood.

And whilst they stood here, there came by a young priest, holding
open a missal or breviary or some such book, and muttering from it,
as if learning by heart. Cecily followed him with her gaze.

"What a place for study of that kind!" she exclaimed, looking at
Mallard.

He also had felt the incongruity, and laughed.

Two or three chambers of the Vatican sufficed for one day. Cecily
would not trust herself to remain after her interest had begun to
weary; it was much that she had won two hours of intellectual calm.
Her companions had no wish to stay longer. Just as they came again
into the Sala Rotonda, they found themselves face to face with
Miriam.

"Did you know we were coming here?" asked Eleanor.

"I thought it likely."

She shook hands with Mallard, but did not speak to him. Eleanor
offered to stay with her, as this would be their last visit, but
Miriam said in a friendly manner that she preferred to be alone. So
they left her.

At the exit, Mallard saw his companions into a carriage, and himself
walked on; but as soon as the carriage was out of sight, he turned
back. He had taken care to recover his _permesso_ from the
attendant, in the common way, when he came out, so that he could
enter again immediately. He walked rapidly to the place where they
had left Miriam, but she was gone. He went forward, and discovered
her sitting before the Belvedere Apollo. As his entrance drew her
attention, he saw that she had an impulse to rise; but she overcame
it, and again turned her eyes upon him, with a look in which
self-control was unconsciously like defiance.

He sat down by her, and said:

"I came to the Vatican this morning for the chance of meeting you."

"I hope that was not your only reason for coming," she returned, in
a voice of ordinary civility.

"It was, in fact I should have asked you to let me have your company
for an hour to-day, as it is practically your last in Rome; but I
was not sure that you would grant it, so I took my chance instead."

She waited a moment before replying.

"I am afraid you refer to your invitation of a few days ago. I
didn't feel in the mood for going to a studio, Mr. Mallard."

"Yes, I was thinking of that. You refused in a way not quite like
yourself. I began to be afraid that you thought me too regardless of
forms."

His return had gratified her; it was unexpected, and she set her
face in a hard expression that it might not betray her sudden
gladness. But the look of thinly-masked resentment which succeeded
told of what had been in her mind since she encountered him in the
company of Cecily. That jealous pain was uncontrollable; the most
trivial occasions had kept exciting it, and now it made her sick at
heart. The effort to speak conventionally was all but beyond her
strength.

They had in common that personal diffidence which is one of the
phases of pride, and which proves so fruitful a source of
misunderstandings. For all her self-esteem, Miriam could not obtain
the conviction that, as a woman, she strongly interested Mallard;
and the artist found it very hard to persuade himself that Miriam
thought of him as anything but a man of some talent, whose attention
was agreeable, and perhaps a little flattering. Still, he could not
but notice that her changed behaviour connected itself with Cecily's
arrival. It seemed to him extraordinary, almost incredible, that she
should be jealous of his relations with her sister-in-law. Had she
divined his passion for Cecily at Naples? (He cherished a delusion
that the secret had never escaped him.) But to attribute jealousy to
her was to assume that she set a high value on his friendship.

Miriam had glanced at the Apollo as he spoke. Conscious of his eyes
upon her, she looked away, saying in a forced tone:

"I had no such thought. You misunderstood me."

"It was all my fault, then, and I am sorry for it. You said just now
that you preferred to be alone. I shall come to the hotel to-morrow,
just to say good-bye."

He rose; and Miriam, as she did the same, asked formally:

"You are still uncertain how long you remain here?"

"Quite," was his answer, cheerfully given.

"You are not going to work?"

"No; it is holiday with me for a while. I wish you were staying a
little longer."

"You will still have friends here."

Mallard disliked the tone of this.

"Oh yes," he replied. "I hope to see Mrs. Lessingham and Mrs. Elgar
sometimes."

He paused; then added:

"I dare say I shall return to England about the same time that they
do. May I hope to see you in London?"

"I am quite uncertain where I shall be."

"Then perhaps we shall not meet for a long time.--Will you let me
give you one or two little drawings that may help to remind you of
Italy?"

Miriam's cheeks grew warm, and she east down her eyes.

"Your drawings are far too valuable to be given as one gives
trifles, Mr. Mallard."

"I don't wish you to receive them as trifles. One of their values to
me is that I can now and then please a friend with them. If you had
rather I did not think of you as a friend, then you would be right
to refuse them."

"I will receive them gladly."

"Thank you. They shall be sent to the hotel."

They shook hands, and he left her.

On the morrow they met again for a few minutes, when he came to say
good-bye. Miriam made no mention of the packet that had reached her.
She was distant, and her smile at leave-taking very cold.

So the three travelled northwards.

Their departure brought back Cecily's despondent mood. With
difficulty she restrained her tears in parting from Eleanor; when
she was alone, they had their way. She felt vaguely miserable--was
troubled with shapeless apprehensions, with a sense of desolateness.

The next day brought a letter from her husband, "Dear Ciss," he
wrote, "I am sorry its so long since I sent you a line, but really
there's no news. I foresee that I shall not have much manuscript to
show you; I am reading hugely, but I don't feel ready to write. Hope
you are much better; give me notice of your return. My regards to
Mallard; I expect you will see very little of him." And so, with a
"yours ever," the epistle ended.

This was all Reuben had to say to her, when she had been absent
nearly a month. With a dull disappointment, she put the arid thing
out of her sight. It had been her intention to write to-day, but now
she could not. She had even less to say than he.

He expressed no wish for her return, and felt none. Perhaps, it was
merely indifferent to him how long she stayed away; but she had no
assurance that he did not prefer to be without her. And, for her own
part, had she any desire to be back again? Here she was not
contented, but at home she would be even less so.

The line in his letter which had reference to the much-talked-of
book only confirmed her distrust. She had no faith in his work. The
revival of his energy from time to time was no doubt genuine enough,
but she knew that its subsequent decline was marked with all manner
of pretences. Possibly he was still "reading hugely," but the
greater likelihood was that he had fallen into mere idleness. It was
significant of her feeling towards him that she never made surmises
as to how he spent his leisure; her thoughts, consciously and
unconsciously, avoided such reflections; it was a matter that did
not concern her. He had now a number of companions, men of whom her
own knowledge was very vague; that they were not considered suitable
acquaintances for her, of course meant that Reuben could have no
profit from them, and would probably suffer from their contact. But
in these things she had long been passive, careless. Experience had
taught her how easy it was for husband and wife to live parted
lives, even whilst their domestic habits seemed the same as ever; in
books, that situation had formerly struck her as inconceivable, but
now she suspected that it was the commonest of the results of
marriage. Habit, habit; how strong it is!

And how degrading! To it she attributed this bluntness in her
faculties of perception and enjoyment, this barrenness of the world
about her. It was dreadful to look forward upon a tract of existence
thus vulgarized. Already she recognized in herself the warnings of a
possible future in which she would have lost her intellectual
ambitions. There is a creeping paralysis of the soul, and did she
not experience its symptoms? Already it was hard to apply herself to
any study that demanded real effort; she was failing to pursue her
Latin; she avoided German books, because they were more exacting
than French; her memory had lost something of its grasp. Was she to
become a woman of society, a refined gossip, a pretentious echo of
the reviews and of clever people's talk? If not, assuredly she must
exert a force of character which she had begun to suspect was not in
her.

Strange that the one person to whom she had disclosed something of
her real mind was also the one who seemed at the greatest distance
from her in this circle of friends. Involuntarily, she had spoken to
Miriam as to no one else. This might be a result of old
associations. But had it a connection with that curious surmise she
had formed during the first hour of her conversation with the
Spences, and with Miriam herself--that an unexpected intimacy was
coming about between Miriam and Mallard? For, in her frequent
thoughts of Mallard, she had necessarily wondered whether he would
ever perceive the true issue of her self-will; and, so far from
desiring to blind him, she had almost a hope that one day he might
know how her life had shaped itself. Mallard's position in her mind
was a singular one; in some such way she might have regarded a
brother who had always lived remote from her, but whom she had every
reason to love and reverence. Her esteem for him was boundless; he
was the ideal of the artist, and at the same time of the nobly
strong man. Had such a thing been possible, she would have sought to
make _him_ her confidant. However it was to be explained, she felt
no wound to her self-respect in supposing him cognizant of all her
sufferings; rather, a solace, a source of strength.

Was it, in a measure, woman's gratitude for love? In the course of
three years she had seen many reasons for believing that Reuben was
right; that the artist had loved her, and gone through dark
struggles when her fate was being decided. That must have added
tenderness to her former regard and admiration. But she was glad
that he had now recovered his liberty; the first meeting, his look
and the grasp of his hand, told her at once that the trouble was
long gone by. She was glad of this, and the proof of her sincerity
came when she watched the relations between him and Miriam.

On the last evening, Miriam came to her room, carrying a small
portfolio, which she opened before her, disclosing three
water-colours.

"You have bought them?" Cecily asked, as the other said nothing.

"No. Mr. Mallard has given me them," was the answer, in a voice
which affected a careless pleasure.

"They are admirable. I am delighted that you take such a present
away with you."

Cecily expected no confidences, and received none; she could only
puzzle over the problem. Why did Miriam behave with so strange a
coldness? Her new way of regarding life ought to have resulted in
her laying aside that austerity. Mrs. Lessingham hinted an opinion
that the change did not go very deep; Puritanism, the result of
birth and breeding, was not so easily eradicated.

Mallard stayed on in Rome, but during this next week Cecily only saw
him twice--the first time, for a quarter of an hour on the Pincio;
then in the Forum. On that second occasion he was invited to dine
with them at the hotel the next day, Mr. Seaborne's company having
also been requested. The result was a delightful evening. Seaborne
was just now busy with a certain period of Papal history; he talked
of some old books he had been reading in the Vatican library, and
revealed a world utterly strange to all his hearers.

Here were men who used their lives to some purpose; who rot only
planned, but executed. When the excitement of the evening had
subsided, Cecily thought with more bitterness than ever yet of the
contrast between such workers and her husband. The feeling which had
first come upon her intensely when she stood before Mallard's
picture at the Academy was now growing her habitual mood. She had
shut herself out for ever from close communion with this world of
genuine activity; she could only regard it from behind a barrier,
instead of warming her heart and brain in free enjoyment of its
emotions. And the worst of it was that these glimpses harmed her,
injured her morally. One cannot dwell with discontent and keep a
healthy imagination. She knew her danger, and it increased the
misery with which she looked forward.

Another week, and again there was a chance meeting with Mallard,
this time on the Via Appia, where Cecily and her aunt were driving.
They spent a couple of hours together. At the parting, Mallard
announced that the next day would see him on his journey to London





CHAPTER X

ELGAR AT WORK




At Dover it was cold and foggy; the shore looked mildewed, the town
rain-soaked and mud-stained. In London, a solid leaden sky lowered
above the streets, neither threatening rain nor allowing a hope of
sunlight. What a labour breathing had become!

"My heart warms to my native land," said Spence. "This is a spring
day that recalls one's youth."

Eleanor tried to smile, but the railway journey had depressed her
beneath the possibility of joking. Miriam was pallid and miserable;
she had scarcely spoken since she set foot on the steamboat.
Cab-borne through the clangorous streets, they seemed a party of
exiles.

The house in Chelsea, which the Spences held on a long lease, had
been occupied during their absence by Edward's brother-in-law and
his family. Vacated, swept, and garnished, the old furniture from
the Pantechnicon re-established somewhat at haphazard, it was not a
home that welcomed warmly; but one could heap coals on all the
fires, and draw down the blinds as soon as possible, and make a sort
of Christmas evening. If only one's lungs could have free play! But
in a week or so such little incommodities would become natural
again.

Miriam had decided that in a day or two she would go down to
Bartles; not to stay there, but merely to see her relative, Mrs.
Fletcher, and Redbeck House. Before leaving London, she must visit
Reuben; she had promised Cecily to do so without delay. This same
evening she posted a card to her brother, asking him to be at home
to see her early the next morning.

She reached Belsize Park at ten o'clock, and dismissed the cab as
soon as she had alighted from it. Her ring at the door was long in
being answered, and the maid-servant who at last appeared did small
credit to the domestic arrangements of the house--she was
slatternly, and seemed to resent having her morning occupations,
whatever they were, thus disturbed. Miriam learnt with surprise that
Mr. Elgar was not at home.

"He is out of town?"

The servant thought so; he had not been at the house for two days.

"You are unable to tell me when he will return?"

Mr. Elgar was often away for a day or two, but not for longer than
that. The probability was that he would, at all events, look in
before evening, though he might go away again.

Miriam left a card--which the servant inspected with curiosity
before the door was closed--and turned to depart. It was raining,
and very windy. She had to walk some distance before she could find
a conveyance, and all the way she suffered from a painful fluttering
of the heart, an agitation like that of fear. All night she had
wished she had never returned to England, and now the wish became a
dread of remaining.

By the last post that evening came a note from Reuben. He wrote in
manifest hurry, requesting her to come again next morning; he would
have visited her himself, but perhaps she had not a separate
sitting-room, and he preferred to talk with her in privacy.

So in the morning she again went to Belsize Park. This time the
servant was a little tidier, and behaved more conventionally. Miriam
was conducted to the library, where Reuben awaited her.

They examined each other attentively. Miriam was astonished to find
her brother looking at least ten years older than when she last saw
him; he was much sparer in body, had duller eyes and, it seemed to
her, thinner hair.

"But why didn't you write sooner to let me know you were coming?"
was his first exclamation.

"I supposed you knew from Cecily."

"I haven't heard from her since the letter in which she told me she
had got to Rome. She said you would be coming soon, but that was
all. I don't understand this economy of postage!"

He grew more annoyed as he spoke. Meeting Miriam's eye, he added, in
the tone of explanation:

"It's abominable that you should come here all the way from Chelsea,
and be turned away at the door! What did the servant tell you?"

"Only that your comings and goings were very uncertain," she
replied, looking about the room.

"Yes, so they are. I go now and then to a friend's in Surrey and
stop overnight. One can't live alone for an indefinite time. But sit
down. Unless you'd like to have a look at the house, first of all?"

"I'll sit a little first."

"This is my study, when I'm working at home," Reuben continued,
walking about and handling objects, a book, or a pen, or a
paper-knife. "Comfortable, don't you think? I want to have another
bookcase over there. I haven't worked here much since Cecily has
been away; I have a great deal of reading to do at the Museum, you
know.--You look a vast deal better, Miriam. What are you going to
do?"

"I don't know. Most likely I shall continue to live with the
Spences."

"You wouldn't care to come here?"

"Thank you; I think the other arrangement will be better."

"Perhaps so. For one thing, it's quite uncertain whether we shall
keep this house. It's really a good deal too large for us; an
unnecessary expense. If Cecily is often to be away like this,
there's no possibility of keeping the place in order. How the
servants live, or what they do, I have no idea. How can I be
expected to look after such things?"

"But surely it is not expected of you? I understood that Cecily had
left a housekeeper."

"Oh yes; but I have a suspicion that she does little but eat and
drink. I know the house is upside down. It's long enough since I had
a decent meal here. Practically I have taken to eating at
restaurants. Of course I say nothing about it to Cecily; what's the
use of bothering her? By-the-bye, how is she? How did you leave
her?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid."

"She never says a word about her health. But then, practically, she
never writes. I doubt whether London suits her. We shall have to
make our head-quarters in Paris, I fancy; she was always well enough
there. Of course I can't abandon London entirely; at all events, not
till I've--till my materials for the book are all ready; but it's
simple enough for me to come and take lodgings for a month now and
then."

Miriam gave an absent "Yes."

"You don't seem to have altered much, after all," he resumed,
looking at her with a smile. "You talk to me just like you used to.
I expected to find you more cheerful."

Miriam showed a forced smile, but answered nothing.

"Well, did you see much of Mallard?" he asked, throwing himself into
a seat impatiently, and beginning to rap his knee with the
paper-knife.

"Not very much."

"Has he come back with you?"

"Oh no; he is still in Rome. He said that he would most likely
return when the others did."

"How do he and Cecily get on together?"

"They seemed to be quite friendly."

"Indeed? Does he go about with them?"

"I don't know."

"But did he when you were there?"

"I think he was with them at the Vatican once."

Elgar heard it with indifference. He was silent for a minute or two;
then, quitting his chair, asked:

"Had you much talk with her?"

"With Cecily? We were living together, you know."

"Yes, but had she much to tell you? Did she talk about how things
were going with us--what I was doing, and so on?"

He was never still. Now he threw himself into another chair, and
strummed with his fingers on the arm of it.

"She told me about your work."

"And showed that she took very little interest in it, no doubt?"

Miriam gazed at him.

"Why do you think that?"

"Oh, that's tolerably well understood between us." Again he rose.
and paced with his hands in his pockets. "It was a misfortune that
Clarence died. Now she has nothing to occupy herself with. She
doesn't seem to have any idea of employing her time. It was bad
enough when the child was living, but since then--"

He spoke as though the hints fell from him involuntarily; he wished
to be understood as implying no censure, but merely showing an
unfortunate state of things. When he broke off, it was with a shrug
and a shake of the head.

"But I suppose she reads a good deal?" said Miriam; "and has friends
to visit?"

"She seems to care very little about reading nowadays. And as for
the friends--yes, she is always going to some house or other.
Perhaps it would have been better if she had had no friends at all."

"You mean that they are objectionable people?"

"Oh no; I don't mean to say anything of that kind. But--well,
never mind, we won't talk about it."

He threw up an arm, and began to pace the floor again. His
nervousness was increasing. In a few moments he broke out in the
same curious tone, which was half complaining, half resigned.

"You know Cecily, I dare say. She has a good deal of--well, I
won't call it vanity, because that has a vulgar sound, and she is
never vulgar. But she likes to be admired by clever people. One must
remember how young she still is. And that's the very thing of which
she can't endure to be reminded. If I hint a piece of counsel, she
feels it an insult. I suppose I am to blame myself, in some things.
When I was working here of an evening, now and then I felt it a bore
to have to dress and go out. I don't care much for society, that's
the fact of the matter. But I couldn't bid her stay at home. You see
how things get into a wrong course. A girl of her age oughtn't to be
going about alone among all sorts of people. Of course something had
to precede that. The first year or two, she didn't want any society.
I suppose a man who studies much always runs the danger of
neglecting his home affairs. But it was her own wish that I should
begin to work. She was incessantly urging me to it. One of the
inconsistencies of women, you see."

He laughed unmelodiously, and then there was a long silence. Miriam,
who watched him mechanically, though her eyes were not turned
directly upon him, saw that he seated himself on the writing-table,
and began to make idle marks with a pencil on the back of an
envelope.

"Why didn't you go abroad with her?" she asked in a low voice.

"I would have gone, if it hadn't been quite clear that she preferred
not to have my company."

"Are you speaking the truth?"

"What do you mean, Miriam? She preferred to go alone; I know she
did."

"But didn't you make the excuse to her that you couldn't leave your
work?"

"That's true also. Could I say plainly that I saw what she wished?"

"I think it very unlikely that you were right," Miriam rejoined in a
tone of indecision.

"What reason have you for saying that?"

"You ought to have a very good reason before you believe the
contrary."

She waited for him to reply, but he had taken another piece of
paper, and seemed absorbed in covering it with a sort of pattern of
his own design.

"Right or wrong, what does it matter?" he exclaimed at length,
flinging the pencil away. "The event is the same, in any case. Does
it depend on myself how I act, or what I think? Do you believe still
that we are free agents, and responsible for our acts and thoughts?"

Miriam avoided his look, and said carelessly:

"I know nothing about it."

He gave a short laugh.

"Well, that's better and more honest than saying you believe what is
contrary to all human experience. Look back on your life. Has its
course been of your own shaping? Compare yourself of to-day with
yourself of four years ago; has the change come about by your own
agency? If you are _wrong_, are you to blame? Imagine some fanatic
seizing you by the arm, and shouting to you to beware of the
precipice to which you are advancing--"

He suited the action to the word, and grasped her wrist. Miriam
shook him off angrily.

"What do you know of _me_?" she exclaimed, with suppressed scorn.

"True. Just as little as you know of me, or any one person of any
other. However, I was speaking of what you know of yourself. I
suppose you can look back on one or two things in your life of which
your judgment doesn't approve? Do you imagine they could have
happened otherwise than they did? Do you think it lay in your own
power to take the course you now think the better?"

Miriam stood up impatiently, and showed no intention of replying.
Again Elgar laughed, and waved his arm as if dismissing a subject of
thought.

"Come up and look at the drawing-room," he said, walking to the
door.

"Some other time. I'll come again in a few days."

"As you please. But you must take your chance of finding me at home,
unless you give me a couple of days' notice."

"Thank you," she answered coldly. "I will take my chance."

He went with her to the front door. With his hand on the latch, he
said in an undertone:

"Shall you be writing to Cecily?"

"I think not; no."

"All right. I'll let her know you called."

For Miriam, this interview was confirmative of much that she had
suspected. She believed now that Reuben and his wife, if they had
not actually agreed to live apart, were practically in the position
of people who have. The casual reference to a possible abandonment
of their house meant more than Reuben admitted. She did not
interpret the situation as any less interested person, with her
knowledge of antecedents, certainly would have done; that is to say,
conclude that Reuben was expressing his own desires independently of
those which Cecily might have formed. Her probing questions, in
which she had seemed to take Cecily's side, were in reality put with
a perverse hope of finding that such a view was untenable, and she
came away convinced that this was the case. The state of things at
home considered, Cecily would not have left for so long an absence
but on her own wish.

And, this determined, she thought with increased bitterness of
Mallard's remaining in Rome. He too could not but suspect the course
that Cecily's married life was taking; by this time he might even
know with certainty. How would that affect him? In her doubt as to
how far the exchange of confidences between Cecily and Mallard was a
possible thing, she tortured herself with picturing the progress of
their intercourse at Rome, inventing chance encounters, imagining
conversations. Mrs. Lessingham was as good as no obstacle to their
intimacy; her, Miriam distrusted profoundly. Judging by her own
impulses, she attributed to Cecily a strong desire for Mallard's
sustaining companionship; and on the artist's side, she judged all
but inevitable, under such circumstances, a revival of that passion
she had read in his face long ago. Her ingenuity of self-torment
went so far as to interpret Mallard's behaviour to herself in a
dishonourable sense. It is doubtful whether any one who loves
passionately fulfils the ideal of being unable to see the object of
love in any but a noble light; this is one of the many conventions,
chiefly of literary origin, which to the eyes of the general make
cynicism of wholesome truth. Miriam deemed it not impossible that
Mallard had made her his present of pictures simply to mislead her
thought when she was gone. Jealousy can sink to baser imaginings
than this. It is only calm affection that judges always in the
spirit of pure sympathy.

On the following day, the Spences dined from home, and Miriam, who
had excused herself from accompanying them, sat through the evening
in their drawing-room. The weather was wretched; a large fire made
the comfort within contrast pleasantly enough with sounds of wind
and rain against the house. Miriam's mind was far away from Chelsea;
it haunted the Via del Babuino, and the familiar rooms of the hotel
where Cecily was living. Just after the clock had struck ten, a
servant entered and said that Mr. Elgar wished to see her.

Reuben was in evening dress.

"What! you are alone?" he said on entering. "I'm glad of that. I
supposed I should have to meet the people. I want to kill half an
hour, that's all."

He drew a small low chair near to hers, and, when he had seated
himself, took one of her hands. Miriam glanced at him with surprise,
but did not resist him. His cheeks were flushed, perhaps from the
cold wind, and there was much more life in his eyes than the other
morning.

"You're a lonely girl, Miriam," he let fall idly, after musing. "I'm
glad I happened to come in, to keep you company. What have you been
thinking about?"

"Italy," she answered, with careless truth.

"Italy, Italy! Who doesn't think of Italy? I wish I knew Italy as
well as you do. Isn't it odd that I should be saying that to you? I
believe you are now far my superior in all knowledge that is worth
having. Did I mention that Ciss wrote an account of you in the
letter just after she had reached Rome?"

Miriam made an involuntary movement as if to withdraw her hand, but
overcame herself before she had succeeded.

"How did she come to know me so quickly?" was her question, murmured
absently.

"From Mrs. Spence, it seemed. Come, tell me what you have been doing
this long time. You have seen Greece too. I must go to Greece--
perhaps before the end of this year. I'll make a knapsack ramble:
Greece, Egypt, Asia Minor, Constantinople."

Miriam kept silence, and her brother appeared to forget that he had
said anything that required an answer. Presently he released her
hand, after patting it, and moved restlessly in his chair; then he
looked at his watch, and compared it curiously with the clock on the
mantelpiece.

"Ciss," he began suddenly, and at once with a laugh corrected
himself--"Miriam, I mean."

"What?"

"I forget what I was going to say," he muttered, after delaying.
"But that reminds me; I've been anxious lest you should
misunderstand what I said yesterday. You didn't think I wished to
make charges against Cecily?"

"It's difficult to understand you," was all she replied.

"But you mustn't think that I misjudge her. Cecily has more than
realized all I imagined her to be. There are few women living who
could be called her equals. I say this in the gravest conviction;
this is the simple result of my knowledge of her. She has an
exquisite nature, an admirable mind. I have never heard her speak a
sentence that was unworthy of her, not one!"

His voice trembled with earnestness. Miriam looked at from under her
eyebrows.

"If any one," he pursued, "ever threw doubt on the perfect
uprightness of Cecily's conduct, her absolute honour, I would gage
my life upon the issue."

And in this moment he spoke with sincerity, whatever the mental
process which had brought him to such an utterance. Even Miriam
could not doubt him. His clenched fist quivered as it lay on his
knee, and the gleam of firelight showed that his eves were moist.

"Why do you say this?" his sister asked, still scrutinizing him.

"To satisfy myself; to make you understand once for all what I _do_
believe. Have you any other opinion of her, Miriam?"

She gave a simple negative.

"I am not saying this," he pursued, "in the thought that you will
perhaps repeat it to her some day. It is for my own satisfaction. If
I could put it more strongly, I would; but I will have nothing to do
with exaggerations. The truth is best expressed in the simplest
words."

"What do you mean by honour?" Miriam inquired, when there had been a
short silence.

"Honour?"

"Your definitions are not generally those accepted by most people."

"I hope not." He smiled. "But you know sufficiently what I mean.
Deception, for instance, is incompatible with what I understand as
honour."

He spoke it slowly and clearly, his eyes fixed on the fire.

"You seem to me to be attributing moral responsibility to her."

"What I say is this that I believe her nature incapable of admitting
the vulgar influences to which people in general are subject. I
attach no merit to her high qualities--no more than I attach merit
to the sea for being a nobler thing than a muddy puddle. Of course I
know that she cannot help being what she is, and cannot say to
herself that in future she will become this or that. How am I
inconsistent? Suppose me wrong in my estimate of her. I might then
lament that she fell below what I had imagined, but of course I
should have no right to blame her."

Miriam reflected; then put the question:

"And does she hold the same opinion--with reference to you, for
instance?"

"Theoretically she does."

"Theoretically? If she made her opinions practical, I suppose there
would be no reason why you shouldn't live together in contentment?"

Reuben glanced at her.

"I can't say," he replied gloomily. "That is quite another matter."

"Speaking of honour," said Miriam, "you would attach no blame to
yourself if you fell below it."

He replied with deliberation:

"One often blames one's self emotionally, but the understanding is
not affected by that. Unless your mind is unsteadied by excess of
feeling."

"I believe you are a victim of sophistry--sophistry of the most
dangerous kind. I can't argue with you, but I pity you, and fear for
you."

The words were uttered so solemnly that Reuben for a moment was
shaken; his features moved in a way which indicates a sudden failure
of self-possession. But he recovered himself immediately, and smiled
his least amiable smile.

"I see you are not yet past the half-way house on the way of
emancipation, Miriam. These things sound disagreeable, and prompt
such deliverances as this of yours. But can I help it if a truth is
unpalatable? What better should I be if I shut my eyes against it?
You will say that this conviction makes me incapable of struggle for
the good. Nothing of the kind. Where I am destined to struggle, I do
so, without any reference to my scientific views. Of course, one is
unhappier with science than without it. Who ever urged the contrary,
that was worth listening to? I believe the human race will be more
and more unhappy as science grows. But am I on that account likely
to preach a crusade against it? Sister mine, we are what we are; we
think and speak and do what causation determines. If you can still
hold another belief, do so, and be thrice blessed. I would so gladly
see you happy, dear Miriam."

Again he took her hand, and pressed it against his cheek Miriam
looked straight before her with wide, almost despairing eyes.

"I must go, this moment," Elgar said, happening to notice the time.
"Say I have been here, and couldn't wait for their return; indeed,
they wouldn't expect it."

"Wait a few minutes, Reuben."

She retained his hand.

"I can't dear; I can't." His cheeks were hot. "I have an
appointment."

"What appointment? With whom?"

"A friend. It is something important. I'll tell you another time."

"Tell me now. Your sister is more to you than a friend. I ask you to
stay with me, Reuben."

In his haste, he did not understand how great an effort over herself
such words as these implied. The egoist rarely is moved to wonder at
unusual demonstrations made on his own behalf. Miriam was holding
his hand firmly, but he broke away. Then he turned back, took her in
his arms, and kissed her more tenderly than he ever had done since
he was a child. Miriam had a smile of hope, but only for a moment.
After all, he was gone.





CHAPTER XI

IN DUE COURSE




A change of trains, and half an hour's delay, at Manchester, then on
through Lancashire civilization, through fumes and evil smells and
expanses of grey-built hideousness, as far as the station called
Bartles.

Miriam remarked novelties as she alighted. The long wooden platform,
which used to be almost bare, was now in part sheltered by a
structure of iron and glass. There was a bookstall. Porters were
more numerous. The old stationmaster still bustled about; he
recognized her with a stare of curiosity, but did not approach to
speak, as formerly he would have done. Miriam affected not to
observe him; he had been wont to sit in the same chapel with her.

The wooden stairs down into the road were supplanted by steps of
stone, and below waited several cabs, instead of the two she
remembered. "To Redbeck House." The local odours were, at all
events, the same as ever; with what intensity they revived the past!
Every well-known object, every familiar face, heightened the
intolerable throbbing of her heart; so that at length she drew
herself into a corner of the cab and looked at nothing.

In the house itself nothing was new; even the servants were the same
Miriam had left there. Mrs. Fletcher lived precisely the life of
three and a half years ago, down to the most trivial habit; used the
same phrases, wore the same kind of dress. To Miriam everything
seemed unreal, visionary; her own voice sounded strange, for it was
out of harmony with this resuscitated world. She went up to the room
prepared for her, and tried to shake off the nightmare oppression.
The difficulty was to keep a natural consciousness of her own
identity. Above all, the scents in the air disturbed her, confused
her mind, forced her to think in forgotten ways about the things on
which her eyes fell.

The impressions of every moment were disagreeable, now and then
acutely painful. To what purpose had she faced this experience? She
might have foreseen what the result would be, and her presence here
was unnecessary.

But in an hour, when her pulse again beat temperately, she began to
adjust the relations between herself and these surroundings. They no
longer oppressed her; the sense of superiority which had been
pleasant at a distance re-established itself, and gave her a defiant
strength such as she had hoped for. So far from the anxieties of her
conscience being aggravated by return to Bartles, she could not
recover that mode of feeling which had harassed her for the last few
months. Like so many other things, it had become insubstantial. It
might revive, but for the present she was safe against it.

And this self-possession was greatly aided by Mrs. Fletcher's talk.
Prom her sister-in-law's letters, though for the last two years they
had been few, Miriam had formed some conception of the progress of
Bartles opinion concerning herself. Now she led Mrs. Fletcher to
converse with native candour on this subject, and in the course of
the evening, which they spent alone, all the town's gossip since
Miriam's going abroad was gradually reported. Mrs. Fletcher was
careful to prevent the inference (which would have been
substantially correct) that she herself had been the source of such
rumours as had set wagging the tongues of dissident Bartles; she
spoke with much show of reluctance, and many protestations of the
wrath that had been excited in her by those who were credulous of
ill. Miriam confined herself to questioning; she made no verbal
comments. But occasionally she averted her face with a haughty
smile.

Mrs. Welland, the once-dreaded rival, had established an
unassailable supremacy. From her, according to Mrs. Fletcher,
proceeded most of the scandalous suggestions which had attached
themselves to Mrs. Baske's name. This lady had not scrupled to state
it as a fact in her certain knowledge that Mrs. Baske was become a
Papist. To this end, it seemed, was the suspicion of Bartles mainly
directed--the Scarlet Woman throned by the Mediterranean had made
a victim of her who was once a light in the re-reformed faith. That
was the reason, said Mrs. Welland, why the owner of Redbeck House
continued to dwell in foreign parts. If ever she came back at all,
it would be as an insidious enemy; but more likely she would never
return; possibly her life would close in a convent, like that of
other hapless Englishwomen whose personal property excited the
covetousness of the Pope. In the Bartles newspaper there had
appeared, from time to time, enigmatic paragraphs, which Mrs.
Welland and her intimates made the subject of much gossip; these
passages alluded either to a certain new chapel which seemed very
long in getting its foundations laid, or to a certain former
inhabitant of Bartles, who found it necessary, owing to the sad
state of her health, to make long residence in Roman Catholic
countries. Mrs. Fletcher had preserved these newspapers, and now
produced them. Miriam read and smiled.

"Why didn't it occur to them to suggest that I had become an
atheist?"

Mrs. Fletcher screamed with horror. No, no; Bartles did not contain
any one so malicious as that. After all, whatever had been said was
merely the outcome of a natural disappointment. All would be put
right again. To-morrow was Sunday, and when Miriam appeared in the
chapel--

"I have no intention of going to chapel."

On Monday morning she returned to London. Excepting Mrs. Fletcher
and her daughters, she had spoken with no one in Bartles. She came
away with a contemptuous hatred of the place--a resolve never to
see it again.

This had been the one thing needed to make Miriam as intolerant in
agnosticism as she formerly was in dogma. Henceforth she felt the
animosity of a renegade. In the course of a few hours her soul had
completed its transformation, and at the incitement of that pride
which had always been the strongest motive within her. Her old faith
was now identified with the cackle of Bartles, and she flung it
behind her with disdain.

Not that she felt insulted by the supposition that she had turned
Romanist. No single reason would account for her revolt, which,
coining thus late, was all but as violent as that which had animated
her brother from his boyhood. Intellectual progress had something to
do with it, for on approaching with new eyes that narrow provincial
life, she could scarcely believe it had once been her own, and
resented the memory of such a past. But less worthy promptings were
more strongly operative. The Bartles folk had a certain measure of
right against her; she had ostentatiously promised them a chapel,
and how was her failure in keeping the promise to be accounted for?
This justification of theirs chafed her; she felt the ire of one who
has no right to be angry. It shamed her, moreover, to be reminded of
the pretentious spirit which was the origin of this trouble; and to
be shamed by her inferiors was to Miriam a venomed stab. Then,
again, she saw no way of revenging herself. Had she this morning
possessed the power of calling down fire from heaven, Lancashire
would shortly have missed one of its ugliest little towns; small
doubt of that.

No wonder a grave old gentleman who sat opposite on the journey to
London was constrained frequently to look at her. As often as she
forgot herself, the wrathful arrogance which boiled in her heart was
revealed on her features; the strained brow, the flashing eyes, the
stern-set lips, made a countenance not often to be studied in the
railway-carriage.

It was with distinct pleasure that she found herself again in
London. Contrasted with her homes in the south, London had depressed
and discouraged her; but in this also did the visit to Bartles
change her feeling. She understood now what Ii ad determined the
Spences to make their abode once more in London. She too was in need
of tonics for the mind. The roar of the streets was grateful to her;
it seemed to lull the painful excitement in which she had travelled,
and at the same time to stimulate her courage. Yes, she could face
miseries better in London, after all. She could begin to work again,
and make lofty that edifice of anti dogmatic scorn which had now
such solid foundations.

She allowed nearly a week to pass before writing to Reuben. When at
length she sent a note, asking him either to come and see her or to
make an appointment, it remained unanswered for three days; then
arrived a few hurried lines, in which he said that he had been out
of town, and was again on the point of leaving home, but he hoped to
see her before long. She waited, always apprehensive of ill. What
she divined of her brother's life was inextricably mingled with the
other causes of her suffering.

One afternoon she returned from walking on the Chelsea Embankment,
and, on reaching the drawing-room door, which was ajar, heard a
voice that made her stand still. She delayed an instant; then
entered, and found Eleanor in conversation with Mallard.

He had been in London, he said, only a day or two. Miriam inquired
whether Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily had also left Rome. Not yet, he
thought, but certainly they would be starting in a few days. The
conversation then went on between Mallard and Eleanor; Miriam,
holding a cup of tea, only gave a brief reply when it was necessary.

"And now," said Eleanor, "appoint a day for us to come and see your
studio."

"You shall appoint it yourself."

"Then let us say to-morrow."

In speaking, Eleanor turned interrogatively to Miriam, who, however,
said nothing. Mallard addressed her.

"May I hope that you will come, Mrs. Baske?"

His tone was, to her ear, as unsatisfying as could be; he seemed to
put the question under constraint of civility. But, of course, only
one answer was possible.

So next day this visit was paid; Spence also came. Mallard had made
preparations. A tea-service which would not have misbecome Eleanor's
own drawing-room stood in readiness. Pictures were examined, tea was
taken, artistic matters were discussed.

And Miriam went away in uttermost discontent. She felt that
henceforth her relations with Mallard were established on a
perfectly conventional basis. Her dreams were left behind in Rome.
Here was no Vatican in which to idle and hope for possible meetings.
The holiday was over. Everything seemed of a sudden so flat and
commonplace, that even her jealousy of Cecily faded for lack of
sustenance.

Then she received a letter from Cecily herself, announcing return
within a week. From Reuben she had even yet heard nothing.

A few days later, as she was reading in her room between tea and
dinner-time, Eleanor came in; she held an evening newspaper, and
looked very grave--more than grave. Miriam, as soon as their eyes
met, went pale with misgiving.

"There's something here," Eleanor began, "that I must show you. If I
said nothing about it, you would see it all the same. Sooner or
later, we should speak of it."

"What is it? About whom?" Miriam asked, with fearful impatience,
half rising.

"Your brother."

Miriam took the paper, and read what was indicated. It was the
report of a discreditable affair--in journalistic language, a
_fracas_--that had happened the previous night at Notting Hill. A
certain music-hall singer, a lady who had of late achieved
popularity, drove home about midnight, accompanied by a gentleman
whose name was also familiar to the public--at all events, to that
portion of it which reads society journals and has an interest in
race-horses. The pair had just alighted at the house-door, when they
were hurriedly approached by another gentleman, who made some remark
to the songstress; whereupon the individual known to fame struck him
smartly with his walking-stick. The result was a personal conflict,
a rolling upon the pavement, a tearing of shirt-collars, and the
opportune arrival of police. The gentleman whose interference had
led to the _rencontre_--again to borrow the reporter's phrase--
and who was charged with assault by the other, at first gave a false
name; it had since transpired that he was a Mr. R. Elgar, of Belsize
Park.

Miriam laid down the paper. She had overcome her extreme agitation,
but there was hot shame on her cheeks. She tried to smile.

"One would think he had contrived it for his wife's greeting on her
return."

Eleanor was silent.

"I am not much surprised," Miriam added. "Nor you either, I dare
say?"

"I have felt uneasy; but I never pictured anything like this. Can we
do anything? Shall you go and see him?"

"No."

They sat for some minutes without speaking; then Miriam exclaimed
angrily:

"What right had she to go abroad alone?"

"For anything we know, Miriam, she may have had only too good a
reason."

"Then I don't see that it matters."

Eleanor sighed, and, after a little lingering, but without further
speech, went from the room.

In the meantime, Spence had entered the house. Eleanor met him in
the drawing-room, and held the paper to him, with a silent
indication of the paragraph. He read, and with an exclamation of
violent disgust threw the thing aside. His philosophy failed him for
once.

"What a blackguardly affair! Does Miriam know?"

"I have just shown it her. Evidently she had a suspicion of what was
going on."

Spence muttered a little; then regained something of his usual
equanimity.

"Our conjectures may be right," he said. "Perhaps no revelation
awaits her."

"I begin to think it very likely. Oh, it is hateful, vile! She
oughtn't to return to him."

"Pray, what is she to do?"

"I had rather she died than begin such a life!"

"I see no help for her. Her lot is that of many a woman no worse
than herself. We both foresaw it; Mallard foresaw it."

"I am afraid to look forward. I don't think she is the kind of woman
to forgive again and again. This will revolt her, and there is no
telling what she may do."

"It is the old difficulty. Short of killing herself, whatever she
does will be the beginning of worse things. In this respect, there's
no distinction between Cecily and the wife of the costermonger.
Civilization is indifferent. Her life is marred, and there's an end
on't."

Eleanor turned away. Her eyes were wet with tears of indignant
sympathy.





CHAPTER XII

CECILY'S RETURN




On alighting at Charing Cross, Cecily searched the platform for
Reuben. There could be no doubt of his coming to meet her, for she
had written to tell him that Mrs. Lessingham would at once go into
the country from another station, and she would thus be alone. But
she looked about and waited in vain. In the end she took a cab,
parted with her companion, and drove homewards.

It was more than a trivial disappointment. On the journey, she had
felt a longing for home, a revival of affection; she had tried to
persuade herself that this long separation would have made a happy
change, and that their life might take a new colour. Had Reuben
appeared 'at the station, she would have pressed his hand warmly.
Her health had improved; hope was again welcome. It came not like
the hope of years ago, radiant, with eyes of ecstasy; but sober,
homely, a gentle smile on its compassionate lips.

His failure would easily be explained; either he had mistaken the
train, or something inevitable had hindered him; possibly she had
made a slip of the pen in writing. Nearing home, she grew tremulous,
nervously impatient. Before the cab had stopped, she threw the door
open.

The servant who admitted her wore an unusual expression, but Cecily
did not observe this.

"Mr. Elgar is at home?"

"No, ma'am."

"When did he go out?"

"He has not been at home for three days, ma'am."

Cecily controlled herself.

"There are some parcels in the cab. Take them up stairs."

She went into the study, and stood looking about her. On the
writing-table lay some unopened letters, all addressed to her
husband; also two or three that had been read and thrown aside.
Whilst she was still at the mercy of her confused thoughts, the
servant came and asked if she would pay the cabman.

Then she ascended to the drawing-room and sat down. Had her letter
gone astray? But if he had not been home for three days, and, as
appeared, his letters were not forwarded to him, did not this prove
(supposing a miscarriage of what she had written) that he was not
troubling himself about news from her? If he had received her
letter--and it ought to have arrived at least four days ago--what
was the meaning of his absence?

She shrank from questioning the servants further. Presently, without
having changed her dress, she went down again to the library, and
re-examined the letters waiting to be read; and the handwriting was
in each case unknown to her. Then she took up the letters that were
open. One was an invitation to dine, one the appeal of some
charitable institution; last, a few lines from Mallard. He wrote
asking Elgar to come and see him--seemingly with no purpose beyond
a wish to re-establish friendly relations. Cecily read the note
again and again, wondering whether it had led to a meeting.

Why had not the housekeeper made her appearance? She rang the bell,
and the woman came. With as much composure as she could command,
Cecily inquired whether Mr. Elgar had spoken of her expected
arrival. Yes, he had done so; everything had been made ready. And
had he left word when he himself should be back? No; he had said
nothing.

Naturally, she thought of going to the Spences'; but her dignity
resisted. How could she seek information about her husband from
friends? It was difficult to believe that he kept away voluntarily.
Would he not in any case have sent word, even though the excuse were
untruthful? What motive could he have for treating her thus? His
last letter was longer and kinder than usual.

She was troubling herself needlessly. The simple explanation was of
course the true one. He had been away in the country, and had
arranged to be back in time to meet her at the station; then some
chance had intervened. Doubtless he would very soon present himself.
Her impatience and anxiety would never occur to him; what difference
could a few hours make? They were not on such lover-like terms
nowadays.

Compelling herself to rest in this view, she made a change of
clothing, and again summoned the housekeeper, this time for
discussion of domestic details. Cecily had no feminine delight in
such matters for their own sake; the butcher, the baker, and the
candlestick-maker were necessary evils, to be put out of mind as
soon as possible. She learned incidentally that Reuben had been a
great deal from home; but this did not surprise her. She had never
imagined him leading a methodical life, between Belsize Park and the
British Museum. That was not in his nature.

At the usual hour she had luncheon. Shortly after, when her patience
was yielding to fears--fears which, in truth, she had only masked
with the show of explanation--a letter was brought in. But nothing
to the purpose. It came from Zillah Denyer, who began with apologies
for writing, and expressed uncertainty whether Mrs. Elgar had yet
returned from abroad; then went on to say that her sister Madeline
had been suffering dreadfully of late. "Perhaps you know that Mrs.
Travis has left us. Madeline has missed her company very much, and
often longs to see the face of some visitor. She speaks of the one
visit you paid her, and would so like to see you again. Forgive me
for asking if you could spare half an hour. The evening is best; I
venture to say this, as you came in the evening before."

Cecily forgot herself for a few minutes in sorrows graver than her
own. Her impression after the one visit had been that Madeline would
not greatly care for her to repeat it; this, it seemed, was a
mistake. So Mrs. Travis had left her lodgings? She heard of it for
the first time.

About half-past three there sounded the knock of a visitor at the
house door. Expecting no one, Cecily had given no directions; the
parlour-maid hurried upstairs to ask if she was "at home." She
replied that the name must first be announced to her.

It was Mrs. Travis. Cecily hesitated, but decided to receive her.

Though the intercourse between them had been resumed, it was with a
restraint on both sides that seemed to forbid the prospect of
friendship. They had met two or three times only; once it was in the
Denyers' house, and on that occasion Cecily had renewed her
acquaintance with the family and sat a little with Madeline.
Interest in each other they certainly felt, but not in like degrees;
Mrs. Travis showed herself more strongly attracted to Cecily than
Cecily was to her, as it had been from the first. That this was the
attraction of simple liking and goodwill, Cecily could never quite
convince herself. Mrs. Travis always seemed to be studying her, and
sometimes in a spirit of curiosity that was disagreeable. But at the
same time she was so manifestly in need of sympathetic
companionship, and allowed such sad glimpses into her own wrecked
life, that Cecily could not reject her, nor even feel with actual
coldness.

"Have you been home long?" the visitor asked, as they shook hands.

"A few hours only."

"Indeed? You have arrived to-day?"

They sat down. Mrs. Travis fixed her eyes on Cecily.

"I hardly hoped to find you."

"I should have let you know that I was back."

Their conversations were accustomed to begin awkwardly,
constrainedly. They never spoke of ordinary topics, and each seemed
to wait for a suggestion of the other's mood. At present Cecily was
uneasy under her visitor's gaze, which was stranger and more
inquisitive than usual.

"So you have left the Denyers'?" she said.

"From whom did you hear?"

"I have just had a note from Zillah Denyer, about Madeline. She
merely mentions that you are no longer there."

"I ought to go and see them; but I can't to-day."

"Have you been in London all the time?"

"Yes.--I have gone back to my husband."

It was spoken in a matter-of-fact tone (obviously assumed) which was
very incongruous with the feeling it excited in Cecily. She could
not hear the announcement without an astonished look.

"Of your own free will?" she asked, in a diffident voice. "Oh yes.
That is to say, he persuaded me."

Their eyes met, and Cecily had an impulse of distrust, more decided
than she had ever felt. She could not find anything to say, and by
keeping silence she hoped the interview might be shortened.

"You are disposed to feel contempt for me," Mrs. Travis added, after
a few moments.

"No one can judge another in such things. It is your own affair,
Mrs. Travis."

"Yes, but you despise me for my weakness, naturally you do. Had you
no suspicion that it would end again in this way?"

"I simply believed what you told me."

"That nothing would induce me to return to him. That is how women
talk, you know. We are all very much the same."

Again Cecily kept silence. Mrs. Travis, observing her, saw an
offended look rise to her face.

"I mean, we are few of us, us women, strong enough to hold out
against natural and social laws. We feel indignant, we suffer more
than men can imagine, but we have to yield. But it is true that most
women are wise enough not to act in my way. You are quite right to
despise me."

"Why do you repeat that? It is possible you are acting quite
rightly. How should I be able to judge?"

"I am not acting rightly," said the other, with bitterness. "Two
courses are open to a woman in my position. Either she must suffer
in silence, care nothing for the world's talk, take it for granted
that, at any cost, she remains under her husband's roof; or she must
leave him once and for ever, and regard herself as a free woman. The
first is the ordinary choice; most women are forced into it by
circumstances; very few have courage and strength for the second.
But to do first one thing, then the other, to be now weak and now
strong, to yield to the world one day and defy it the next, and then
to yield again,--that is base. Such a woman is a traitor to her
sex."

Cecily did not lift her eyes. She heard the speaker's voice tremble,
and could not bear to look at her face. Her heart was sinking,
though she knew not exactly what oppressed her. There was a long
silence; then Cecily spoke.

"If your husband persuaded you to return, it must have been that you
still have affection for him."

"The feeling is not worthy of that name."

"That is for yourself to determine. Why should we talk of it?"

Looking up, Cecily found the other's eyes again fixed on her. It was
as though this strange gaze were meant to be a reply.

"Would it not be better," she continued, "if we didn't speak of
these things? If it could do any good--But surely it cannot."

"Sympathy is good--offered or received."

"I do sympathize with you in your difficulties."

"But you do not care to receive mine," replied Mrs. Travis, in an
undertone.

Cecily gazed at her with changed eyes, inquiring, offended, fearful.

"What need have I of your sympathy, Mrs. Travis?" she asked
distantly.

"None, I see," answered the other, with a scarcely perceptible
smile.

"I don't understand you. Please let us never talk in this way
again."

"Never, if you will first let me say one thing. You remember that
Mr. Elgar once had doubts about my character. He was anxious on your
account, lest you should be friendly with a person who was not all
he could desire from the moral point of view. He did me justice at
last, but it was very painful, as you will understand, to be
suspected by one who embodies such high morality."

There was no virulence in her tone; she spoke as though quietly
defending herself against some unkindness. But Cecily could not
escape her eyes, which searched and stabbed.

"Why do you say this?"

"Because I am weak, and therefore envious. Why should you reject my
sympathy? I could be a better friend to you than any you have. I
myself have no friend; I can't make myself liked. I feel dreadfully
alone, without a soul who cares for me. I am my husband's plaything,
and of course he scorns me. I am sure he laughs at me with his
friends and mistresses. And you too scorn me, though I have tried to
make you my friend. Of course it is all at an end between us now. I
understand your nature; it isn't quite what I thought."

Cecily beard, but scarcely with understanding. The word for which
she was waiting did not come.

"Why," she asked, "do you speak of offering me sympathy? What do you
hint at?"

"Seriously, you don't know?"

"I don't," was the cold answer.

"Why did you go abroad without your husband?"

It came upon Cecily with a shock. Were people discussing her, and
thus interpreting her actions?

"Surely that is my own business, Mrs. Travis. I was in poor health,
and my husband was too busy to accompany me."

"That is the simple truth, from _your_ point of view?"

"How have you done me the honour to understand me?"

Mrs. Travis examined her; then put another question.

"Have you seen your husband since you arrived?"

"No, I have not."

"And you don't know that he is being talked about everywhere--not
exactly for his moral qualities?"

Cecily was mute. Thereupon Mrs. Travis opened the little
sealskin-bag that lay on her lap, and took out a newspaper. She held
it to Cecily, pointing to a certain report. It was a long account of
lively proceedings at a police-court. Cecily read. When she had come
to the end, her eyes remained on the paper. She did not move until
Mrs. Travis put out a hand and touched hers; then she drew back, as
in repugnance.

"You had heard nothing of this?"

Cecily did not reply. Thereupon Mrs. Travis again opened her little
bag, and took out a cabinet photograph. It represented a young woman
in tights, her arms folded, one foot across the other; the face was
vulgarly piquant, and wore a smile which made eloquent declaration
of its price.

"That is the 'lady,'" said Mrs. Travis, with a slight emphasis on
the last word.

Cecily looked for an instant only. There was perfect silence for a
minute or two after that; then Cecily rose. She did not speak; but
the other, also rising, said:

"I shouldn't have come if I had known you were still ignorant. But
now you can, and will, think the worst of me; from this day you will
hate me."

"I am not sure," replied Cecily, "that you haven't some strange
pleasure in what you have been telling me; but I know you are very
unhappy, and that alone would prevent me from hating you. I can't be
your friend, it is true; we are too unlike in our tempers and habits
of thought Let us shake hands and say good-bye."

But Mrs. Travis refused her hand, and with a look of bitter
suffering, which tried to appear resignation, went from the room.

Cecily felt a cold burden upon her heart. She sat in a posture of
listlessness, corresponding to the weary misery, numbing instead of
torturing, which possessed her now that the shock was over. Perhaps
the strange manner of the revelation tended to produce this result;
the strong self-control which she had exercised, the mingling of
incongruous emotions, the sudden end of her expectation, brought
about a mood resembling apathy.

She began presently to reflect, to readjust her view of the life she
had been living. It seemed to her now unaccountable that she had
been so little troubled with fears. Ignorance of the world had not
blinded her, nor was she unaware of her husband's history. But the
truth was that she had not cared to entertain suspicion. For a long
time she had not seriously occupied her mind with Reuben.
Self-absorbed, she was practically content to let happen what would,
provided it called for no interference of hers. Her indifference had
reached the point of idly accepting the present, and taking for
granted that things would always be much the same.

Yet she knew the kind of danger to which Reuben was exposed from the
hour when her indifference declared itself; it was present to her
imagination when he chose to remain alone in London. But such
thoughts were vague, impalpable. She had never realized a picture of
such degradation as this which had just stamped itself upon her
brain. In her surmises jealousy had no part, and therefore nothing
was conceived in detail. In the certainty that he no longer loved
her with love of the nobler kind, did it matter much what he
concealed? But this flagrant shame had never threatened her. This
was indeed the "experience" in which, as Reuben had insisted, she
was lacking.

No difficulty in understanding now why he kept away. Would he ever
come? Or had he determined that their life in common was no longer
possible, and resolved to spare her the necessity of saying that
they were no longer husband and wife? Doubtless that was what he
expected to hear from her; his view of her character, which she
understood sufficiently well, would lead him to think that.

But she had no impulse to leave his house. The example of Mrs.
Travis was too near. Escape, with or without melodramatic notes of
farewell, never suggested itself. She knew that it was a practical
impossibility to make that absolute severance of their lives without
which they were still man and wife, though at a distance from each
other; they must still be linked by material interests, by common
acquaintances. The end of sham heroics would come, sooner or later,
in the same way as to Mrs. Travis. How was her life different from
what it had been yesterday? By an addition of shame and scorn, that
was all; actually, nothing was altered. When Reuben heard that she
was remaining at home, he would come to her. Perhaps they might go
to live in some other place; that was all.

Tea was brought in, but she paid no heed to it. Sunset and twilight
came; the room grew dusk; then the servants appeared with lamps. She
dined, returned to the drawing room, and took up a book she had been
reading on her journey. It was a volume of Quinet, and insensibly
its interest concentrated her attention. She read for nearly two
hours.

Then she was tired of it, and began to move restlessly about. Again
she grew impatient of the uncertainty whether Reuben would return
to-night. She lay upon a couch and tried to forget herself in
recollection of far-off places and people. But instead of the
pictures she wished to form, there kept coming before her mind the
repulsive photograph which Mrs. Travis had produced. Though she had
barely glanced at it, she saw it distinctly--the tawdry costume,
the ignoble attitude, the shameless and sordid face. It polluted her
imagination.

Jealousy, of a woman such as that? Had she still loved him, she must
have broken her heart to think that he could fall so low. If it had
been told her that he was overcome by passion for a woman of some
nobleness, she could have heard it with resignation; in that there
would have been nothing base. But the choice he had made would not
allow her even the consolation of reflecting that she felt no
jealousy; it compelled her to involve him in the scorn, if not in
the loathing, with which that portrait inspired her.

That he merely had ceased to love her, what right had she to blame
him? The very word of "blame" was unmeaning in such reference. In
this, at all events, his fatalism had become her own way of
thinking. To talk of controlling love is nonsensical; dead love is
dead beyond hope. But need one sink into a slough of vileness?

At midnight she went to her bedroom. He would not come now.

Sleep seemed far from her, and yet before the clock struck one she
had fallen into a painful slumber. When she awoke, it was to toss
and writhe for hours in uttermost misery. She could neither sleep
nor command a train of thoughts. At times she sobbed and wailed in
her suffering.

No letter arrived in the morning. She could no longer read, and knew
not how to pass the hours. In some way she must put an end to her
intolerable loneliness, but she could not decide how to act. Reuben
might come today; she wished it, that the meeting might be over and
done with.

But the long torment of her nerves had caused a change of mood. She
was feverish now, and impatience grew to resentment. The emotions
which were yesterday so dulled began to stir in her heart and brain.
Walking about the room, unable to occupy herself for a moment, she
felt as though fetters were upon her; this house had become a
prison; her life was that of a captive without hope of release.

There came in her a sudden outbreak of passionate indignation at the
unequal hardships of a woman's lot. Often as she had read and heard
and talked of this, she seemed to understand it for the first time;
now first was it real to her, in the sense of an ill that goads and
tortures. Not society alone was chargeable with the injustice;
nature herself had dealt cruelly with woman. Constituted as she is,
limited as she is by inexorable laws, by what refinement of malice
is she endowed with energies and desires like to those of men? She
should have been made a creature of sluggish brain, of torpid pulse;
then she might have discharged her natural duties without exposure
to fever and pain and remorse such as man never knows.

She asked no liberty to be vile, as her husband made himself; but
that she was denied an equal freedom to exercise all her powers, to
enrich her life with experiences of joy, this fired her to revolt. A
woman who belongs to the old education readily believes that it is
not to experiences of joy, but of sorrow, that she must look for her
true blessedness; her ideal is one of renunciation; religious motive
is in her enforced by what she deems the obligation of her sex. But
Cecily was of the new world, the emancipated order. For a time she
might accept misery as her inalienable lot, but her youthful years,
fed with the new philosophy, must in the end rebel

Could she live with such a man without sooner or later taking a
taint of his ignobleness? His path was downwards, and how could she
hope to keep her own course in independence of him? It shamed her
that she had ever loved him. But indeed she had not loved the Reuben
that now was; the better part of him was then predominant. No matter
that he was changed; no matter how low he descended; she must still
be bound to him. Whereas he acknowledged no mutual bond; he was a
man, and therefore in practice free.

Yet she was as far as ever from projecting escape. The unjust law
was still a law, and irresistible. Had it been her case that she
loved some other man, and his return of love claimed her, then
indeed she might dare anything and break her chains. But the power
of love seemed as dead in her as the passion she had once, and only
once, conceived. She was utterly alone.

Morning and noon went by. She had exhausted herself with ceaseless
movement, and now for two or three hours lay on a couch as if
asleep. The fever burned upon her forhead and in her breath.

But at length endurance reached its limits. As she lay still, a
thought had taken possession of her--at first rejected again and
again, but always returning, and with more tempting persistency. She
could not begin another night without having spoken to some one. She
seemed to have been foresaken for days; there was no knowing how
long she might live here in solitude. When it was nearly five
o'clock, she went to her bedroom and prepared for going out.

When ready, she met the servant who was bringing up tea.

"I shall not want it," she said. "And probably I shall not dine at
home. Nothing need be prepared."

She entered the library, and took up from the writing-table
Mallard's note; she looked at the address that was on it.

Then she left the house, and summoned the first vacant cab.





CHAPTER XIII

ONWARD TO THE VAGUE




The cab drew up in a quiet road in Chelsea, by a gateway opening
into a yard. Cecily alighted and paid the driver.

"Be good enough to wait a minute or two," she said. "I may need you
again at once. But if I am longer, I shall not be coming."

Entering the yard, she came in front of a row of studios; on the
door of each was the tenant's name, and she easily discovered that
of Ross Mallard. This door was half open; she looked in and saw a
flight of stairs. Having ascended these, she came to another door,
which was closed. Here her purpose seemed to falter; she looked
back, and held her hand for a moment against her cheek. But at
length she knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again, more
loudly, leaning forward to listen; and this time there came a
distant shout for reply. Interpreting it as summons to enter, she
turned the handle; the door opened, and she stepped into a little
ante-chamber. From a room within came another shout, now
intelligible.

"Who's there?"

She advanced, raised a curtain, and found herself in the studio, but
hidden behind some large canvases. There was a sound of some one
moving, and when she had taken another step, Mallard himself, pipe
in mouth, came face to face with her. With a startled look, he took
the pipe from his lips, and stood regarding her; she met his gaze
with the same involuntary steadiness.

"Are you alone, Mr. Mallard?" fell at length from her.

"Yes. Come and sit down."

There was a gruffness in the invitation which under ordinary
circumstances would have repelled a visitor. But Cecily was so glad
to hear the familiar voice that its tone mattered nothing; she
followed him, and seated herself where he bade her. There was much
tobacco-smoke in the air; Mallard opened a window. She watched him
with timid, anxious eyes. Then, without looking at her, he sat down
near an easel on which was his painting of the temples of Paestum.
This canvas held Cecily's gaze for a moment.

"When did you get home?" Mallard asked abruptly.

"Yesterday morning."

"Mrs. Lessingham went on, I suppose?"

"Yes. I have been alone ever since, except that a visitor called."

"Alone?"

She met his eyes, and asked falteringly:

"You know why? You have heard about it?"

"Do you mean what happened the other day?" he returned, in a voice
that sounded careless, unsympathetic.

"Yes."

"I know that, of course. Where is your husband?"

"I have neither seen him nor heard from him. I shouldn't have
understood why he kept away but for the visitor that came--a lady;
she showed me a newspaper."

Mallard knit his brows, and now scowled at her askance, now looked
away. His visage was profoundly troubled. There was silence for some
moments. Cecily's eyes wandered unconsciously over the paintings and
other objects about her.

"You have come to ask me if I know where he is?"

She failed in her attempt to reply.

"I am sorry that I can't tell you. I know nothing of him. But
perhaps Mrs. Baske does. You know their address?"

"I didn't come for that," she answered, with decision, her features
working painfully. "It is not my part to seek for him."

"Then how can I help you?" Mallard asked, still gruffly, but with
more evidence of the feeling that his tone disguised.

"You can't help me, Mr. Mallard. How could any one help me? I was
utterly alone, and I wanted to hear a friend's voice."

"That is only natural. It is impossible for you to remain alone. You
don't feel able to go to Mrs. Baske?"

She shook her head.

"But your aunt will come? You have written to her?"

"No. I had rather she didn't come. It seems strange to you that I
should bring my troubles here, when it can only pain you to see me,
and to have to speak. But I am not seeking comfort or support--not
of the kind you naturally think I need."

As he watched the workings of her lips, the helpless misery in her
young eyes, the endeavour for self-command and the struggles of
womanly pride, Mallard remembered how distinctly he had foreseen
this in his past hours of anguish. It was hard to grasp the present
as a reality; at moments he seemed only to be witnessing the
phantoms of his imagination. The years that had vanished were so
insubstantial in memory; _now_ and _then_, what was it that divided
the two? This that was to-day a fact, was it not equally so when
Cecily walked by his side at Baiae? That which is to come, already
is. In the stress of a deep emotion we sometimes are made conscious
of this unity of things, and the effect of such spiritual vision is
a nobler calm than comes of mere acquiescence in human blindness.

"I came here," Cecily was continuing, "because I had something to
say to you--something I shall never say to any one else. You were
my guardian when I was a child, and I have always thought of you as
more than a simple friend. I want to fulfil a duty to you. I owe you
gratitude, and I shall have no rest till I have spoken it--told
you how deeply I feel it."

Mallard interrupted her, for every word seemed to be wrung from her
by pain, and he felt like one who listens to a forced confession.

"Don't give way to this prompting," he said, with kind firmness. "I
understand, and it is enough. You are not yourself; don't speak
whilst you are suffering so."

"My worst suffering would be _not_ to speak," she replied, with
increased agitation. "I must say what I came to say; then I can go
and face whatever is before me. I want to tell you how right you
were. You told me through Mrs. Lessingham how strongly you
disapproved of my marrying at once; you wished me to take no
irrevocable step till I knew myself and him better. You did
everything in your power to prevent me from committing a childish
folly. But I paid no regard to you. I ought to have held your wish
sacred; I owed you respect and obedience. But I chose my own foolish
way, and now that I know how right you were, I feel the need of
thanking you. You would have saved me if you could. It is a simple
duty in me to acknowledge this now I know it."

Mallard rose and stood for a minute looking absently at the temples.
Then he turned gravely towards her.

"If it has really lightened your mind to say this, I am content to
have heard it. But let it end there; there is no good in such
thoughts and speeches. They are hysterical, and you don't like to be
thought that. Such a service as you believe I might have rendered
you is so very doubtful, so entirely a matter of suppositions and
probabilities and possibilities, that we can't talk of it seriously.
I acted as any guardian was bound to act, under the circumstances.
You, on the other hand, took the course that young people have taken
from time immemorial. The past is past; it is worse than vain to
revive it. Come, now, let us talk for a few minutes quietly."

Cecily's head was bent. He saw that her bosom heaved, but on her
face there was no foreboding of tears. The strong impulse having had
its way, she seemed to be recovering self command.

"By the bye," he asked, "how did you know where to find me?"

"I found a letter of yours lying open. Did he answer your
invitation?"

"Yes; he wrote a few lines saying he would come before long. But I
haven't seen him. What do you intend to do when you leave me?"

"Go home again and wait," she answered, with quiet sadness.

"In solitude? And what assurance have you that he means to come?"

"None whatever. But where else should I go, but home? My place is
there, until I have heard his pleasure."

It was mournfully unlike her, this bitter tone. Her eyes were fixed
upon the picture again. Looking at her, Mallard was moved by
something of the same indignant spirit that was still strong in her
heart. Her pure and fine-wrought beauty, so subtle in expression of
the soul's life, touched him with a sense of deepest pathos. It
revolted him to think of her in connection with those brutalities of
the newspaper; he had a movement of rebellion against the
undiscerning rigour of social rule. Disinterested absolutely, but he
averted his face lest she should have a suspicion of what he
thought.

In spite of that, he was greatly relieved to hear her purpose. He
had feared other things. It was hateful that she should remain the
wife of such a man as Elgar, but what refuge was open to her? The
law that demands sacrifice of the noble few on behalf of the ignoble
many is too swift and sure in avenging itself when defied. It was
well that she had constrained herself to accept the inevitable.

"You will write this evening to Mrs. Lessingham?" he said, in a tone
of assuredness.

"Why do you wish me to do that?" she asked, looking at him.

"Because of the possibility of your still being left alone. You are
not able to bear that."

"Yes, I can bear anything that is necessary now," she answered
firmly. "If it was weakness to come here and say what I have said,
then my weakness is over. Mrs. Lessingham is enjoying herself with
friends; why should I disturb her? What have I to say to her, or to
any one?"

"Suppose an indefinite time goes by, and you are still alone?"

"In that case, I shall be able to arrange my life as other such
women do. I shall find occupation, the one thing I greatly need. My
gravest misfortune is, that I feel the ability to do something, but
do not know what. Since the death of my child, that is what has
weighed upon me most."

Mallard reflected upon this. He could easily understand its truth.
He felt assured that Miriam suffered in much the same way, having
reached the same result by so very different a process of
development. But it was equally clear to him that neither of these
women really could _do_ anything; it was not their function to do,
but to _be_. Eleanor Spence would in all likelihood have illustrated
the same unhappy problem had it been her lot to struggle against
adverse conditions; she lived the natural life of an educated woman,
and therefore was beset by no questionings as to he? capacities and
duties. So long, however, as the educated woman is the exceptional
woman, of course it will likewise be exceptional for her life to
direct itself in a calm course.

To discuss such questions with Cecily was impossible. How should he
say to her, "You have missed your chance of natural happiness, and
it will only be by the strangest good fortune if you ever again find
yourself in harmony with fate"? Mallard had far too much discretion
to assume the part of lay preacher, and involve himself in the
dangers of suggesting comfort. The situation was delicate enough,
and all his efforts were directed to subduing its tone. After a
pause, he said to her:

"Have you taken your meals to-day?"

She smiled a little.

"Yes. But I am thirsty. Can you give me a glass of water?"

"Are you _very_ thirsty? Can you wait a quarter of an hour?"

With a look of inquiry as to his meaning, she answered that she
could. Mallard nodded, and began to busy himself in a corner of the
studio. She saw that he was lighting a spirit-lamp, and putting a
kettle over it. She made no remark; it was soothing to sit here in
this companionship, and feel the feverish heat in her veins
gradually assuaged. Mallard kept silence, and when he saw her
beginning to look around at the pictures, he threw out a word or two
concerning them. She rose, to see better, and moved about, now and
then putting a question In little more than the stipulated time, tea
was prepared. After a short withdrawal to the ante-room, Mallard
produced some delicate slices of bread and butter. Cecily ate and
drank. As it was growing dusk, the artist lit a lamp.

"You know," she said, again turning her eyes to the pictures, "that
I used to pretend to draw, to make poor little sketches. Would there
be any hope of my doing anything, not good, but almost good, if I
began again and worked seriously?"

He would rather have avoided answering such a question; but perhaps
the least dangerous way of replying was to give moderate approval.

"At all events, you would soon find whether it was worth while going
on or not. You might take some lessons; it would be easy to find
some lady quite competent to help you in the beginning."

She kept silence for a little; then said that she would think about
it.

Mallard had left his seat, and remained standing. When both had been
busy with their thoughts for several minutes, Cecily also rose.

"I must ask a promise from you before you go," Mallard said, as soon
as she had moved. "If you are still alone tomorrow, you promise me
to communicate with Mrs. Lessingham. Whether you wish to do so or
not is nothing to the point."

She hesitated, but gave her promise.

"That is enough; your word gives me assurance. You are going
straight home? Then I will send for a cab."

In a few minutes the cab was ready at the gate. Mallard, resolved to
behave as though this were the most ordinary of visits, put on his
hat and led the way downstairs. They went out into the road, and
then Cecily turned to give him her hand. He looked at her, and for
the first time spoke on an impulse.

"It's a long drive. Will you let me come a part of the way with
you?"

"I shall be very glad."

They entered the hansom, and drove off.

The few words that passed between them were with reference to Mrs.
Lessingham. Mallard inquired about her plans for the summer, and
Cecily answered as far as she was able. When they had reached the
neighbourhood of Regent's Park, he asked permission to stop the cab
and take his leave; Cecily acquiesced. From the pavement he shook
hands with her, seeing her face but dimly by the lamplight; she said
only "Thank you," and the cab bore her away.

Carried onward, with closed eyes as if in self-abandonment to her
fate, Cecily thought with more repugnance of home the nearer she
drew to it. It was not likely that Reuben had returned; there would
be again an endless evening of misery in solitude. When the cab was
at the end of Eel size Park, she called the driver's attention, and
bade him drive on to a certain other address, that of the Denyers.
Zillah's letter of appeal, all but forgotten, had suddenly come to
mind and revived her sympathies. Was there not some resemblance
between her affliction and that of poor Madeline? Her own life had
suffered a paralysis; helpless amid the ruin of her hopes, she could
look forward to nothing but long endurance.

On arriving, she asked for Mrs. Denyer, but that lady was from home.
Miss Zillah, then. She was led into the front room on the ground
floor, and waited there for several minutes.

At length Zillah came in hurriedly, excusing herself for being so
long. This youngest of the Denyers was now a tall awkward, plain
girl, with a fixed expression of trouble; in talking, she writhed
her fingers together and gave other signs of nervousness; she spoke
in quick, short sentences, often breaking off in embarrassment.
During the years of her absence from home as a teacher, Zillah had
undergone a spiritual change; relieved from the necessity of
sustaining the Denyer tone, she had by degrees ceased to practise
affectation with herself, and one by one the characteristics of an
"emancipated" person had fallen from her. Living with a perfectly
conventional family, she adopted not only the forms of their faith--in
which she had, of course, no choice--but at length the habit
of their minds; with a profound sense of solace, she avowed her
self-deceptions, and became what nature willed her to be--a
daughter of the Church. The calamities that had befallen her family
had all worked in this direction with her, and now that her daily
life was in a sick-chamber, she put forth all her best qualities,
finding in accepted creeds that kind of support which only the very
few among women can sincerely dispense with.

"She has been very, very ill the last few days," was her reply to
Cecily's inquiry. "I don't venture to leave her for more than a few
minutes."

"Mrs. Denyer is away!"

"Yes; she is staying at Sir Roland's, in Lincolnshire. Barbara and
her husband are there, and they sent her an invitation."

"But haven't you a nurse?"

"I'm afraid I shall be obliged to find one."

"Can I help you to-night? Do let me. I have only been home two days,
and came in reply to your letter as soon as I could."

They went up to Zillah's room, and Cecily threw aside her
out-of-door clothing. Then they silently entered the sick-chamber.

Madeline was greatly changed in the short time since Cecily had seen
her. Ceaseless pain had worn away the last traces of her girlish
beauty; the drawn features, the deadened eyes, offered hope that an
end must come before long. She gave a look of recognition as the
visitor approached her, but did not attempt to speak.

"Are you easier again, dear?" Zillah asked, bending over her.

"Yes."

"Mrs. Elgar would like to stay with you a little. She won't ask you
to talk."

"Very well. Go and rest while she stays."

"Yes, go and lie down," urged Cecily. "Please do! I will call you at
once if it is necessary."

Zillah was persuaded, and Cecily took her seat alone by the bedside.
She had lost all thought of herself. The tremor which possessed her
when she entered was subsiding; the unutterable mournfulness of this
little room made everything external to it seem of small account.
She knew not whether it was better to speak or remain mute, and when
silence had lasted for a few minutes, she could not trust her voice
to break it. But at length the motionless girl addressed her.

"Have you enjoyed yourself in Italy?"

"Not much. I have not been very well," Cecily answered, leaning
forward.

"Did you go to Naples?"

"Only as fat as Rome."

"How can any one be in Italy, and not go to Naples?" said Madeline,
in a low tone of wonder.

Silence came again. Cecily listened to the sound of breathing.
Madeline coughed, and seemed to make a fruit less effort to speak;
then she commanded her voice.

"I took a dislike to you at Naples," she said, with the simple
directness of one who no longer understands why every thought should
not be expressed. "It began when you showed that you didn't care for
Mr. Marsh's drawings. It is strange to think of that now. You know I
was engaged to Mr. Marsh?"

"Yes."

"He used to write me letters; I mean, since _this_. But it is a long
time since the last came. No doubt he is married now. It would have
been better if he had told me, and not just ceased to write. I want
Zillah to write to him for me; but she doesn't like to."

"Why do you think he is married?" Cecily asked.

"Isn't it natural? I'm not so foolish as to wish to prevent him.
It's nothing to me now. I should even be glad to hear of it. He
ought to marry some good-natured, ordinary kind of girl, who has
money. Of course you were right about his drawings; he was no
artist, really. But I had a liking for him."

Cecily wondered whether it would be wise or unwise to tell what she
knew. The balance seemed in favour of holding her peace. In a few
minutes, Madeline moaned a little.

"You are in pain?"

"That's nothing; pain, pain--I find it hard to understand that
life is anything but pain. I can't live much longer, that's the one
comfort. Death doesn't mean pain, but the end of it. Yesterday I
felt myself sinking, sinking, and I said, 'Now this is the end,' and
I could have cried with joy. But Zillah gave me something, and I
came back. That's cruelty, you know. They ought to help us to die
instead of keeping us alive in pain. If doctors had any sense they
would help us to die; there are so many simple ways. You see the
little bottle with the blue label; look round; the little bottle
with the measure near it. If only it had been left within my reach!
They call it poison when you take too much of it; but poison means
sleep and rest and the end of pain."

Cecily listened as though some one spoke from beyond the grave; that
strange voice made all the world unreal.

"Do you believe in a life after this?" asked Madeline, with
earnestness.

"I know nothing," was the answer.

"Neither do I. It matters nothing to me. All I have to do is to die,
and then whatever comes will come. Poor Zillah does her best to
persuade me that she _does_ know. I shall try to seem as if I
believed her. Why should I give her pain? What does it matter if she
is wrong? She is a kind sister to me, and I shall pretend that I
believe her. Perhaps she is right? She may be, mayn't she?"

"She may be."

"It's good of you to come and sit here while she rests. She hasn't
gone to bed for two nights. She's the only one of us that cares for
me. Barbara has got her husband; well, I'm glad of that. And there's
no knowing; she might live to be Lady Musselwhite. Sir Roland hasn't
any children. Doesn't it make you laugh?"

She herself tried to laugh--a ghostly sound. It seemed to exhaust
her. For half an hour no word was spoken. Then Cecily, who had
fallen into brooding, heard herself called by a strange name.

"Miss Doran!"

She rose and bent over the bed, startled by this summons from the
dead past.

"Can I do anything for you, Madeline?"

The heavy eyes looked at her in a perplexed way. They seemed to be
just awaking, and Madeline smiled faintly.

"Didn't I call you, Miss Doran? I was thinking about you, and got
confused. But you are married, of course. What is your name now? I
can't remember."

"Mrs. Elgar."

"How silly of me! Mrs. Elgar, of course. Are you happily married?"

"Why do you ask?"

For the first time, she remembered the possibility that the Denyers
knew of her disgrace. But Madeline's reply seemed to prove that she,
at all events, had no such thing in mind.

"I was only trying to remember whom you married. Yes, yes; you told
us about it before. Or else. Mrs. Travis told me."

"What did she say?"

"Only that you had married for love, as every woman ought to. But
_she_ is very unhappy. Perhaps that would have been my own lot if I
had lived. I dare say I should have been married long ago. What does
it matter? But as long as one is born at all, one might as well live
life through, see the best as well as the worst of it. It's been all
worst with me.--Oh, that's coming again! That wishing and
rebelling and despairing! I thought it was all over. You stand there
and look at me; that is you and this is I, this, this! I am lying
here waiting for death and burial. You have the husband you love,
and long years of happy life before you.--Do you feel sorry for
me? Suppose it was you who lay here?"

The same question she had put to Mrs. Travis, but now spoken in a
more anguished voice. The tear's streamed from Cecily's eyes.

"You cry, like Zillah does when she tries to persuade me. I don't
know whether I had rather be pitied, or lie quite alone. But don't
cry. You shan't go away and be made miserable by thinking of me. I
can bear it all well enough; there can't be much more of it, you
know. Sit down again, if you have time. Perhaps you want to go
somewhere to-night--to see friends?"

"No. I will stay with you as long as ever you wish."

Presently the conversation ceased, and then for nearly three hours
Cecily listened to the sound of breathing. At length the door softly
opened, and Zillah came in. She was distressed; it had struck twelve
long since, and only now had she awoke from sleep. Cecily entreated
her to go and sleep again; she herself had no desire to close her
eyes.

"But what will Mr. Elgar think has become of you?"

"He is not at home to-night. Let me have my way, there's a good
girl."

Zillah, whose eyelids could scarcely be supported, at length went
back to her room. Madeline still slept, with unusual calmness. The
vigil was resumed, and nothing again disturbed it until white dawn
began to glimmer at the windows.

Then Madeline awoke with a sudden loud cry of anguish. Cecily,
aroused from slumber which was just beginning, sprang up and spoke
to her. But the cry seemed to have been the end of her power of
utterance; she moved her lips and looked up fearfully. Cecily
hastened to summon Zillah.





CHAPTER XIV

SUGGESTION AND ASSURANCE




When Miriam went out by herself to walk, either going or returning
she took the road in which was Mallard's studio. She kept on the
side opposite the gateway, and, in passing, seemed to have no
particular interest in anything at hand. A model who one day came
out of the gate, and made inspection of the handsomely attired lady
just going by, little suspected for what purpose she walked in this
locality.

And so it befell that Miriam was drawing near to the studios at the
moment when a cab stopped there, at the moment when Cecily alighted
from it. Instantly recognizing her sister-in-law, Miriam thought it
inevitable that she herself must be observed; for an instant her
foot was checked. But Cecily paid the driver without looking this
way or that, and entered the gateway. Miriam walked on for a few
paces; then glanced back and saw the cab waiting. She reached the
turning of the road, and still the cab waited, Another moment, and
it drove away empty.

She stood and watched it, until it disappeared in the opposite
direction. Heedless of one or two people who came by, she remained
on the spot for several minutes, gazing towards the studios.
Presently she moved that way again. She passed the gate, and walked
on to the farther end of the road, always with glances at the gate.
Then she waited again, and then began to retrace her steps.

How many times backwards and forwards? She neither knew nor cared;
it was indifferent to her whether or not she was observed from the
windows of certain houses. She felt no weariness of body, but time
seemed endless. The longer she stood or walked, the longer was
Cecily there within. For what purpose? Yesterday she was to arrive
in London; to-day she doubtless knew all that had been going on in
her absence. And dusk fell, and twilight thickened. The street-lamps
were lit. But Cecily still remained within.

Twice or thrice some one entered or left the studio-yard, strangers
to Miriam. At length there came forth a man who, after looking
about, hurried away, and in a few minutes returned with a hansom
following him. Seeing that it stopped at the gateway, she approached
as close as she durst, keeping in shadow. There issued two persons,
whom at once she knew--Cecily with Mallard. They spoke together a
moment; then both got into the vehicle and drove away.

That evening Miriam had an engagement to dine out, together with the
Spences. When she reached home, Eleanor, dressed ready for departure
and not a little impatient, met her in the entrance-hall.

"Have you forgotten?"

"No. I am very sorry that I couldn't get back sooner. What is the
time?"

It was too late for Miriam to dress and reach her destination at the
appointed hour.

"You must go without me. I hope it doesn't matter. They are not the
kind of people who plan for their guests to go like the animals of
Noah's ark."

This was a sally of unwonted liveliness from Miriam. and it did not
suit very well with her jaded face.

"Will you come after dinner?" Eleanor asked.

"Yes, I will. Make some excuse for me."

So Miriam dined alone, or made a pretence of doing so, and at nine
o'clock joined her friends. Through the evening she talked far more
freely than usual, and with a frequency of caustic remark which made
one or two mild ladies rather afraid of her.

At half-past nine next morning, when she and Eleanor were talking
over a letter Mrs. Spence had just received from Greece, a servant
came into the drawing-room to say that Mr. Elgar wished to speak
with Mrs. Baske. The ladies looked at each other; then Miriam
directed that the visitor should go up to her own sitting-room.

"This has something to do with Cecily," said Eleanor in a low voice.

"Probably."

And Miriam turned away.

As she entered her room, Reuben faced her, standing close by. He
looked miserably ill, the wreck of a man compared with what he had
been at his last visit. When the door was shut, he asked without
preface, and in an anxious tone:

"Can you tell me where Cecily is?"

Miriam laid her band on a chair, and met his gaze.

"Where she is?"

"She isn't at home. Haven't you heard of her?"

"Since when has she been away?"

Her manner of questioning seemed to Elgar to prove that her own
surprise was as great as his.

"I only went there last night," he said, "about eleven o'clock. She
had been in the house since her arrival the day before yesterday;
but in the afternoon she went out and didn't return. She left no
word, and there's nothing from her this morning. I thought it likely
you had heard something."

"I have heard many things, but not about _her_."

"Of course, I know that!" he exclaimed impatiently, averting his
eyes for a moment. "I haven't come to talk, but to ask you a simple
question. You have no idea where she is?"

Miriam moved a few steps away and seated herself. But almost at once
she arose again.

"Why didn't you go home before last night?" she asked harshly.

"I tell you, I am not going to talk of my affairs," he answered,
with a burst of passion. "If you want to drive me mad--! Can't
you answer me? Do you know anything, or guess anything, about her?"

"Yes," said Miriam, after some delay, speaking deliberately, "I can
give you some information."

"Then do so, and don't keep me in torment."

"Yesterday afternoon I happened to be passing Mr. Mallard's studio,
and I saw her enter it; she came in a cab. She stayed there an hour
or two; it grew dark whilst she was there. Then I saw them both go
away together."

Elgar stared, half incredulously.

"You saw this? Do you mean that you waited about and watched?"

"Yes."

"You had suspicions?"

"I knew what a happy home she had returned to."

Again she seated herself.

"She went there to ask about me," said Elgar, in a forced voice.

"You think so? Why to him? Wouldn't she rather have come to me? Why
did she stay so long? Why did he go away with her? And why hasn't
she returned home?"

Question followed question with cold deliberateness, as if the
matter barely concerned her.

"But Mallard? What is Mallard to her?"

"How can I tell?"

"Were they together much in Rome?"

"I think very likely they were."

"Miriam, I can't believe this. How could it happen that you were
near Mallard's studio just then? How could you stand about for
hours, spying?"

"Perhaps I dreamt it."

"Where is this studio?" he asked. "I knew the other day, but I have
forgotten."

She told him the address.

"Very well, then I must go there. You still adhere to your story?"

"Why should I invent it?" she exclaimed bitterly "And what is there
astonishing in it? What right have _you_ to be astonished?"

"Every right!" he answered, with violence. "What warning have I had
of such a thing?"

She rose and moved away with a scornful laugh. For a minute he
looked at her as she stood apart, her face turned from him.

"If I find Mallard," he said, "of course I shall tell him who my
authority is."

She turned.

"No; that you will not do!"

"And why not?"

"Because I forbid you. You will not dare to mention my name in any
such conversation! Besides"--her voice fell to a tone of
indifference--"if you meet him, there will be no need. You will
ask your question, and that will be enough. There is very little
chance of his being at the studio."

"I see that your Puritan spirit is gratified," he said, looking at
her with fierce eyes.

"Naturally."

He went towards the door. Miriam, raising her eyes and following him
a step or two, said sternly:

"In any case, you understand that my name is not to be spoken. Show
at least some remnant of honour. Remember who I am, and don't
involve me in your degradation."

"Have no fear. Your garment of righteousness shall not be soiled."

When he was gone, Miriam sat for a short time alone. She had not
foreseen this sequel of yesterday's event. In spite of all the
promptings of her jealous fear, she had striven to explain Cecily's
visit in some harmless way. Mean what it might, it tortured her;
but, in her ignorance of what was happening between Cecily and her
husband, she tried to believe that Mallard was perhaps acting the
part of reconciler--not an unlikely thing, as her better judgment
told her. Now she could no longer listen to such calm suggestions.
Cecily had abandoned her home, and with Mallard's knowledge, if not
at his persuasion.

She thought of Reuben with all but hatred. He was the cause of the
despair which had come upon her. The abhorrence with which she
regarded his vices--no whit less strong for all her changed habits
of thought--blended now with the sense of personal injury; this
only had been lacking to destroy what natural tenderness remained in
her feeling towards him. Cecily she hated, without the power of
condemning her as she formerly would have done. The old voice of
conscience was not mute, but Miriam turned from it with sullen
scorn. If Cecily declared her marriage at an end, what fault could
reason find with her? If she acted undisguisedly as a free woman,
how was she to blame? Reuben's praise of her might still keep its
truth. And the unwilling conviction of this was one of Miriam's
sharpest torments. She would have liked to regard her with
disdainful condemnation, or a fugitive wife, a dishonoured woman.
But the power of sincerely judging thus was gone. Reuben had taunted
her amiss.

Presently she left her room and went to seek Eleanor. Mrs. Spence
was writing; she laid down her pen, and glanced at Miriam, but did
not speak.

"Cecily has left her home," Miriam said, with matter-of-fact
brevity.

Eleanor stood up.

"Parted from him?"

"It seems be didn't go to the house till late last night. She had
left in the afternoon, and did not come back"

"Then they have not met?".

"No."

"And had Cecily heard?"

"There's no knowing."

"Of course, she has gone to Mrs. Lessingham."

"I think not," replied Miriam, turning away.

"Why?"

But Miriam would give no definite answer. Neither did she hint at
the special grounds of her suspicion. Presently she left the room as
she had entered, dispirited and indisposed for talk.

Elgar walked on to the studios. He found Mallard's door, and was
beginning to ascend the stairs, when the artist himself appeared at
the top of them, on the point of going out. He recognized his
visitor with a grim movement of brows and lips, and without speaking
turned back. Reuben reached the door, which remained open, and
entered. Mallard, who stood there in the ante-room, looked at him
inquiringly.

"I want a few minutes' talk with you, if you please," said Elgar.

"Come in."

They passed into the studio. The last time they had seen each other
was more than three years ago, at Naples; both showed something of
curiosity, over and above the feelings of graver moment. Mallard,
observing the signs of mental stress on Elgar's features, wondered
to what they were attributable. Was the fellow capable of suffering
remorse or shame to this degree? Or was it the outcome of that other
affair, sheer ignoble passion? Reuben, on his part, could not face
the artist's somewhat rigid self-possession without feeling rebuked
and abashed. The fact of Mallard's being here at this hour seemed
all but a disproval of what Miriam had hinted, and when he looked up
again at the rugged, saturnine, energetic countenance, and met the
calmly austere eyes, he felt how improbable it was that this man
should be anything to Cecily save a conscientious friend.

"I haven't come in answer to your invitation," Reuben began,
glancing uneasily at the pictures, and endeavouring to support an
air of self-respect. "Something less agreeable has brought me."

They had not shaken hands, nor did Mallard offer a seat.

"What may that be?" he asked.

"I believe you have seen my wife lately?"

"What of that?"

Mallard began to knit his brows anxiously. He put up one foot on a
chair, and rested his arm on his knee.

"Will you tell me when it was that you saw her?"

"If you will first explain why you come with such questions,"
returned the other, quietly.

"She has not been home since yesterday; I think that is reason
enough."

Mallard maintained his attitude for a few moments, but at length put
his foot to the ground again, and repeated the keen look he had cast
at the speaker as soon as that news was delivered.

"When did you yourself go home?" he asked gravely.

"Late last night."

Mallard pondered anxiously.

"Then," said he, "what leads you to believe that I have seen Mrs.
Elgar?"

"I don't merely believe; I know that you have."

Elgar felt himself oppressed by the artist's stern and authoritative
manner. He could not support his dignity; his limbs embarrassed him,
and he was conscious of looking like a man on his trial for ignoble
offences.

"How do you know?" came from Mallard, sharply.

"I have been told by some one who saw her come here yesterday, in
the late afternoon."

"I see. No doubt, Mrs. Baske?"

The certainty of this flashed upon Mallard. He had never seen Miriam
walk by, but on the instant he comprehended her doing so. It was
even possible, he thought, that, if she had not herself seen Cecily,
some one in her employment had made the espial for her. The whole
train of divination was perfect in his mind before Elgar spoke.

"It is nothing to the purpose who told me. My wife was here for a
long time, and when she went away, you accompanied her."

"I understand."

"That is more than I do. Will you please to explain it?"

"You are accurately informed. Mrs. Elgar came here, naturally
enough, to ask if I knew what had become of you."

"And why should she come to _you_?"

"Because my letter to you lay open somewhere in your house, and she
thought it possible we had been together."

Elgar reflected. Yes, he remembered that the letter was left on his
table.

"And where did she go afterwards? Where did you conduct her?"

"I went rather more than half-way home with her, in the cab" replied
Mallard, somewhat doggedly. "I supposed she was going on to Belsize
Park."

"Then you know nothing of her reason for not doing so?"

"Nothing whatever."

Elgar became silent. The artist, after moving about quietly, turned
to question him with black brows.

"Hasn't it occurred to you that she may have joined Mrs. Lessingham
in the country?"

"She has taken nothing--not even a travelling-bag."

"You come, of course, from the Spences' house?"

Elgar replied with an affirmative. As soon as he had done so, he
remembered that this was as much as corroborating Mallard's
conjecture with regard to Miriam; but for that he cared little. He
had begun to discern something odd in the relations between Miriam
and Mallard, and suspected that Cecily might in some way be the
cause of it.

"Did they not at once suggest that she was with Mrs. Lessingham?"

Elgar muttered a "No," averting his face.

"What _did_ they suggest, then?"

"I saw only my sister," said Reuben, irritably.

"And your sister thought I was the most likely person to know of
Mrs. Elgar's whereabouts?"

"Yes, she did."

"I am sorry to disappoint you," said Mallard, coldly. "I have given
you all the information I can."

"All you _will_," replied Elgar, whose temper was exasperated by the
firmness with which he was held at a scornful distance. He began now
to imagine that Mallard, from reasons of disinterested friendship,
had advised Cecily to seek some retreat, and would not disclose the
secret. More than that, he still found incredible.

Mallard eyed him scornfully.

"I said 'all I _can_,' and I don't deal in double meanings. I know
nothing more than I have told you. You are probably unaccustomed, of
late, to receive simple and straightforward answers to your
questions; but you'll oblige me by remembering where you are."

Elgar might rage inwardly, but he had no power of doubting what he
heard. He understood that Mallard would not even permit an allusion
to anything save the plain circumstances which had come to light.
Moreover, the artist had found a galling way of referring to the
events that had brought about this juncture. Reuben was profoundly
humiliated; he had never seen himself in so paltry a light. He could
have shed tears of angry shame.

"I dare say the tone of your conversation," he said acridly, "was
not such as would reconcile her to remaining at home. No doubt you
gave her abundant causes for self-pity."

"I did not congratulate her on her return home; but, on the other
hand, I said nothing that could interfere with her expressed
intention to remain there."

"She told you that she had this intention?" asked Reuben, with some
eagerness.

"She did."

As in the dialogue of last evening, so now, Mallard kept the
sternest control upon himself. Had he obeyed his desire, he would
have scarified Elgar with savage words; but of that nothing save
harm could come. His duty was to smooth, and not to aggravate, the
situation. It was a blow to him to learn that Cecily had passed the
night away from home, but he felt sure that this would be explained
in some way that did no injury to her previous resolve. He would not
admit the thought that she had misled him. What had happened, he
could not with any satisfaction conjecture, but he was convinced
that a few hours would solve the mystery. Had she really failed in
her determination, then assuredly she would write to him, even
though it were without saying where she had taken refuge. But he
persisted in hoping that it was not so.

"Go back to your house, and wait there," he added gravely, but
without harshness. "For some reason best known to yourself, you kept
your wife waiting for nearly two days, in expectation of your
coming. I hope it was reluctance to face her. You can only go and
wait. If I hear any news of her, you shall at once receive it. And
if she comes, I desire to know of it as soon as possible."

Elgar could say nothing more. He would have liked to ask several
questions, but pride forbade him. Turning in silence he went from
the studio, and slowly descended the stairs Mallard heard him pause
near the foot, then go forth.

Reuben had no choice but to obey the artist's directions. He walked
a long way, the exercise helping him to combat his complicated
wretchedness, but at length he felt weary and threw himself into a
cab.

The servant who opened the door to him said that Mrs. Elgar had been
in for a few minutes, about an hour ago; she would be back again by
lunch-time.





CHAPTER XV

PEACE IN SHOW AND PEACE IN TRUTH




At first so much relieved that he was able to sit down and quietly
review his thoughts, Elgar could not long preserve this frame of
mind; in half an hour he began to suffer from impatience, and when
the time of Cecily's return approached, he was in a state of
intolerable agitation. Mallard's severity lost its force now that it
was only remembered. He accused himself of having been, as always,
weakly sensitive to the moment's impression. The fact remained that
Cecily had spent a long time alone with Mallard, had made him the
confidant of her troubles; it credible in human nature--the past
borne in mind--that Mallard had never exceeded a passionless
sympathy? Did not Miriam say distinctly that suspicion had been
excited in her by the behaviour of the two when they were in Rome?
Why had he not stayed to question his sister on that point? As
always, he had lost his head, missed the essential, obeyed impulses
instead of proceeding on a rational plan.

He worked himself into a sense of being grossly injured. The shame
he had suffered in this morning's interviews was now a
mortification. What had _he_ to do with vulgar rules and vulgar
judgments? By what right did these people pose as his superiors and
look contemptuous rebuke? His anger concentrated itself on Cecily;
the violence of jealousy and the brute instinct of male prerogative
plied his brain to frenzy as the minutes dragged on. Where had she
passed the night? How durst she absent herself from home, and keep
him in these tortures of expectation?

At a few minutes past one she came. The library door was ajar, and
he heard her admit herself with a latch-key; she would see his hat
and gloves in the hall. But instead of coming to the library she
went straight upstairs; it was Cecily, for he knew her step. Almost
immediately he followed. She did not stop at the drawing-room; he
followed, and came up with her at the bedroom door. Still she paid
no attention, but went in and took off her hat.

"Where have you been since yesterday afternoon?" he asked, when he
had slammed the door.

Cecily looked at him with offended surprise--almost as she might
have regarded an insolent servant.

"What right have you to question me in such a tone?"

"Never mind my tone, but answer me."

"What right have you to question me at all?"

"Every right, so long as you choose to remain in my house."

"You oblige me to remind you that the house is at least as much mine
as yours. For what am I beholden to you? If it comes to the bare
question of rights between us, I must meet you with arguments as
coarse as your own. Do you suppose I can pretend, now, to
acknowledge any authority in you? I am just as free as you are, and
I owe you no account of myself."

Physical exhaustion had made her incapable of self-control. She had
anticipated anything but such an address as this with which Elgar
presented himself. The insult was too shameless; it rendered
impossible the cold dignity she had purposed.

"What do you mean by 'free'?" he asked, less violently.

"Everything that you yourself understand by it. I am accountable to
no one but myself. If I have allowed you to think that I held the
old belief of a woman's subjection to her husband, you must learn
that that is at an end. I owe no more obedience to you than you do
to me."

"I ask no obedience. All I want to know is, whether it is possible
for us to live under the same roof or not."

Cecily made no reply. Her anger had involved her in an
inconsistency, yet she was not so far at the mercy of blind impulses
as to right herself by taking the very course she had recognized as
impossible.

"That entirely depends," added Elgar, "on whether you choose to
explain your absence last night."

"In other words," said Cecily, "it can be of no significance to me
where you go or what you do, but if you have a doubt about any of my
movements, it at once raises the question whether you can continue
to live with me or not I refuse to admit anything of the kind. I
have chosen, as you put it, to remain in your house, and in doing so
I know what I accept. By what right do you demand more of me than I
of you?"

"You know that you are talking absurdly. You know as well as I do
the difference."

"Whatever laws I recognize, they are in myself only. As regards your
claims upon me, what I have said is the simple truth. I owe you no
account. If you are not content with this, you must form whatever
suppositions you will, and act as you think fit."

"That is as much as telling me that our married life is at an end. I
suppose you meant that when you kindly reminded me that it was your
money I have been living on. Very well. Let it be as you wish."

Cecily regarded him with resentful wonder.

"Do you dare to speak as if it were I who had brought this about?"

Reuben was not the man to act emotion and contrive scenes. Whenever
it might have seemed that he did so, he was, in truth, yielding to
the sudden revulsions which were characteristic of his passionate
nature. In him, harshness and unreason inevitably led to a reaction
in which all the softer of his qualities rose predominant. So it was
now. Those last words of his were not consciously meant to give him
an opportunity of changing his standpoint. Inconstant, incapable of
self-direction, at the mercy of the moment's will, he could foresee
himself just as little as another could foresee him. His impetuous
being prompted him to utter sincerely what a man of adroit
insincerity would have spoken with calculation.

"Yes," he exclaimed. "it _is_ you who have done most towards it!"

"By what act? what word?" she asked, in astonishment.

"By all your acts and words for the year past, and longer. You had
practically abandoned me long before you went abroad. When you
discovered that I was not everything you imagined, when you found
faults and weaknesses in me, you began to draw away, to be cold and
indifferent, to lose all interest in whatever I did or wished to do.
When I was working, you showed plainly that you had no faith in my
powers; it soon cost you an effort even to listen to me when I
talked on the subject. I looked to you for help, and I found none.
Could I say anything? The help had to come spontaneously, or it was
no use. Then you gave yourself up entirely to the child; you were
glad of that excuse for keeping out of my way. If I was away from
home for a day or two, you didn't even care to ask what I had been
doing; that was what proved to me how completely indifferent you had
become. And when you went abroad, what a pretence it was to ask me
to come with you! I knew quite well that you had much rather be
without me. And how did you suppose I should live during your
absence? You never thought about it, never cared to think. Don't
imagine I am blaming you. Everything was at an end between us, and
which of us could help it? But it is as well to show you that I am
not the cause of all that has happened. You have no justification
whatever for this tone of offence. It is foolish, childish, unworthy
of a woman who claims to think for herself."

Cecily listened with strange sensations. She knew that all this had
nothing to do with the immediate point at issue, and that it only
emphasized the want of nobility in Reuben's character, but, as he
proceeded, there was so much truth in what he attributed to her
that, in spite of everything, she could not resist a feeling of
culpability. However little it really signified to her husband, it
was undoubtedly true that she had made no effort with herself when
she became conscious of indifference towards him. To preserve love
was not in her power, but was he not right in saying that she might
have done more, as a wife, to supply his defects? Knowing him weak,
should she not have made it a duty to help him against himself? Had
she not, as he said, virtually "abandoned" him?

Elgar observed her, and recognized the effect of his words.

"Of course," he pursued, "if you have made up your mind to be
released, I have neither the power nor the will to keep you. But you
must deal plainly with me. You can't both live here and have ties
elsewhere. I should have thought you would have been the first to
recognize that."

"Of what ties do you speak?"

"I don't know that you have any; but you say you hold yourself free
to form them."

"If I had done so, I should not be here."

"Then what objection can you have to telling me where you have
been?"

How idle it was, to posture and use grandiose words! Why did she
shrink from the complete submission that her presence here implied?
No amount of self-assertion would do away with the natural law of
which he had contemptuously reminded her, the law which
distinguishes man and woman, and denies to one what is permitted to
the other.

"I passed the night by a sick-bed," she replied, letting her voice
drop into weariness--"Madeline Denyer's."

"Did you go there directly on leaving home?"

"No."

"Will you tell me where else you went?"

"I went first of all to see Mr. Mallard. I talked with him for a
long time, and he gave me some tea. Then he came part of the way
back with me. Shall I try and remember the exact spot where he got
out of the cab?"

"What had you. to do with Mallard, Cecily?"

"I had to tell him that my life was a failure, and to thank him for
having wished to save me from this fate."

Her answers were given in a dull monotone; she seemed to be heedless
of the impression they made.

"You said that to Mallard?"

"Yes. It can be nothing to me what you think of it. I had waited
here till I could bear loneliness no longer; I knew I had one true
friend, and I went to him."

"You behaved as no self-respecting woman could!" Elgar exclaimed
passionately.

"If so," she answered, meeting his look, "the shame falls only on
myself."

"That is not true! You yourself seem to be unconscious of the shame;
to me it is horrible suffering. I thought you incapable of anything
of the kind. I looked up to you as a high-minded woman, and I loved
you for your superiority to myself."

"You loved me?" she asked, with a bitter smile.

"Yes; believe it or not, as you like. Because I was maddened by
sensual passion for a creature whom I never one moment respected,
how did that lessen my love for you? You complain that I kept away
from you; I did so because I was still racked by that vile torment,
and shrank in reverence from approaching you. You might have known
me well enough to understand this. Have I not told you a thousand
times that in me soul and body have lived separate lives? Even when
I seemed sunk in the lowest depths, I still loved you purely and
truly; I loved you all the more because I was conscious of my brutal
faults. Now you have destroyed my ideal; you have degraded yourself
in my esteem. It is nothing to me now, do what you may! I can never
forgive you. By doing yourself wrong, you have wronged me beyond all
words!"

Cecily could not take her eyes from him. She marvelled at such
emotion in him. But the only way in which it affected her own
feeling was to make her question herself anxiously as to whether she
had really fallen below her self-respect. Had she led Mallard to
think of her with like disapproval?

Life is so simple to people of the old civilization. The rules are
laid down so broadly and plainly, and the con. science they have
created answers so readily when appealed to. But for these poor
instructed persons, what a complex affair has morality become! Hard
enough for men, but for women desperate indeed. Each must be her own
casuist, and without any criterion save what she can establish by
her own experience. The growth of Cecily's mind had removed her
further and further from simplicity of thought; this was in part the
cause of that perpetual sense of weariness to which she awoke day
after day. Communion with such a man as Elgar strengthened the
natural tendency, until there was scarcely a motive left to which
she could yield without discussing it in herself, consciously or
unconsciously. Her safeguard was an innate nobleness of spirit. But
it is not to every woman of brains that this is granted.

"What I did," she said at length slowly, "was done, no doubt, in a
moment of weakness; I gave way to the need of sympathy. Had my
friend been a man of less worth, he might have misunderstood me, and
then I might indeed have been shamed. But I knew him and trusted
him."

"Which means, that you were false to me in a way I never was to you.
It is you who have broken the vow we made to be faithful to each
other."

"I cannot read in your heart. If you still love me, it is a pity; I
can give you no love in return."

He drew nearer, and looked at her despairingly.

"Cecily! when I came last night, I had a longing to throw myself at
your feet, and tell you all my misery--everything, and find
strength again with your help. I never feared _this_. You, who are
all love and womanliness, you cannot have put me utterly from your
heart!"

"I am your wife still; but I ask nothing of you, and you must not
seek for more than I can give."

"Well, I too ask for nothing, But I will prove--"

She checked him.

"Don't forget your philosophy. We both of us know that it is idle to
make promises of that kind."

"You will leave London with me?"

"I shall go wherever you wish."

"Then we will make our home again in Paris. The sooner the better. A
few days, and we will get rid of everything except what we wish to
take with us. I don't care if I never see London again."

In the evening, Cecily was again at the Denyers' house. Madeline lay
without power of speech, and seemed gradually sinking into
unconsciousness. Mrs. Denyer had been telegraphed for; a reply had
come, saying that she would be home very soon, but already a much
longer time. than was necessary had passed, and she did not arrive.
Zillah sat by the bed weeping, or knelt in prayer.

"If your mother does not come," Cecily said to her, "I will stay all
night. It's impossible for you to be left alone."

"She must surely come; and Barbara too. How can they delay so long?"

Madeline's eyes were open, but she gave no sign of recognition. The
look upon her face was one of suffering, there was no telling
whether of body or mind. Hitherto it had changed a little when
Zillah spoke to her, but at length not even this sign was to be
elicited. Cecily could not take her gaze from the blank visage; she
thought unceasingly of the bright, confident girl she had known
years ago, and the sunny shore of Naples.

The doctor looked in at nine o'clock. He stayed only a few minutes.

At half-past ten there came a loud knocking at the house-door, and
the servant admitted Mrs. Denyer, who was alone. In the little room
above, the two watchers were weeping over the dead girl.





CHAPTER XVI

THE TWO FACES




Mallard, when he had taken leave of Cecily by Regent's Park, set out
to walk homewards. He was heavy-hearted, and occasionally a fit of
savage feeling against Elgar took hold of him, but his mood remained
that of one who watches life's drama from a point of vantage.
Sitting close by Cecily's side, he had been made only more conscious
of their real remoteness from each other--of his inability to give
her any kind of help. He wished she had not come to him, for he saw
she had hoped to meet with warmer sympathy, and perhaps she was now
more than ever oppressed with the sense of abandonment. And yet such
a result might have its good; it might teach her that she must look
for support to no one but herself. Useless to lament the necessity;
fate had brought her to the hardest pass that woman can suffer, and
she must make of her life what she could. It was not the kind of
distress that a friend can remedy; though she perished, he could do
nothing but stand by and sorrow.

Coming to his own neighbourhood, he did not go straight to the
studio, but turned aside to the Spences' house. He had no intention
of letting his friends know of Cecily's visit, but he wished to ask
whether they had any news of Elgar. No one was at home, however.

The next morning, when surprised by the appearance of Elgar himself,
he was on the point of again going to the Spences'. The interview
over, he met forth, and found Eleanor alone. She had just learnt
from Miriam what news Reuben had brought, and on Mallard's entrance
she at once repeated this to him.

"I knew it," replied the artist. "The fellow has been with me."

"He ventured to come? Before or after his coming here?"

"After. I think," he added carelessly, "that Mrs. Baske suggested it
to him."

"Possibly. I know nothing of what passed between them."

"Do you think Mrs. Baske has any idea on the subject?" Mallard
inquired, again without special insistence.

"She spoke rather mysteriously," Eleanor replied. "When I said that
Mrs. Lessingham probably could explain it, she said she thought not,
but gave no reasons."

"Why should she be mysterious?"

"That is more than I can tell you. Mystery rather lies in her
character, I fancy."

"Would you mind telling me whether she is in the habit of going out
alone?"

Eleanor hesitated a little, surprised by the question.

"Yes, she is. She often takes a walk alone in the afternoon."

"Thank you. Never mind why I wished to know. It throws no light on
Cecily's disappearance."

They talked of it for some time, and were still so engaged when
Spence came in. In him the intelligence excited no particular
anxiety; Cecily had gone to her aunt, that was all. What else was to
be expected when she found an empty house?

"But," remarked Eleanor, "the question remains whether or not she
has heard of this scandal."

Mallard could have solved their doubts on this point, but to do so
involved an explanation of how he came possessed of the knowledge;
he held his peace.

It was doubtful whether Elgar would keep his promise and communicate
any news he might have. Mallard worked through the day, as usual,
but with an uneasy mind. In the morning he walked over once more to
the Spences', and learnt that anxieties were at an end; Mrs. Baske
had received a letter from her brother, in which Cecily's absence
was explained. Elgar wrote that he was making preparations for
departure; in a few days they hoped to be in Paris, where henceforth
they purposed living.

He went away without seeing Miriam, and there passed more than a
fortnight before he again paid her a visit. In the meantime he had
seen Spence, who reported an interview between Eleanor and Mrs.
Lessingham; nothing of moment, but illustrating the idiosyncrasies
of Cecily's relative. When at length, one sunny afternoon, Mallard
turned his steps towards the familiar house, it was his chance to
encounter Eleanor and her husband just hastening to catch a train;
they told him hurriedly that Miriam had heard from Paris.

"Go and ask her to tell you about it," said Eleanor. "She is not
going out."

Mallard asked nothing better. He walked on with a curious smile, was
admitted, and waited a minute or two in the drawing-room. Miriam
entered, and shook hands with him, coldly courteous, distantly
dignified.

"I am sorry Mrs. Spence is not at home."

"I came to see you, Mrs. Baske. I have just met them, and heard that
you have news from Paris."

"Only a note, sending a temporary address."

He observed her as she spoke, and let silence follow. "You would
like to know it--the address?" she added, meeting his look with a
rather defiant steadiness.

"No, thank you. It will be enough if I know where they finally
settle. You saw Mrs. Elgar before she left?"

"No."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Miriam's face was clouded. She sat very stiffly, and averted her
eyes as if to ignore his remark. Mallard, who had been holding his
hat and stick in conventional manner, threw them both aside, and
leaned his elbow on the back of the settee.

"I should like," he said deliberately, "to ask you a question which
sounds impertinent, but which I think you will understand is not
really so. Will you tell me how you regard Mrs. Elgar? I mean, is it
your wish to be still as friendly with her as you once were? Or do
you, for whatever reason, hold aloof from her?"

"Will you explain to me, Mr. Mallard, why you think yourself
justified in asking such a question?"

In both of them there were signs of nervous discomposure. Miriam
flushed a little; the artist moved from one attitude to another, and
began to play destructively with a tassel.

"Yes," he answered. "I have a deep interest in Mrs. Elgar's
welfare--_that_ needs no explaining--and I have reason to fear that
something in which I was recently concerned may have made you less
disposed to think of her as I wish you to. Is it so or not?"

Her answer was uttered with difficulty.

"What can it matter howl think of her?"

"That is the point. To my mind it matters a great deal. For
instance, it seems to me a deplorable thing that you, her sister in
more senses than one, should have kept apart from her when she so
much needed a woman's sympathy. Of course, if you had no true
sympathy to give her, there's an end of it. But it seems to me
strange that it should be so. Will you put aside conventionality,
and tell me if you have any definite reason for acting as if you and
she were strangers?"

Miriam was mute. Her questioner waited, observing her. At length she
spoke with painful impulsiveness.

"I can't talk with you on this subject."

"I am very sorry to distress you," Mallard continued, his voice
growing almost harsh in its determination, "but talk of it we must,
once for all. Your brother came to my studio one morning, and
demanded an explanation of something about his wife which he had
heard from you. He didn't _say_ that it came from you, but I have
the conviction that it did. Please to tell me if I am wrong."

She kept an obstinate silence, sitting motionless, her hands tightly
clasped together on her lap.

"If you don't contradict me, I must conclude that I am right. To
speak plainly, it had come to his knowledge that Mrs. Elgar--no; I
will call her Cecily, as I used to do when she was a child--that
Cecily had visited my studio the evening before. You told him of
that. How did you know of it, Mrs. Baske?"

Miriam answered in a hard, forced voice.

"I happened to be passing when she drove up in a cab."

"I understand. But you also told him how long she remained, and that
when she left I accompanied her. How could you be aware of those
things?"

She seemed about to answer, but her voice failed. She stood up, and
began to move away. Instantly Mallard was at her side.

"You must answer me," he said, his voice shaking. "If I detain you
by force, you must answer me."

Miriam turned to face him. She stood splendidly at bay, her eyes
gleaming, her cheeks bloodless, her lithe body in an attitude finer
than she knew. They looked into each other's pupils, long,
intensely, as if reading the heart there. Miriam's eyes were the
first to fall.

"I waited till she came out again."

"You waited all that time? In the road?"

"Yes."

"And when you heard that Cecily had Dot returned home that night,
you believed that she had left her husband for ever?

"Yes."

Mallard drew hack a little, and his voice softened.

"Forgive me for losing sight of civility. Knowing this, it was
perhaps natural that you should inform your brother of it. You took
it for granted that Cecily--however unwise it was of her--had
come to tell me of her resolve to leave home, and that I, as her old
friend, had seen her safely to the place where she had taken
refuge?"

He uttered this with a peculiar emphasis, gazing steadily into her
face. Miriam dropped her eyes, and made no reply.

"You represented it to your brother in this light?" he continued, in
the same tone.

She forced herself to look at him; there was awed wonder on her
face.

"There is no need to answer in words. I see that I have understood
you. But of course you soon learnt that you had been in part
mistaken. Cecily had no intention of leaving her husband, from the
first."

Miriam breathed with difficulty. He motioned to her to sit down, but
she gave no heed.

"Then why did she come to you?" fell from her lips.

"Please to take your seat again, Mrs. Baske."

She obeyed him. He took a chair at a little distance, and answered
her question.

"She came because she was in great distress, and had no friend in
whom she could confide so naturally. This was a misfortune; it
should not have been so. It was to _you_ that she should have gone,
and I am afraid it was your fault that she could not."

"My fault?"

"Yes. You had not behaved to her with sisterly kindness. You had
held apart from her; you had been cold and unsympathetic. Am I
unjust?"

"Can one command feelings?"

"That is to say, you _felt_ coldly to her. Are you conscious of any
reason? I believe religious prejudice no longer influences you?"

"No."

"Then I am obliged to recall something to your mind. Do you remember
that you were practically an agent in bringing about Cecily's
marriage? No doubt things would have taken much the same course,
however you had acted. But is it not true that you gave what help
was in your power? You acted as though your brother's suit had your
approval. And I think you alone did so."

"You exaggerate. I know what you refer to. Reuben betrayed my lack
of firmness, as he betrays every one who trusts in him."

"Let us call it lack of firmness. The fact is the same, and I feel
very strongly that it laid an obligation on you. From that day you
should have been truly a sister to Cecily. You should have given her
every encouragement to confide in you. She loved you in those days,
in spite of all differences. You should never have allowed this love
to fail."

Miriam kept her eyes on the floor.

"I am afraid," he added, after a pause, "that you won't tell me why
you cannot think kindly of her?"

She hesitated, her lips moving uncertainly.

"There _is_ a reason?"

"I can't tell you."

"I have no right to press you to do so. I will rather ask this--I
asked it once before, and had no satisfactory answer--why did you
allow me to think for a few days, in Italy, that you accepted my
friendship and gave me yours in return, and then became so
constrained in your manner to me that I necessarily thought I had
given you offence?"

She was silent.

"That also you can't tell me?"

She glanced at him--or rather, let her eyes pass over his face--
with the old suggestion of defiance. Her firm-set lips gave no
promise of answer.

Mallard rose.

"Then I must still wait. Some day you will tell me, I think."

He held his hand to her, then turned away; but in a moment faced her
again.

"One word--a yes or no. Do you believe what I have told you? Do
you believe it absolutely? Look at me, and answer."

She flushed, and met his gaze almost as intensely as when he
compelled her confession.

"Do you put absolute faith in what I have said?"

"I do."

"That is something."

He smiled very kindly, and so this dialogue of theirs ended.

A few days later, the Spences gathered friends about their
dinner-table. Mallard was of the invited. The necessity of donning
society's uniform always drew many growls from him; he never felt at
his ease in it, and had a suspicion that he looked ridiculous.
Indeed it suited him but ill; it disguised the true man as he
appeared in his rough travelling apparel, and in the soiled and
venerable attire of the studio.

As he entered the drawing-room, his first glance fell on Seaborne,
who sat in conversation with Mrs. Baske. The man of letters was just
returned from Italy. Going to shake hands with Miriam, Mallard
exchanged a few words with him; then he drew aside into a convenient
corner. He noticed that Miriam's eyes turned once or twice in his
direction. Informed that she was to be his partner in the solemn
procession, he approached her when the moment arrived. They had
nothing to say to each other, until they had been seated some time
then they patched together a semblance of talk, a few formalities,
commonplaces, all but imbecilities. Finding this at length
intolerable, each turned to the person whom he had once before met,
a pretty, bright, charming on the other side. In Mallard's case this
was a young lady girl; without hesitation, she abandoned her
companion proper, and drew the artist into lively dialogue. It was
continued afterwards in the drawing-room, until Mallard, observing
that Miriam sat alone, went over to her.

"What's the matter?" he asked, as he seated himself.

"The matter? Nothing."

"I thought you looked unusually well and cheerful early in the
evening. Now you are the opposite."

"Society soon tires me."

"So it does me."

"You seem anything but tired."

"I have been listening to clever and amusing talk. Do you like Miss
Harper?"

"I don't know her well enough to like or dislike her."

Mallard was looking at her hands, as they lay folded together; he
noticed a distinct tension of the muscles, a whitening of the
knuckles.

"She has just the qualities to put me in good humour. Often when I
have got stupid and bearish from loneliness, I wish I could talk to
some one so happily constituted."

Miriam had become mute, and in a minute or two she rose to speak to
a lady who was passing. As she stood there, Mallard regarded her at
his case. She was admirably dressed to-night, and looked younger
than of wont. Losing sight of her, owing to people who came between,
Mallard fell into a brown study, an anxious smile on his lips.

On the second morning after that, he interrupted his work to sit
down and pen a short letter. "Dear Mrs. Baske," he began then
pondered, and rose to give a touch to the picture on which his eyes
were fixed. But he seated himself again, and wrote on rapidly.
"Would you do me the kindness to come here to-morrow early in the
afternoon? If you have an engagement, the day after would do. But
please to come, if you can; I wish to see you."

There was no reply to this. At the time he had mentioned; Mallard
walked about his room in impatience. Just before three o'clock, his
ear caught a footstep outside, and a knock at the door followed.

"Come in!" he shouted.

From behind the canvases appeared Miriam.

"Ah! How do you do? This is kind of you. Are you alone?"

The question was so indifferently asked, that Miriam stood in
embarrassment.

"Yes. I hare come because you asked me."

"To be sure.--Can you sew, Mrs. Baske?"

She looked at him in confusion, half indignant.

"Yes, I can sew."

"I hardly like to ask you, but--would you mend this for me? It's
the case in which I keep a large volume of engravings; the seams are
coming undone, you see."

He took up the article in question, which was of glazed cloth, and
held it to her.

"Have you a needle and thread?" she asked.

"Oh yes; here's a complete work-basket."

He watched her as she drew off her gloves.

"Will you sit here?" He pointed to a chair and a little table. "I
shall go on with my work, if you will let me. You don't mind doing
this for me?"

"Not at all."

"Is that chair comfortable?"

"Quite."

He moved away and seemed to be busy with a picture; it was on an
easel so placed that. as he stood before it, he also overlooked
Miriam at her needlework. For a time there was perfect quietness.
Mallard kept glancing at his companion, but she did not once raise
her eyes. At length he spoke.

"I have never had an opportunity of asking you what your new
impressions were of Bartles."

"The place was much the same as I left it," she answered naturally.

"And the people? Did you see all your old friends?"

"I saw no one except my sister-in-law and her family."

"You felt no inclination?"

"None whatever."

"By-the-bye"--he seemed to speak half absently, looking closely at
his work--"hadn't you once some thought of building a large new
chapel there?"

"I once had."

She drew her stitches nervously.

"That has utterly passed out of your mind?"

"Must it not necessarily have done so?"

He stepped back, held his head aside, and examined her thoughtfully.

"H'm. I have an impression that you went beyond thinking of it as a
possibility. Did you not make a distinct promise to some one or
another--perhaps to the congregation?"

"Yes, a distinct promise."

He became silent; and Miriam, looking up for the first time, asked:

"Is it your opinion that the promise is still binding on me?"

"Why, I am inclined to think so. Your difficulty is, of course, that
you don't see your way to spending a large sum of money to advance
something with which you have no sympathy."

"It isn't only that I have no sympathy with it," broke from Miriam.
"The thought of those people and their creeds is hateful to me.
Their so-called religion is a vice. They are as far from being
Christians as I am from being a Mahometan. To call them Puritans is
the exaggeration of compliment."

Mallard watched and listened to her with a smile.

"Well," he said, soberly, "I suppose this only applies to the most
foolish among them. However, I see that you can hardly be expected
to build them a chapel. Let us think a moment.--Are there any
public baths in Bartles?"

"There were none when I lived there."

"The proverb says that after godliness comes cleanliness. Why should
you not devote to the establishing of decent baths what you meant to
set apart for the chapel? How does it strike you?"

She delayed a moment; then--

"I like the suggestion."

"Do you know any impartial man there with whom you could communicate
on such a subject?"

"I think so."

"Then suppose you do it as soon as possible?"

"I will."

She plied her needle for a few minutes longer; then looked up and
said that the work was done.

"I am greatly obliged to you. Now will you come here and look at
something?"

She rose and came to his side. Then she saw that there stood on the
easel a drawing-board; on that was a sheet of paper, which showed
drawings of two heads in crayon.

"Do you recognize these persons?" he asked, moving a little away.

Yes, she recognized them. They were both portraits of herself, but
subtly distinguished from each other. The one represented a face
fixed in excessive austerity, with a touch of pride that was by no
means amiable, with resentful eyes, and lips on the point of
becoming cruel. In the other, though undeniably the features were
the same, all these harsh characteristics had yielded to a change of
spirit; austerity had given place to grave thoughtfulness, the eyes
had a noble light, on the lips was sweet womanly strength.

Miriam bent her head, and was silent.

"Now, both these faces are interesting," said Mallard. "Both are
uncommon, and full of force. But the first I can't say that I like.
It is that of an utterly undisciplined woman, with a possibility of
great things in her, but likely to be dangerous for lack of
self-knowledge and humility; an ignorant woman, moreover; one
subjected to superstitions, and aiming at unworthy predominance. The
second is obviously her sister, but how different! An educated
woman, this; one who has learnt a good deal about herself and the
world. She is 'emancipated,' in the true sense of the hackneyed
word; that is to say, she is not only freed from those bonds that
numb the faculties of mind and heart, but is able to control the
native passions that would make a slave of her. Now, this face I
love."

Miriam did not stir, but a thrill went through her. "One of the
passions that she has subdued," Mallard went on, "is, you can see,
particularly strong in this sister of hers. I mean jealousy. This
first face is that of a woman so prone to jealousy of all kinds that
there would be no wonder if it drove her to commit a crime. The
woman whom I love is superior to idle suspicions; she thinks nobly
of her friends; she respects herself too much to be at the mercy of
chance and change of circumstance."

He paused, and Miriam spoke humbly.

"Do you think it impossible for the first to become like her
sister?"

"Certainly not impossible. The fact is that she has already made
great progress in that direction. The first face is not that of an
actually existing person. She has changed much since she looked
altogether like this, so much, indeed, that occasionally I see the
sister in her, and then I love her for the sister's sake. But
naturally she has relapses, and they cannot but affect my love. That
word, you know, has such very different meanings. When I say that I
love her, I don't mean that I am ready to lose my wits when she is
good enough to smile on me. I shouldn't dream of allowing her to
come in the way of my life's work; if she cannot be my helper in it,
then she shall be nothing to me at all. I shall never think or call
her a goddess, not even if she develop all the best qualities she
has. Still, I think the love is true love; I think so for several
reasons, of which I needn't speak."

Miriam again spoke, all but raising her face.

"You once loved in another way."

"I was once out of my mind, which is not at all the same as loving."

He moved to a distance; then turned, and asked:

"Will you tell me now why you became so cold to Cecily?"

"I was jealous of her."

"And still remain so?"

"No."

"I am glad to hear that. Now I think I'll get on with my work. Thank
you very much for the sewing.--By-the-bye, I often feel the want
of some one at hand to do a little thing of that kind."

"If you will send for me, I shall always be glad to come."

"Thank you. Now don't hinder me any longer. Good-bye for to-day."

Miriam moved towards the door.

"You are forgetting your gloves, Mrs. Baske," he called after her.

She turned back and took them up.

"By-the-bye," he said, looking at his watch, "it is the hour at
which ladies are accustomed to drink tea. Will you let me make you a
cup before you go?"

"Thank you. Perhaps I could save your time by making it myself."

"A capital idea. Look, there is all the apparatus. Please to tell me
when it is ready, and I'll have a cup with you."

He painted on, and neither spoke until the beverage was actually
prepared. Then Miriam said:

"Will you come now, Mr. Mallard?"

He laid down his implements, and approached the table by which she
stood.

"Do you understand," he asked, "what is meant when one says of a man
that he is a Bohemian?"

"I think so."

"You know pretty well what may be fairly expected of him, and what
must _not_ be expected?"

"I believe so."

"Do you think you could possibly share the home of such a man?"

"I think I could."

"Then suppose you take off your hat and your mantle, or whatever
it's called, and make an experiment--see if you can feel at home
here."

She did so. Whilst laying the things aside, she heard him step up to
her, till he was very close. Then she turned, and his arms were
about her, and his heart beating against hers.





CHAPTER XVII

END AND BEGINNING




In the autumn of this year, Mrs. Lessingham died. Owing to slight
ailments, she had been advised to order her life more restfully, and
with a view to this she took a house at Richmond, where Mrs. Delph
and Irene again came to live with her. Scarcely was the settlement
effected, when grave illness fell upon her, the first she had
suffered since girlhood. She resented it; her energies put
themselves forth defiantly; two days before her death she had no
suspicion of what was coming. Warned at length, she made her will,
angrily declined spiritual comfort, and with indignation fought her
fate to the verge of darkness.

Cecily and her husband arrived a few hours too late; when the
telegram of summons reached them, they were in Denmark. The Spences
attended the funeral. Mallard and Miriam, who were in the north of
Scotland--they had been married some two months--did not come.
By Mrs. Lessingham's will, the greater part of her possessions fell
to Cecily; there was a legacy of money to Irene Delph, and a London
hospital for women received a bequest.

Eleanor wrote to Miriam:

"They went back to Paris yesterday. I had Cecily with me for one
whole day, but of herself she evidently did not wish to speak, and
of course I asked no questions. Both she and her husband looked
well, however. It pleased me very much to hear her talk of you; all
her natural tenderness and gladness came out; impossible to imagine
a more exquisite sincerity of joy. She is a noble and beautiful
creature; I do hope that the shadow on her life is passing away, and
that we shall see her become as strong as she is lovable. She said
she had written to you. Your letter at the time of your marriage was
a delight to her.

"It happened that on the day when she was here we had a visit
from--whom think you? Mr. Bradshaw, accompanied by his daughter
Charlotte and her husband. The old gentleman was in London on
business, and had met the young people, who were just returning from
their honeymoon. He is still the picture of health, and his robust,
practical talk seemed to do us good. How he laughed and shouted over
his reminiscences of Italy! Your marriage had amazed him; when he
began to speak of it, it was in a grave, puzzled way, as if there
must be something in the matter which required its being touched
upon with delicacy. The substitution of baths for a chapel at
Bartles obviously gave him more amusement than he liked to show; he
chuckled inwardly, with a sober face. 'What has Mallard got to say
to that?' he asked me aside. I answered that it met with your
husband's entire approval. 'Well,' he said, 'I feel that I can't
keep up with the world; in my day, you didn't begin married life by
giving away half your income. It caps me, but no doubt it's all
right.' Mrs. Bradshaw by-the-bye, shakes her head whenever you are
mentioned.

"You will like to hear of Mr. and Mrs. Marsh. Charlotte is
excessively plain, and I am afraid excessively dull, but it is
satisfactory to see that she regards her husband as a superior
being, not to be spoken of save with bated breath. Mr. Marsh is
rather too stout for his years, and I should think very
self-indulgent; whenever his wife looks at him, he unconsciously
falls into the attitude of one who is accustomed to snuff incense.
He speaks of 'my Bohemian years' with a certain pride, wishing one
to understand that he was a wild, reckless youth, and that his
present profound knowledge of the world is the result of experiences
which do not fall to the lot of common men. With Cecily he was
superbly gracious--talked to her of art in a large, fluent way,
the memory of which will supply Edward with mirth for some few
weeks. The odd thing is that his father-in-law seems more than half
to believe in him."

Time went on. Cecily's letters to her friends in England grew rare.
Writing to Eleanor early in the spring, she mentioned that Irene
Delph, who had been in Paris since Mrs. Lessingham's death, was
giving her lessons in painting, but said she doubted whether this
was anything better than a way of killing time. "You know Mr.
Seaborne is here?" she added. "I have met him two or three times at
Madame Courbet's, whom I was surprised to find he has known for
several years. She translated his book on the revolutions of '48
into French."

Never a word now of Elgar. The Spences noted this cheerlessly, and
could not but remark a bitterness that here and there revealed
itself in her short, dry letters. To Miriam she wrote only in the
form of replies, rarely even alluding to her own affairs, but always
with affectionate interest in those of her correspondent.

Another autumn came, and Cecily at length was mute; the most
pressing letters obtained no response. Miriam wrote to Reuben, but
with the same result. This silence was unbroken till winter; then,
one morning in November, Eleanor received a note from Cecily, asking
her to call as soon as she was able at an address in the far west of
London--nothing more than that.

In the afternoon, Eleanor set out to discover this address. It
proved to be a house in a decent suburban road. On asking for Mrs.
Elgar, she was led up to the second floor, and into a rather bare
little sitting-room. Here was Cecily, alone.

"I knew you would come soon," she said, looking with an earnest, but
not wholly sad, smile at her visitor. "I had very nearly gone to
you, but this was better. You understand why I am here?"

"I am afraid so, after your long silence."

"Don't let us get into low spirits about it," said Cecily, smiling
again. "All that is over; I can't make myself miserable any more,
and certainly don't wish any one to be so on my account. Come and
sit nearer the fire. What a black, crushing day!"

She looked out at the hopeless sky, and shook her head.

"You have lodgings here?" asked Eleanor, watching the girl with
concern.

"Irene and her mother live here; they were able to take me in for
the present. He left me a month ago. This time he wrote and told me
plainly--said it was no use, that he wouldn't try to deceive me
any longer. He couldn't live as I wish him to, so he would have done
with pretences and leave me free. I waited there in my 'freedom'
till the other day; he might have come back, in spite of everything,
you know. But at last I wrote to an address he had given me, and
told him I was going to London--that I accepted his release, and
that henceforth all his claims upon me must be at end."

"Is he in Paris?"

"In the south of France, I believe. But that is nothing to me. What
I inherited from my aunt makes me independent; there is no need of
any arrangements about money, fortunately. I dare say he foresaw
this when he expressed a wish that I should keep this quite apart
from our other sources of income, and manage it myself."

Eleanor felt that the last word was said. There was no distress in
Cecily's voice or manner, nothing but the simplicity of a clear
decision, which seemed to carry with it hardly a regret.

"A tragedy can go no further than its fifth act," Cecily pursued. "I
have shed all my tears long since, exhausted all my indignation. You
can't think what an everyday affair it has become with me. I am
afraid that means that I am in a great measure demoralized by these
experiences. I can only hope that some day I shall recover my finer
feeling."

"You haven't seen Miriam?"

"No, and I don't know whether I can. There as no need for you to
keep silence about me when you see her; what has happened can't be
hidden. I thought it possible that Reuben might have written and
told her. If she comes here, I shall welcome her, but it is better
for me not to seek her first."

"If he writes to her," asked Eleanor, with a grave look, "is it
likely that he will try to defend himself?"

"I understand you. You mean, defend himself by throwing blame of one
kind or another on me. No, that is impossible. He has no desire to
do that. What makes our relations to each other so hopeless, is that
we can be so coldly just. In me there is no resentment left, and in
him no wish to disguise his own conduct. We are simply nothing to
each other. I appreciate all the good in him and all the evil; and
to him my own qualities are equally well known. We have reached the
point of studying each other in a mood of scientific impartiality--
surely the most horrible thing in man and wife."

Eleanor had a sense of relief in hearing that last comment. For the
tone of the speech put her painfully in mind of that which
characterizes certain French novelists all very well in its place,
but on Cecily's lips an intolerable discord. It was as though the
girl's spirit had been materialized by Parisian influences; yet the
look and words with which she ended did away with, or at least
mitigated, that fear.

"He is pursued by a fate," murmured the listener.

"Listen to my defence;" said Cecily, after a pause, with more
earnestness. "For I have not been blameless through. out Before we
left London, he charged me with contributing to what had befallen
us, and in a measure he was right. He said that I had made no effort
to keep him faithful to me that I had watched the gulf growing
between us with indifference, and allowed him to take his own
course. A jealous and complaining wife, he said, would have behaved
more for his good. Hearing this, I recognized its truth. I had held
myself too little responsible. When our life in Paris began, I
resolved that I would accept my duties in another spirit I did all
that a wife can do to strengthen the purer part in him. I interested
myself in whatever he undertook; I suggested subjects of study which
I thought congenial to him and studied them together with him,
putting aside everything of my own for which he did not care. And
for a time I was encouraged by seeming success. He was grateful to
me, and I found my one pleasure in this absolute devotion of myself.
I choose my words carefully; you must not imagine that there was
more in either his feeling or mine than what I express. But it did
not last more than six months. Then he grew tired of it. I still did
my utmost; believe that I did, Mrs. Spence, for it is indeed true. I
made every effort in my power to prevent what I knew was
threatening. Until he began to practise deceit, trickery of every
kind. What more could I do? If he was determined to deceive me, he
would do so; what was gained by my obliging him to exert more
cunning? Then I turned sick at heart, and the end came."

"But, Cecily," said Eleanor, "how can the end be yet?"

"You mean that he will once more wish to return."

"Once more, or twenty times more."

"I know; but--"

She broke off, and Eleanor did not press her to continue.

It was not long before the news reached Miriam. In a few days
Eleanor paid one of her accustomed visits to a little house out at
Roehampton, externally cold and bare enough in these days of
November, but inwardly rich with whatsoever the heart or brain can
desire. Hither came no payers of formal calls, no leavers of cards,
no pests from the humdrum world to open their mouths and utter
foolishness. It was a dwelling sacred to love and art, and none were
welcome across its threshold save those to whom the consecration was
of vital significance. To Eleanor the air seemed purer than that of
any other house she entered; to breathe it made her heart beat more
hopefully, gave her a keener relish of life.

Mallard was absent to-day, held by business in London. The visitor
had, for once, no wish to await his return. She sat for an hour by
the fireside, and told what she had to tell; then took her leave.

When the artist entered, Miriam was waiting for him by the light of
the fire; blinds shut out the miserable gloaming, but no lamp had
yet been brought into the room. Mallard came in blowing the fog and
rain off his moustache; he kicked off his boots, kicked on his
slippers, and then bent down over the chair to the face raised in
expectancy.

"A damnable day, Miriam, in the strict and sober sense of the word."

"Far too sober," she replied. "Eleanor came through it, however."

"Wonderful woman! Did she come to see if you bore it with the
philosophy she approves?"

"She had a more serious purpose, I'm sorry to say, Cecily is in
London, He has left her--written her a good-bye."

Mallard leaned upon the mantelpiece, and watched his wife's face,
illumined by the firelight. A healthier and more beautiful face than
it had ever been; not quite the second of those two faces that
Mallard drew, but with scarcely a record of the other. They talked
in subdued voices. Miriam repeated all that Eleanor had been able to
tell.

"You must go and see her, of course," Mallard said.

"Yes; I will go to-morrow."

"Shall you ask her to come here?"

"I don't think she will wish to," answered Miriam.

"That brother of yours!" he growled.

"Isn't it too late even to feel angry with him, dear? We know what
all this means. It is absolutely impossible for them to live
together, and Reuben's behaviour is nothing but an assertion of
that. Sooner or later, it would be just as impossible, even if he
preserved the decencies."

"Perhaps true; perhaps not. Would it be possible for him to live for
long with _any_ woman?"

Miriam sighed.

"Well, well; go and talk to the poor girl, and see if you can do
anything. I wish she were an artist, of whatever kind; then it
wouldn't matter much. A woman who sings, or plays, or writes, or
paints, can live a free life. But a woman who is nothing but a
woman, what the deuce is to become of her in this position? What
would become of _you_, if I found you in my way, and bade you go
about your business?"

"We are not far from the Thames," she answered, looking at him with
the fire-glow in her loving eyes.

"Oh, you!" he muttered, with show of contempt. "But other women have
more spirit. They get over their foolish love, and then find that
life in earnest is just beginning."

"I shall never get over it."

"Pooh!--How long to dinner, Miriam?"

Miriam went to see her sister-in-law, and repeated the visit at
intervals during the next few months; but Cecily would not come to
Roehampton. Neither would she accept the invitations of the Spences,
though Eleanor was with her frequently, and became her nearest
friend. She seemed quite content with the society of Irene and Mrs.
Delph; her health visibly improved, and as spring drew near there
was a brightening in her face that told of thoughts in sympathy with
the new-born hope of earth.

The Mallards were seldom in town. Excepting the house at Chelsea,
their visits were only to two or three painters, who lived much as
Mallard had done before his marriage. In these studios Miriam at
first inspired a little awe; but as her understanding of the
art-world increased, she adapted herself to its habits in so far as
she could respect them, and where she could not, the restraint of
her presence was recognized as an influence towards better things.

At the Spences', one day in April, they met Seaborne. They had heard
of his being in London again (after a year mostly spent in Paris),
but had not as yet seen him. He was invited to visit them, and
promised to do so before long. A month or more passed, however, and
the promise remained unfulfilled. At Chelsea the same report was
made of him; he seemed to be living in seclusion.

In mid-May, as Miriam was walking by herself at a little distance
from home, she was overtaken by a man who had followed her over the
heath. When the step paused at her side, she turned and saw Reuben.

"Will you speak to me?" he said.

"Why not, Reuben?"

She gave him her hand.

"That is kinder than I hoped to find you. But I see how changed you
are. You are so happy that you can afford to be indulgent to a poor
devil."

"Why have you made yourself a poor devil!"

"Why, why, why! Pooh! Why is anything as it is? Why are you what you
are, after being what you were?"

It pained her to look at him. At length she discerned unmistakably
the fatal stamp of degradation. When he came to her two years ago,
his face was yet unbranded; now the darkening spirit declared
itself. Even his clothing told the same tale, in spite of its being
such as he had always worn.

"Where are you living?" she asked.

"Anywhere; nowhere. I have no home."

"Why don't you make one for yourself?"

"It's all very well for you to talk like that. Every one doesn't get
a home so easily.--Does old Mallard make you a good husband?"

"Need you ask that?" Miriam returned, averting her eyes, and walking
slowly on.

"You have to thank me for it, Miriam, in part."

She looked at him in surprise.

"It's true. It was I who first led him to think about you, and
interested him in you. We were going from Pompeii to Sorrento--how
many years ago? thirty, forty?--and I talked about you a great
deal. I told him that I felt convinced you could be saved, if only
some strong man would take you by the hand. It led him to think
about you; I am sure of it."

Miriam had no reply to make. They walked on.

"I didn't come to the house," he resumed presently, "because I
thought it possible that the door might be shut in my face. Mallard
would have wished to do so."

"He wouldn't have welcomed you; but you were free to come in if you
wished."

"Have you thought it likely I might come some day?"

"I expected, sooner or later, to hear from you."

He had a cane, and kept slashing with it at the green growths by his
feet. When he missed his aim at any particular object, he stopped
and struck again, more fiercely.

"Does Cecily come to see you?" was his next question, uttered as if
unconcernedly.

"No."

"But you know about her? You know where she is?"

"Yes."

"Tell me what you know, Miriam. How is she living?"

"I had much rather not speak of her. I don't feel that I have any
right to."

"Why not?" he asked quickly, standing still. "What is there to hide?
Why had you rather not speak?"

"For reasons that you understand well enough. What is it to you how
she lives?"

He searched her face, like one suspecting a studied ambiguity. His
eyes, which were a little bloodshot, grew larger and more turbid; a
repulsive animalism came out in all his features.

"Do tell me what you know, Miriam," he pleaded. "Of course it's
nothing to me; I know that. I have no wish to interfere with her; I
promise you to do nothing of the kind; I promise solemnly!"

"You promise?" she exclaimed, not harshly, but with stern
significance. "How can you use such words? Under what circumstances
could I put faith in a promise of yours, Reuben?"

He struck violently at the trunk of a tree, and his cane broke; then
he flung it away, still more passionately.

"You're right enough. What do I care? I lie more often than I tell
the truth. I have a sort of pride in it. If a man is to be a liar,
let him be a thorough one.--Do you know why I smashed the stick? I
had a devilish temptation to strike you across the face with it.
That would have been nice, wouldn't it?"

"You had better go your own way, Reuben, and let me go mine."

She drew apart, and not without actual fear of him, so brutal he
looked, and so strangely coarse had his utterance become.

"You needn't be afraid. If I _had_ hit you, I'd have gone away and
killed myself; so perhaps it's a pity I didn't. I felt a savage
hatred of you, and just because I wanted you to take my hand and be
gentle with me. I suppose you can't understand that? You haven't
gone deep enough into life."

His voice choked, and Miriam saw tears start from his eyes.

"I hope I never may," she answered gently. "Have done with all that,
and talk to me like yourself, Reuben."

"Talk! I've had enough of talking. I want to rest somewhere, and be
quiet."

"Then come home with me."

"Dare you take me?"

"There's no question of daring. Come with me, if you wish to."

They walked to the house almost in silence. It was noon; Mallard was
busy in his studio. Having spoken a word with him, Miriam rejoined
her brother in the sitting-room. He had thrown himself on a couch,
and there he lay without speaking until luncheon-time, when
Mallard's entrance aroused him. The artist could not be cordial, but
he exercised a decent hospitality.

In the afternoon, brother and sister again sat for a long time
without conversing. When Reuben began to speak, it was in a voice
softened by the influences of the last few hours.

"Miriam, there's one thing you will tell me; you won't refuse to. Is
she still living alone?"

"Yes."

"Then there is still hope for me. I must go back to her, Miriam.
No--listen to me! That is my one and only hope. If I lose that, I
lose everything. Down and down, lower and lower into bestial life--
that's my fate, unless she saves me from it. Won't you help me? Go
and speak to her for me, dear sister, you can't refuse me that. Tell
her how helpless I am, and implore her to save me, only out of pity.
I don't care how mean it makes me in your eyes or hers; I have no
self-respect left, nor courage--nothing but a desire to go back to
her and ask her to forgive me."

Miriam could scarcely speak for shame and distress.

"It is impossible, Reuben. Be man enough to face what you have
brought on yourself. Have you no understanding left? With her, there
is no hope for you. She and you are no mates; you can only wreck
each other's lives. Surely, surely you know this by now! She could
only confirm your ruin, strive with you as she might; you would fall
again into hateful falsity. Forget her, begin a life without thought
of her, and you may still save yourself--yourself; no one else can
save you. Begin the struggle alone, manlike. You have no choice but
to do so."

"I tell you I can't live without her. Where is she? I will go myself--"

"You will never know from me. What right have you to ask her to sink
with you? That's what it means. There are people who think that a
wife's obligation has no bounds, that she _must_ sink, if her
husband choose to demand it. Let those believe it who will. What
motive should render such a sacrifice possible to her? You know she
cannot love you. Pity? How can she pity you in such a sense as to
degrade herself for your sake? Neither you nor she nor I hold the
creed that justifies such martyrdom. Am _I_ to teach you such
things? Shame! Have the courage of your convictions. You have
released her, and you must be content to leave her free. The desire
to fetter her again is ignoble, dastardly!"

He would neither be shamed nor convinced. With desperate
beseechings, with every argument of passion, no matter how it
debased him, he strove frantically to subdue her to his purpose. But
Miriam was immovable. At length she could not even urge him with
reasonings; his prostrate frenzy revolted her, and she drew away in
repugnance. Reuben's supplication turned on the instant into brutal
rage.

"Curse your obstinacy!" he shouted, in a voice that had strained
itself to hoarseness.

The door opened, and Mallard, who had come to see whether Elgar was
still here, heard his exclamation.

"Out of the house!" he commanded sternly. "March! And never let me
see you here again."

Reuben rushed past him, and the house-door closed violently.

Then Miriam's overstrung nerves gave way, and for the first time
Mallard saw her shed tears. She described to him the scene that had
passed.

"What ought I to do? She must be warned. It is horrible to think
that he may find her, and persuade her."

They agreed that she should go to Cecily early next morning. In the
meantime she wrote to Eleanor.

But the morning brought a letter from Reuben, of a tenor which
seemed to make it needless to mention this incident to Cecily.

"I had not long left you," he wrote, "when I recovered my reason,
and recognized your wisdom in opposing me. For a week I have been
drinking myself into a brutal oblivion--or trying to do so; I came
to you in a nerveless and half imbecile state. You were hard with
me, but it was just what I needed. You have made me understand--
for to-day, at all events--the completeness of my damnation. Thank
you for discharging that sisterly office. I observe, by-the-bye,
that Mallard's influence is strengthening your character. Formerly
you were often rigorous, but it was spasmodic. You can now persevere
in pitilessness, an essential in one who would support what we call
justice. Don't think I am writing ironically. Whenever I am free
from passion, as now--and that is seldom enough--I can see
myself precisely as you and all those on your side of the gulf see
me. The finer qualities I once had survive in my memory, bat I know
it is hopeless to try and recover them. I find it interesting to
write a book about it, but it would be of the kind that study the
processes of my degradation. I should like n_ one would publish.

"I hope I may never by chance see Cecily; I have a horrible
conviction that I should kill her. Why shouldn't I tell you all the
truth? My feeling towards her is a strange and vile compound of
passions, but I believe that hatred predominates. If she were so
unfortunate as to come again into my power, I should make it my one
object to crush her to my own level; and in the end I should kill
her. Perhaps that is the destined close of our drama. Even to you,
as I confessed, I felt murderous impulses. I haven't yet been quite
successful in analyzing this state of mind. The vulgar would say
that, having chosen the devil's part, I am receiving share of the
devil's spirit. But to give a thing a bad name doesn't help one to
understand it.

"Don't let this terrify you. I am going away again, to be out of
reach of temptation. I know, I know with certainty, that the end in
some form or other draws near. I have thought so much of Fate, that
I seem to have got an unusual perception of its course, as it
affects me. Keep this letter as a piece of curious human experience.
It may be the last you receive from me."

Something less than a month after this, Edward Spence, examining his
correspondence at the breakfast-table, found a French newspaper,
addressed to him in a hand he recognized.

"This is from Seaborne," he said to Eleanor, as he stripped off the
wrapper.

He discovered a marked paragraph. It reported a tragic occurrence in
a street near the Luxembourg. The husband of an actress at one of
the minor theatres in Paris had encountered his wife's lover, and
shot him dead. The victim was "un jeune Anglais, nomme Elgare."

The sender of this newspaper had also written; his letter contained
fuller details. He had seen the corpse, and identified it. Could he
do anything? Or would some friend of Mrs. Elgar come over?

Eleanor carried the intelligence first of all to Roehampton. In her
consultation with the Mallards, it was decided that she, rather than
Miriam, should visit Cecily. She left them with this purpose.

It was possible that Cecily had already heard. On arriving at the
house, Eleanor was at once admitted, and went up to the sitting-room
on the second floor; she entered with a tremulous anxiety, and the
first glance told her that her news had not been anticipated. Cecily
was seated with several books open before her; the smile of friendly
welcome slowly lighting her grave countenance, showed that her mind
detached itself with difficulty from an absorbing subject.

"Welcome always," she said, "and most so when least expected."

The room was less bare than when she first occupied it. Pictures and
books were numerous; the sunlight fell upon an open piano; an easel,
on which was a charcoal drawing from a cast, stood in the middle of
the floor. But the plain furniture remained, and no mere luxuries
had been introduced. It was a work-room, not a boudoir.

"You are still content in your hermitage?" said Eleanor, seating
herself and controlling her voice to its wonted tone.

"More and more. I have been reading since six o'clock this morning,
and never felt so quiet in mind."

Her utterance proved it; she spoke in a low, sweet voice, its music
once more untroubled. But in looking at Eleanor, she became aware of
veiled trouble on her countenance.

"Have you come only to see me? Or is there something--?"

Eleanor broke the news to her. And as she spoke, the beautiful face
lost its calm of contemplation, grew pain-shadowed, stricken with
pangs of sorrow. Cecily turned away and wept--wept for the past,
which in these moments had lived again and again perished.

It seemed to Spence that his wife mourned unreasonably. A week or
more had passed, and yet he chanced to find her with tears in her
eyes.

"I have still so much of the old Eve in me, replied Eleanor. "I am
heavy-hearted, not for him, but for Cecily's dead love. We all have
a secret desire to believe love imperishable."

"An amiable sentiment; but it is better to accept the truth."

"True only in some cases."

"In many," said Spence, with a smile. "First love is fool's
paradise. But console yourself out of Boccaccio. 'Bocca baciata non
perde ventura; anzi rinnuova, come fa la luna.'"

THE END


End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Emancipated
by George Gissing