AT LOS ANGELES
 
 
 a 
 
 A
 
 THE EMANCIPATED
 
 THE EMANCIPATED 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE GISSING 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE ODD WO.MEN," " IN THE YEAR OF JUBILEE," ETC. 
 
 THIRD EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 LAWRENCE AND BULLEN 
 
 i6, HENRIETTA STREET, W.C. 
 1895
 
 I 
 
 \ ^1 ■ 
 
 .S 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAKT I. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 Northerners in Sunlight 3 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 Cecily Doran 17 
 
 ^ CHAPTEE III. 
 
 j2 The Boarding-House on the Mergellina . . . . S5 
 
 j§ CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 Miriam's Brother 54 
 
 in 
 
 ^ CHAPTEE V. 
 
 < 
 
 ^ The Artist astray 74 
 
 * CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 ^ Captive Travellers 97 
 
 403704
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 m ■», ' ■ PAGE 
 
 The Martyr 117 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 Proof against Illusion 12'} 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 In the Dead City 143 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 The Declaration 154 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 The Appeal to Authority 169 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 On the Heights 186 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 Echo and Prelude 19;j 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 On the Wings of the Morning 211 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 "Wolf!" 222 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 Letters 233
 
 CONTENTS. vii 
 
 PAET n. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 Pack 
 
 A Corner of Society 243 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 The Proprieties defended 254 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 Gradation 201 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 The Denyers in England 280 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 MuLTUM IN Parvo 295 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 At P^stum 307 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Learning and Teaching 31q 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Stumblings 335 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Silences 3^g
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 PA ore 
 
 Elgar at Work . "59 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 In Due Course • • . 372 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 Cecily's Return 380 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Onward to the Vague . 393 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Suggestion and Assurance 40G 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 Peace in Show and Peace in Truth .... 417 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 The Two Faces 426 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 End and Beginning 440
 
 PART I.
 
 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 -4+- 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT. 
 
 Bt 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 out- 
 line, vigorous in general effect and in detail delicate ; a 
 proud young face, fvill 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 jvs if in nervous 
 impatience until she had found the jihrase or the thought 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 for wticli her pen waited. Save for tliese intervals, she 
 wrote with quick decision, in a large clear hand, never 
 undei'lining, but frequently supplying the emphasis of heavy 
 stroke in her penning of a word. At the end of her letters 
 came a siguatui'e excellent in individuality : " Miriam 
 Baske." 
 
 The furniture of her room was modern, and of the kind 
 demanded by wealthy forestieri in the lodgings they eon- 
 descend 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 hand- 
 some 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 ; 
 sufiiciently unlike a sitting-room in Eedbeck House, Bartles, 
 Lancashire, which Mrs. Baske had in her mind as she wrote. 
 
 A few English books lay here and there, volumes of un- 
 attractive 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 j^lans 
 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 draw- 
 ing 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
 
 NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT. 5 
 
 for her sister-in-law, a lady of middle age, who shared in 
 the occupancy of Eedbeck 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 ges- 
 ture, and she went on with her task, 
 
 " Tt 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 aa any one could be, 
 but 1 won't write about it ; no doubt you under- 
 stand 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 employ- 
 ment until she becomes regular in her attendance at 
 worship. Perhai;)s 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 ; ho 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 i^ the a^ttribute of sins such as
 
 6 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Ms tliat thej involve the innocent with the guilty ; and then 
 she has shown herself so wretchedly weak. Tiy, however, 
 to help her secretly if her distress becomes too amte. 
 
 "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 piei-ced 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. Sj^ence, 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 dui-ing her stay at Naples. 
 Her age was about thirty ; she had a graceful figui'e, a 
 manner of muchjrefinement, and a bi'ight, gentle, intellectual 
 face, which just now bore an announcement of news. 
 
 " They have arrived ! " 
 
 " Already ? " replied the other, in a tons of civil interest. 
 
 " Tliey 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."a And Mrs. Spence added, with 
 a snii le, " I should think you must have a certain curiosity 
 to see each other, after so long an acquaintance at second- 
 hand." 
 
 " 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
 
 NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT, 7 
 
 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 some- 
 what harshly designed, very apt, it would seem, to the 
 expression of bitter 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 waist- 
 coat 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 
 BcK-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 veiy 
 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 iu 
 speech, They had the same grave note, the same decision.
 
 8 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 " They must be very tired after their journey," Miriam 
 added, seating herself. 
 
 " Miss Doran seems scarcely so at all ; but Mrs. Lessing- 
 ham is rather over-wearied, I'm afraid." 
 
 '• Why didn't you break the journey at Florence or 
 Eome ? " 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 su2)pose we may go and see her in the morning ? " 
 said Miriam. 
 
 " My express mstructions 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 pre- 
 vailed ? " inquired Spence. " You seem to declare it in a 
 tone of triumph." 
 
 "Well," replied the other, with a grim smile, leaning for- 
 ward 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 to'wn, Vico Brancaccio. I shall only be in Naples a 
 few days." 
 
 " How's that ? " inquired Spence,
 
 NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT. 9 
 
 " I'm going to work at Amalfi and Paestum." 
 
 " Then, as usual, we shall see nothing of you," said Mis. 
 Spence. " Pray, do you dine at Mrs. Grluck'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 suro 
 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. 
 
 " Tes ; 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," Mal- 
 lard 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 mak© 
 ft cou^ de tJiiiitre of his exit,"
 
 10 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 " Poor lad ! " said the elder man, with feelmg. " 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 iU." 
 
 " 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 finn of archi- 
 tects 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 under- 
 taking 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 jH-ofess 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 
 
 heat one's self uselessly." 
 
 " A Puritan at Naples," mused Mallard. " The situation 
 is interesting."
 
 NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT. ii 
 
 "Very. But then she doesn't really live in Naples. 
 From the first day she has sho'wn 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 ? There again, 
 an interesting study, in a very different way. Twice in the 
 day she shut herself tip 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 wit- 
 ness 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 
 Posiliipo ; 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 ! " munnured Spence, 
 when ho 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."
 
 IS THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 They were looking away from Naples. At tlie foot of tlie 
 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 
 aui 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 remote- 
 ness, lies what once was Baise. 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 Camj^ania. 
 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 ti-ansparencies 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
 
 NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT. 13 
 
 the poplars; Camaldoli and its neighbour heigMs 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. Baslce's enjoyment of the scenery." 
 
 " She admits that." 
 
 " By-the-bye, what are likely to be the relations between 
 her and Miss Doran ? " 1 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " Tou must remember that I know very little of her. I 
 have never spoken more intimately with her than you your- 
 self 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, wlio 
 knows what it may have been ? " 
 
 Mallard refused to meet the other's look ; his eyes wero 
 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 di'eams of a national repudia-
 
 14 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 tion of debt ; I imagino dock-companies failing and banka 
 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 asso- 
 ciate with Tronch ? " 
 
 " Who never opened a book save his ledger ; who was the 
 model of a rejDutable 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 interpi'etation 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 aa 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 apprecia- 
 tion of Baudelaire is exquisite. I dou't think she is naturally 
 very cruel, but she can plead convincingly the cause of vivi- 
 section. 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 posi- 
 tion 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."
 
 NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT. 15 
 
 " 1 see you direct your diatribe haK against Mrs. Lessing- 
 ham. Ho"w has she annoyed you ? " 
 
 " Annoyed me ? You never were more mistaken. It'? 
 with myself that T 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^p-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 uo 
 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 moderniU, why, Mr. Eoss 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 gi-uff 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 con- 
 science 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
 
 16 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 nonsense of Cecily Doran. Had you rather ste werfe 60» 
 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 refine- 
 ment, 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' spoten. 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 responsibili- 
 ties ? " 
 
 "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 ? " 
 
 Mallai'd 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 walk- 
 ing 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 hare 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, clim'Ving from the 
 Castel deir 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 j and Capri veiled 
 itself in mist.
 
 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CECILY DORAN. 
 
 YiLiA 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 re- 
 linquished 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 him- 
 self in most matters, he chose to abandon money-making at 
 the jvmcture when most men deem it incumbent upon them 
 to press their efforts in that direction ; business was repug- 
 nant 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 
 
 C
 
 1 8 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 was untroubled by any desire to distinguisla 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 im- 
 partial. 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 com- 
 passion 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 comj^letely her 
 cousin'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 mar- 
 riage, when Cecily was spending a season there with her 
 aunt, Mi's. Lessingham. Mallard's ward was then little 
 more than fifteen ; after several years of weak health, she 
 bad entered upon a vigorous maidenhood, and gave such pro- 
 uii-,e 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
 
 CECILY DOR AN. 19 
 
 was living witli Mrs. Elgar, a ^iJow, 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 
 difl&culty 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, child- 
 less, 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 com- 
 panion ; 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 nour after the meal. Then, however, she came to 
 Bit with Eleanor, and remained when the visitors wcro 
 announced. 
 
 Mrs. Lessingham did not answer to the common idea of a 
 
 c 2
 
 20 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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. Sj^ence ? 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
 
 CECILY DOR AM. fii 
 
 moved Miriam to a smile "whicli seemed ratliet of liidulgence 
 than warm kindness. 
 
 " How little we thought where our nest 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 Lan- 
 cashire, 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 develoi^ment appropriate to her
 
 22 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 years, and its beauty was displayed by Parisian handiwork. 
 In this respect, too, sbe 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 dispro- 
 portion, 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 
 Eeise,' " continued Mrs. Lessingham. " It was of quite 
 infinite value to me when I first was here. In each towa I 
 tuned my thoughts by it, to nse a phrase which sounds like 
 affectation, but has a very real significance." 
 
 " It was much the same with me," observed Spence. 
 
 " Tes, 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 
 fretfuluess, 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 kuow ; the happi- 
 ness has come before longing for it had ceased to be a 
 pleasure."
 
 CECILY DORAI^. 23 
 
 It was not so much affection as pride tliat laei' 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, bnt was not wholly attentive ; her 
 eyes constantly turned to Miriam, endeavoiu'ing, 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 Eome and the northei'n 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 hke 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 admira- 
 tion 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 her- 
 self of the suggestion. 
 
 " Would you let me see it, Miriam ? " she asked. " If it 
 is not troublesome "
 
 24 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Miriam rose, and they went out togetlier. In sileilce 
 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 ail- 
 ments " 
 
 "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 
 keeiD 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 over- 
 coming the slight embarrassment "caused by what she knew 
 of Miriam's thoughts, Cecily x-evealed 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
 
 CECILY DOR AN. 25 
 
 Bcemed to Lave forgotten that she was ever in sympathy 
 ■with the mood which imjiosed silence on her friend. Her 
 eyes drank light from the landscape ; her beauty was trans- 
 figured 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 hero," 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 1 
 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 hoard 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 pictui'e, Miriam? I 
 forgot." 
 
 " I never knew."
 
 26 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " Oil, I wished to speak to you of Mr. MMllard. You met 
 him yesterday. Had you miich 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 encourage- 
 ment 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, perhajis, be able to help him. I will 
 insist on every friend of mine who buys pictures fit all
 
 CECILY DOR AN. 27 
 
 possessing at least one of Mr. Mallard's ; tlien, perhaps, lie 
 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 Ids mind." 
 
 " But isn't it rather discourteous ? " Miriam obsorved 
 impartially.
 
 28 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " Oil, I could never tliink of it in that way ! An artist is 
 privileged ; lie 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 crv. 
 
 " 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 undertcne 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
 
 CECILY DO RAN. 29 
 
 not a psjehologieal 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 execu- 
 tion. 
 
 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 pai't 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
 
 30 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 iake 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? " ex- 
 claimed 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 Baiea 
 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
 
 CECILY DO RAN. 31 
 
 perfume save that whicli suggests the morning tub. He was 
 a manufacturer of silk. The provincial accent notwith- 
 standing, his conversation on general subjects soon declared 
 him a man of logical mind and of much homely informa- 
 tion. A sufficient self-esteem allied itself with his force of 
 character, but robust amiability prevented this from becom- 
 ing 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 lea-st 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 con- 
 sciousness 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 admira- 
 tion. 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
 
 32 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 tako 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 con- 
 sider, 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 iu 
 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 civiliza-. 
 tion. "With respect to the things which Jacob was constrain- 
 ing 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, wh^n, at their first visit to the Museum, he went 
 to work at the antiques with his Murray. " I've no patience I 
 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 hia 
 astonishment at meeting her as Miss Doran was great.
 
 CECILY DOR AN. 33 
 
 " Wliat kind of society do they live among? " he asked of 
 Spence. " Tip-top people, I suppose ? " 
 
 " "N'ot exactly what we understand by tip-top in England. 
 Mrs. Lessinghani's family connections are aristocratic, but 
 she prefers the society of authors, artists — that kind of 
 thing." 
 
 " Queer peoj)le 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 know- 
 ingly. 
 
 " 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' understand- 
 ing. " 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. Brad- 
 shaw. 
 
 When the ladies had left the dining-room, Mr. Bradshaw, 
 over hia 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 tho other, with sudden animation.
 
 34 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " That reminds me of something I wanted to talk about. 
 When I was leaving Manchester, T got together a few books, 
 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 
 scai'cely 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 examina- 
 tions." 
 
 " It fair caps me, Spence ! Classical education that is, eh ? 
 That's what parsons are bred on ? And, by the Lord, you 
 Bay they're beginning it with girls ? "
 
 CECILY DOR AN. 35 
 
 " 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 j3e?isio?i 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 
 exhil)ited 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 tal)le, where she always presided. Indeedj 
 there was much true refinement in Mrs. Gluck. You had 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 desire 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 Fran 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 boarding- 
 house, should certainly have been got rid of as soon as the 
 nature of her reading had been discovered. Fran Wohlge- 
 muth 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 un- 
 married 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 under- 
 stand that Italy was by no means the country of her choice ;
 
 BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA. 37 
 
 she preferred the northern latitudes, because there the 
 intellectual atmosphere was more bracing. But for her 
 daughters' sake she abode here : " You know, my girls 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, some- 
 what too slim, altogether a trifle limp ; but she had a com- 
 mendable 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 com- 
 plexion, and this accentuated her plainness. She aimed at 
 no compensation in attire, unless it were that her sober gar- 
 ments exhibited perfect neatness and complete inoffensive- 
 ness. 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 re- 
 cognized as feminine, frittering away their lives amid the 
 follies of the drawing-room and of the circulating library. 
 Cultui'e 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. Sho 
 spoke Italian feebly, but, with English people, never lost an
 
 38 THE EMANCIPATED.-^ 
 
 opportunity of babbling its phrases. Speak to her of Eome, 
 and before long she was sure to murmur rapturously, " Eoma 
 capitale d'ltalia ! " — the watch-word of antipapal victory. 
 Of English writers she loved, or aifected 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 enthusi- 
 asms, 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 philis- 
 tinism. From her preceptors in this sphere, she had learnt 
 certain names, old and new, which stood for more exquisite 
 A'irtues, 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 j 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
 
 BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE M ERG ELLIN A. 39 
 
 aloue continually exposed lier ignorance, committed gross 
 blunders, was guilty of deplorable lapses of memory. Her 
 unhappy lot kept lier in a constant state of nervousness and 
 sliame. She had no T>"orldly 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, Zillali 
 had chosen for her sj^eciality 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 defer- 
 ence to her sisters, she smothered her impulses to conven- 
 tional piety, and made believe that her sj^ritual life supported 
 itself on the postulates of science. As a result of all which, 
 the poor girl was not veiy 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 
 C|uarters of the globe. His profession was that of speculator 
 at large, and, with small encoui-agement 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, lie utilized a knowledge of 
 Spanish — casually picked up, like all his acquirements— and 
 was next heard of at Vera 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
 
 40 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 of mating a definite settlement, lie heard of something pro- 
 mising in Egypt, and thither repaired. A spare, vivacious, 
 pathetically sanguiae man, always speaking of the day when 
 he would " settle down " in enjoyment of a moderate for- 
 tune, 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. la 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 port- 
 folio. 
 
 " 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. Impi-essionism was no novel term 
 to Cecily, and in Paris she had had her attention intelli- 
 gently 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
 
 BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA. 41 
 
 the first glance at the first of Mr. Marsh's productions per- 
 plexed her. A study on the Eoman Campagna, said Made- 
 line. 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 bo any 
 cogent reason why it should be looked at one way up rather 
 than the other. Was this genius, or imj^udence ? 
 
 " You don't know the Campagna, yet," remarked Made- 
 line, finding that the other kept silence. *' Of course, you 
 can't appreciate the marvellous truthfulness of this impres- 
 sion ; but it gives you new emotions, doesn't it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Lessingham would have permitted herself to reply 
 with a pointed afiirmative. 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 
 O'mi 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 non- 
 sense 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 Eoss Mal- 
 lard 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, 
 theft 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 
 J leasantest v(tice.
 
 42 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 At table, the ladies were in a majority. Mr. Bradsliaw 
 was tlie 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 aristo- 
 cratic 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 newsjiapers ; 
 these were taken to his bedroom at nine o'clock, together 
 with a cup of chocolate. They j^resumably occupied him 
 until he apj^eared 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 pain- 
 ful duty ; in fact, the great task of the day was before him 
 ■ — the struggle with time until the hour of dinner. Tou 
 would meet him sauntering sadly about the gardens of the 
 Villa Nazionale, often looking at his watch, which he always 
 regulated by the cinnon of Sant' Elmo : or gazing with lack- 
 lustre eye at a shoi:)-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 bi'other the baronet's place in LiucoLn-
 
 BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA. 43 
 
 shire." The manner of his monologue on this second and 
 more fruitful subject -was really touching. "When so fortu- 
 nate 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 men- 
 tion the fact that, at the age of five-and-twenty, he had been 
 beguiled from that Arcadia by wily persons who took ad van- 
 tage of his innocent youth, who initiated him into the metro- 
 politan mysteries which sadden the soul and deplete the 
 pocket, who finally abandoned him upon the shoal of a young- 
 est 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 proyision 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 dissipa- 
 tion, never discovering a rational pursuit, imagining to him- 
 self 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 gai-dens of fabulous fertility ; it had 
 stables which would have served a cavalry regiment In 
 what r igion were tlie kine of Sir Grant Musselwhite unknown 
 to fame ? Vfho had not heard of his dairy-produce ? Thrco
 
 44 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 stories WcXS Mr. Musselwhite in the habit ot telling, scin- 
 tillating 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 placy 
 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 ho 
 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 occupa- 
 tion 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 
 yiase. He sat beside his mother, a Mrs. Strangwich. For 
 Master Strangwich the ordinary sources of youthful satis- 
 faction 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 objec- 
 tionable youth had long since been everywhere and seen 
 everything. The naivete of finding pleasure in novel circum- 
 stances moved him to a pitying surprise. Sjieak 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 Crolden Horn, If climate came up
 
 BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA. 45 
 
 for discussion, he gave an impartial vote, based on much 
 personal observation, in favour of Southern California. His 
 parents belonged to the race of modem 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 waB 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. Griuck 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 souj?, 
 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.
 
 46 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Many were tlie affect atious 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 unsophis- 
 ticated. 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. Grluck ; and at once translated 
 this news for the benefit of Frau Wohlgemuth, who mur- 
 mured, " 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 ai'e fine eifects to be caught, 
 there's no denying it ; but not every man has the requisite
 
 boarding-housp: on the mergellina. m 
 
 physique for sucli studies. As I came along here from the 
 railway-stativ)u, 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, vouch- 
 safed 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. Less- 
 ingham, 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. Oii opening the door to which he had been directed. 
 Marsh found Madeline bent over a book. She i-aised 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 jicremptory 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.
 
 48 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " I've come all this way just to sec 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 con- 
 stantly 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 persons' 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."
 
 BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA. 49 
 
 He moved a little away from her, and looked round tlie 
 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, jei*ked 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 dis- 
 agreeable in plain terms." 
 
 " Tou mean, of course, that I think of nothing — 
 have never thought of anything — but your material pros- 
 pects ? " 
 
 " Why didn't you marry me a year ago, Mad ? " 
 
 " Because I should have been mad indeed to have done 
 so. Tou 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 touch- 
 stone ! " 
 
 " 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 ojjportunity 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 pi'ove to have been 
 your friend in this way, at all events. As your wife iu 
 Loudon lodgings on the third floor, I confess it is very 
 unlikely I should have aided you. I haven't the least belief
 
 50 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 ill 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 hence- 
 forth ? 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 bi'eakfast 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. Madehne at length turned her eyes to him ; he 
 was brooding genuinely, and not for effect. Her glance dis- 
 cerned this.
 
 BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA. 51 
 
 " Well, and what are you going to do, in fact ? " she asked. 
 
 " I'm hanged if I know, Mad ; and there's the truth." 
 
 He turned and regarded her with wide eyes, seriously per- 
 ceptive 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 stiU. 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, 
 CUfford." 
 
 Marsh decided not to hear. He thrust his hands deejicr 
 into his pockets, and trod about the floor heavily. Madeline 
 made another remark. 
 
 E 2
 
 52 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 *' 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 exasper- 
 ated 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 unreason- 
 able expectations, and are angry when the unreason is forced 
 upon their consciousness. 
 
 " One word before you go, please," said Madeline, stand- 
 ing 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 gentle- 
 manly 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
 
 BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA. 53 
 
 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 mai-- 
 ried ! Hasn't Marsh any prospects yet ? ' " 
 
 " That's all at an end," remarked Madeline, interrupting. 
 "We've just come to an imderstanding." 
 
 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 keei^ing 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 ! " re- 
 plied 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. Ho 
 will accept his step-father's offer ; we know that well enough. 
 He ought to have done so a year ago, and our difiiculties 
 would have been lightened. Your father means what he 
 Bays ? "
 
 Si THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " Wolf ! " cried Barbara, petulantly. 
 
 " Well, I can see that tlie wolf has come at last, in good 
 earnest. My girl, yoii'll have to become more serious- 
 Barbara, you at all events, cannot afford to trifle." 
 
 "lam 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 j)rolonged itself to midnight. On 
 the morrow, with the exception of Mrs. Denyer's resolve to 
 subdue Marsh, all was forgotteu, and the Denyer family pur- 
 sued 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 Naj)les" — that was the phrase which repre-
 
 MIRIAM'S BROTHER. 55 
 
 Bented lier to liis 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 philan. 
 thropy she spoke, if at all, with angry scorn, holding it to be 
 based on rationalism, radicalism, positivism,^or whatsoevei- 
 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 con- 
 stantly at Bartles as we imagine. In any case, I begin to 
 understand what she suffers from most. It is want of occu- 
 pation for her mind. She is crushed with ennuis 
 
 " This is irreverence. As well attribute ennui to the 
 Proj^het Jeremiah meditating woes to come." 
 
 " I allow you your joke, but I am right for all that. She 
 has nothing to think about that pi'ofoundly 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 ! "
 
 56 THE EMANCIPATED 
 
 "■ SLe only pretends to think of it. Miriam is becoming a 
 hypocrite j 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 Improvi- 
 Batore,' 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 transla- 
 tion, 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 ac- 
 cepted, 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 
 moi'e 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. Vesiivius, heavily laden at
 
 MIRIAM'S BROTHER 57 
 
 first witli a cloud like tliat on Olympus wlieu the gods are 
 wrathful, by degrees passed from vision, withdrew its form 
 into I'ecesses 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 brought from home was intolerable. She lay upon 
 a couch, her limbs torpid, burdensome. Eleanor's compauy 
 was worse than useless. 
 
 " Please leave me alone," she said at length. "The sound 
 of your voice irritates me." 
 
 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 saAv 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.
 
 58 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 He too, stood still, as far from Miriam as might be. His 
 age seemed to be seven- or eiglit-and-twenty, and the cast of 
 bis features so strongly resembled Miriam's that there was no 
 doubt of his being her brother. Yet he had more beatity as 
 a man than she as a woman. Her traits were in him deve- 
 loped 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 tosjether a hat of soft felt. 
 
 "Why have you come to see me, Eeuben?" Miriam 
 asked at length, speaking with difficulty and in an offended 
 cone. 
 
 " Why shouldn't I, Miriam ? " he returned quietly, step- 
 iiig 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 
 Bays more than he means. It was never you that were hate- 
 ful to me, though your beliefs and your circumstances might 
 madden me into saying such a thing."
 
 MIRIAM'S BROTHER. 59 
 
 " 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. Eeubeii 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 natiiral 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 cjuarrel 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 under- 
 stand me. I suppose it's hopeless that you ever wiU. We are
 
 60 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 too different. You regard me as a vulgar reprobate, wlio 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 ti Die. 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 ? "
 
 MIRIAM'S BROTHER. 6i 
 
 ♦' Mallard ? Why, what makes you speak of him ? " 
 
 " You made his acquaiiatance, 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 person- 
 ally. But he doesn't seem to be the kind of man whose 
 interest you would i-esent." 
 
 " Then you know him ? " Eeuben asked, in a tone of some 
 pleasure. 
 
 " He is in Naples at present." 
 
 " I'm delighted to hear it. Mallai-d is an excellent fellow, 
 in his own way. Somehow I've lost lost sight of him for a 
 long time. He's painting here, I suj^pose ? 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 aU but flung it 
 down.
 
 62 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " Trustworthy and honourable ! Whj, 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 ! " ex- 
 claimed 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, Eeuben? 
 What word of penitence have you spoken? In what 
 have you amended yourself? Is not every other sen- 
 tence 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, youi* 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 youi'self as I with my own 
 heart ? I wonder, I wonder."
 
 MIRIAM'S BROTHER. 63 
 
 Miriam's eyes had fallen. She stood quite motionless, 
 with a face of suffering. 
 
 " You want me to confess my sins ? " Eeuben 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 boy- 
 hood 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 temjDerament was plain 
 enough to eyes of ordinary penetration. My very name ! 
 Tour 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 Avhat 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 doiug or 
 think of doing." 
 
 "You should have spoken like this earlier, Miriam. It 
 would have spared my memory its most wretched burden."
 
 64 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 "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 ishow it. 
 Tou 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 hei-e 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 — insen- 
 sate because useless — but I judged myself all the time as 
 distinctly as I do now it's over." 
 
 "Your money gone, Eeubeu?" 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 fi-etful. Miriam seated herself at his 
 side, and he took her hand.
 
 MIRIAM'S BROTHER. 65 
 
 "Itliouglit you might perhaps receive me like this at 
 first. I came only with tkat 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 j I 
 should think you might even like him." 
 " But yourself, Eeuben ? " 
 
 " No, no ; let me rest a little. I'm sick and tired of 
 myself. Let's talk of old MaUard. 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. Eather 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 ia 
 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 be here at all seems a miracle ; 
 it gives me hopes." 
 
 Miriam did not reser.t this, in word at all events. She 
 Wi^s submitting again to physical oppression; her head 
 
 F
 
 66 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 drooped, and her abstracted gaze was veiled with despondent 
 lassitude. Eeuben 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 dix'ection 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 
 6orry for it. If I had never had anything, I should have 
 «et 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 hstened, 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 literaiy 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 Pen- 
 tateuch, but at the latter end of the nineteenth century. 
 Many a lad has to work this dehverance for himself nowa- 
 days. I don't wish to speak unkindly any more, Miriam, 
 but I must tell you plain facts. Some fellows free them-
 
 MIRIAM'S BROTHER. 67 
 
 selves by dint of hard study. lu my case that was made 
 impossible by all sorts of reasons — temperament mainly, as 
 yon 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 coun- 
 tenance 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 charac- 
 teristics 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 wordb 
 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 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 them 
 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. Ton are a child — there is my hope. You 
 shall be taught — yes, yes ! Your obstinacy shall be over- 
 come ; you shall be made to see your own good ! " 
 
 " And who is to be so kind as to take charge of my educa- 
 tion ? " Miriam asked, without looking at him, in an idly 
 contemptuous tone. 
 
 " Why not old Ma^llai'd ? " cried Eeuben, 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 mis 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 coui'se, that I 
 have had a visitor."
 
 MIRIAM'S BROTHER. 69 
 
 " Should I see them ? " he asked, with hesitation. 
 
 " Just as you please." 
 
 " I shall have to, sooner or later. Why not no-w ? " 
 
 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 yester- 
 day Miriam had rolled them up and put them away — 
 temporarily. Before the " St. Cecilia " he stood in thought- 
 ful observation, and was still there when Miriam returned. 
 She had a look of uneasiness. 
 
 "IVfiss Doran and her aunt are with Mrs. Spence, 
 Eeuben." 
 
 " 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 pre- 
 sentable." 
 
 A few moments sufiBced 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. Lcssingham 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.
 
 'JO THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 fond of keeping in corners witli a book, and seemingly 
 marked out for a life of dissenting pi^tiy 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 
 acqiiaintance 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 necessi- 
 ties, 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 atten- 
 tiveness. The consequence was that he soon began to speak 
 freely, to pick his words, to balance his sentences and shun 
 the commonplace. 
 
 "I saw Florence and Eome in '76," he replied to a 
 question from Mrs. Lessingham. " In Eome 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.
 
 MIRIAM'S BROTHER. 71 
 
 Already slie 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. Eeuben Elgar, she jjerceived 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 compara- 
 tively little affectation in his manner, and none in his 
 asj)ect ; 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 hind. 
 
 " Subsequent reflection," returned Elgar, " has, at all 
 events, enabled me to see myself as I then was ; and I sup- 
 pose 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 
 Bignificance 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 pi-etend 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 gi-oan, and why shouldn't I con- 
 fess it ? " 
 
 "To do so enhances the merit of progress," observed Mrs. 
 Lossingham, mischievously. 
 
 " Merit ? I know nothing of merit. I spoke of myself
 
 ^^ THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 being forced upwards. If fever 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 eveiy 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 ia no question 
 of merit." 
 
 Mrs. Lessingham laughed. 
 
 The rain still fell, and the grey heavens showed no break- 
 ing. 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 pmiperis, 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."
 
 MIRIAM'S BROTHER. fi 
 
 "Is he very miieli of a blackguard?" inquired licr hus- 
 band, disinterestedly. 
 
 " Indeed, no. That is to say, externally and in his con- 
 versation. It's a decided improvement on oar 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 fellbw has come to propose a con- 
 venient 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 recom- 
 mended itself to him. 
 
 " I feel like a giant refreshed," he declared, in privately 
 taking leave of Miriam. " Coming to Naples was an inspira- 
 tion." 
 
 She raised her lijis to his for the first time, but said 
 nothing.
 
 74 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRAY. 
 
 From the Strada di Cliiaia, the narrow street winding 
 between immense houses, all day long congested with the 
 merry tumult of Neapolitan traffic, where herds of goats and 
 milch 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 sventra- 
 mento 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
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRAY. 75 
 
 in the open air ; and pass through the Piazzetta Mondra- 
 gone, 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-ti-ees and orange-trees and lemon-trees, — 
 and you will reach Casa Eolandi. 
 
 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 I'ooms to let, and here it 
 was that Eoss Mallard established himself for the Iq^s 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 thrcAV 
 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 Ijell tinkling about her neck. The goat- 
 herd kept summoning his customers with a long musical
 
 7^ THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 
 lyDiise 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 likelv 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 moi'row. 
 
 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
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRA V. 77 
 
 grapes and relishing them. Coming out by the sea-shore, 
 he stood for a while to watch the fishermen drasrffinff in 
 their nets — picturesqvie fellows with swarthy faces and sun- 
 tanned 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 Bag-noli. 
 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 sea- 
 shore, 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 hettola 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 Buccjcssion (rf rhetox-icul boat-
 
 78 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 men tliat 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 sunHght 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 Eepublic. 
 
 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 stiU lived where his boyhood 
 had been passed, a life strangely unUke his own, and even 
 alien to his sympathies, but their house was stiU all that he 
 could call home. "Was it to be always the same ? 
 
 Pifteen 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 manufactui'ing 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 unprosj)erous, 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 iu long walks about the moors, walks sometimes pro- 
 longed till after midnight, sometimes begun long befoi-e 
 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 he greatly cared. It was 
 even a rare thing for him to sit down with Ids wife and
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRAY. 79 
 
 children for more than a few minutes ; if lie 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 satisfac- 
 tion when his hearers missed the point. Then he would 
 chuckle, and shake his head, and go away muttering. 
 
 Young Eoss, who made no brilliant ligure 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 Bohe- 
 mian, 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. How- 
 ever, 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 dis- 
 posed to see more of each other ; in spite of the difference
 
 8o THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 of social standing, they became intimates, and Mr. Mallard 
 had at length some one with whom he found pleasure in con- 
 versing. 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 owti 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 Eoyal Academy. In Manchester 
 he made the acquaintance of several people with whom Doran 
 was familiar, among them Edward Spence, then in the ship- 
 ping-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. There- 
 aftei' Sowerby Bridge saw no more of its bugbear ; Doran 
 abimdoned cdmm'erc'e and became a Bohemian in earnest — -
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRAY. 8i 
 
 save tliat lais dinner was always assured. He wandered over 
 Europe ; he lived witli 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 re- 
 covery 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 Man- 
 chester. This ladv 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
 
 82 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 other home possible for the girl was with Miriam at Eedbeck 
 House, but Mr. Baske did not look with favour ou that pro- 
 posal. 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 meet- 
 ing, Mallard saw her only twice ; but the girl wrote to him 
 with some regularity. These letters grew more and more 
 delightful. Cecily addi'essed herself with exquisite frank- 
 ness 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 repre- 
 sented two worlds, in both of which he had some part; 
 but it was only too certain with which of them he was
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRAY. S3 
 
 tlie more closely linked. What but mere accideut 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 therefoi'e 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 lie 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 tinisteeship 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 sufiiciently, did he con- 
 sent to meet the people at Genoa, loitering there for a 
 couple of days in expectancy 'i 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 thaii frieudshii) had been 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Buffered 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 be recog- 
 nized ; 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 wore 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 un- 
 broken 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
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRAY. 85 
 
 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 Baiae 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 Baice. 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 sex-vices. 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 peojile 
 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." 
 
 IMallard 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
 
 86 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 immt/diately. Altered 
 in what waj ? That he in vain tried to imagine ; his know- 
 ledge 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 slie, 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 J since then she had slipped from his mind, but
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRAY. 87 
 
 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 haK wished that he 
 could form a closer acquaintance with her. At present, the 
 thought pf 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 
 1 that the Spences had spoken freely in her presence of himself 
 and his odd relations to the gixi ; there was no doubting how 
 iliey 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 j^osition 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 ordi- 
 nary 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 con- 
 formity 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 
 jjriucipally meant ; in a measure, it came of native conscien- 
 tiousness, of prejudice which testified to his origin; but, 
 wore than that, it signified simple jealousy. Secretly, he
 
 88 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 did not like her outlook upon the world to be so unre- 
 strained ; he would have preferred her to view life as a 
 simpler matter. Partly for this reason did her letters so 
 disturb him. ISTo ; 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 disturb- 
 ances ? 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 evei-y movement was in glad har- 
 mony 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 con- 
 scious of his inner being, rather than take him ingenuously 
 for what he seemed ? She had instruction and wit, but she 
 was oaly a girl ; her experience was as good as nil. Mal- 
 lard 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 accejit the noble as the natural. Un- 
 troubled 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 inter- 
 esting, and, it might be, less lovable in either sense of the word.
 
 THE ARl^IST ASTRAY. 89 
 
 Spence maintained a conversation with Miriam, cTiiefly 
 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 direc- 
 tion. 
 
 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 per- 
 sonal 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 pleasvire 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 Baise 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 Baise in his 
 com])any in such-and-such a year." 
 
 " You mean, when I have painted my last ? "
 
 90 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " 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 danger- 
 ous dialogue. Mallard, inwardly growling at himself, resisted 
 the temptation to further tcte-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, Mallai-d 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 Eeu- 
 ben's arrival. 
 
 " Oh yes. We have dined together each evening,"
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRA Y. 91 
 
 Between two sucli unloquacious ptrsons, 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, ia 
 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 
 Raw 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 tho 
 effort must originate in one's self." 
 
 Miriam kept silence. He put a direct question.
 
 92 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " Have you yourself encouraged him to pursue this 
 idea?" 
 
 " I have not cZiscouraged him." 
 
 "In your brothers 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 disposi- 
 tion 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 obsei-ved with a perverse 
 satisfaction the scorn implied in this rejoinder. He noted 
 that her features had more decided beauty than when 
 placid. 
 
 " I imagir.e," 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.
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRA V. $3 
 
 *' As Miss Doran does," added Mallard, his eyes happening 
 to cath Cecily's face as it looked backwards, and his tongue 
 speaking recklessly. 
 
 " There ai-e 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 par- 
 ticular man is capable. For instance, I think it is so in my 
 own case." 
 
 Miriam seemed about to keep silence again, but ulti- 
 mately 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 i^nputation of com- 
 monplaceness 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 behef that it can 
 have only one meaning, the same for all, involving certain
 
 94 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 duties of which there cau 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 distinc- 
 tion," 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 
 tlie opposite. 
 
 " A responsibility to himself, yes. Well, when I say that 
 I believe this course is the highest I can follow, I mean that 
 T believe it employs all my best natural powers as no other 
 would. As for highest in the absolute sense, that is a 
 dillerent 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 sux'prised to hear you say this."
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRAY. 95 
 
 It was spolveu in tlie tone most characteristic of lier, 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 simjjle 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 woi-k in 
 that way." 
 
 " You make no claim, then, even of usefulness ? " 
 
 " Most decidedly, none. You little imagine how distaste- 
 ful the word is to me in such connection." 
 
 " Then how can you say you are emj^loying your best 
 natui-al powers ? " 
 
 She had fallen to ingenuons surprise, and Mallard again 
 laughed, partly at the simplicity of the question, partly 
 because it pleased him to have brought her to such direct- 
 ness. 
 
 " Because," he answered, " this work gives me keener and 
 more lasting pleasui-e than any other would. And I am not 
 a man easily pleased with my own endeavours, Mrs. Baske, 
 I work with little or no hoj^e of ever satisfying myself — that 
 is another thing. I have heard men speak of my kind
 
 9« THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 peojile 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 pur^^ose by considerations that 
 have i^rimary reference to any one or anything but him- 
 self?" 
 
 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, 
 bat that is better than to keep it by repeating idle formulas 
 that the world's experience has outgi'own." 
 
 Miriam pondered, then said quietly : 
 
 "We have different thoughts, Mr. Mallard, and speak 
 different languacres."
 
 THE ARTIST ASTRAY. 97 
 
 " But we knoTV a little more of eacli other tlian we did. 
 For my part, I feel it a gain." 
 
 During the rest of the drive they scarcely spote 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 con- 
 verse. 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 Mondvagone ; down at break- 
 neck speed to the Toledo ; across the Piazza del Municipio ; 
 a good-bye to the public scriveners sitting at their little 
 tal>los by the San Carlo ; sharp round the comer, and along 
 
 u
 
 98 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 "by the Porto Grrande 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 I'efrain — 
 
 " lo 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 cere- 
 mony through porters and hotel-touts, came forth upon the 
 high-roiid, 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-glimii*ering. 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 heai'd 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 ; MaUard 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
 
 CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS. 99 
 
 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 woiildn't come this evening. 
 Try the risotto ; it's excellent. Te 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 
 Eeale." 
 
 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 Mergelliua 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.
 
 loo THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 In the meantime Clifford Marsli had joined in conversa- 
 tion 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. I^o 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 demo- 
 cracy." 
 
 " Factisch ! Der Herr hat Eecht ! " 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 ! " — " Vortre- 
 fflich ! ") " 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,
 
 CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS. loi 
 
 " 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, human- 
 ized ! " 
 
 " 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 attain- 
 able 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 Dummhojjf ? 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 dei'ive 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 pic- 
 tured 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 stimu- 
 lant, an exhilarant, an anti-phlegmatic, a countex*-irritant 
 against English spleen. You are still on the other side of the 
 Alps, of the Channel; the fogs yet cliug about you. Clear 
 your brow, painter of Ossianic wildernesses ! Taste the 
 foam of life ! We are in the land of Horace, and mine est 
 hibendum ! — 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 
 at the 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.
 
 102 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 "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 Eepublic. Utterly untaught, and in- 
 tensely 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 orna- 
 ments ; 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 suu- 
 worshippers." 
 
 " Sun-worslii])pcrs ! Good ! " laughed the other. " Yes, 
 I have never met more than one or two chance Englishmen 
 at the ' Sole.' " 
 
 " But you are at your ease 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 rea il four or five, but avoid speak- 
 ing as much as possible."
 
 CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS, 103 
 
 MarsK took an early opportunity of ftlkidiug to the argu- 
 ment 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 
 Eeubeh, forcibly, "is its alliance with Puritan morality." 
 
 "Oh, that is being quickly outgrown," cried Marsh. 
 " Look at the spread of rationalism." 
 
 "Tou 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 re- 
 pudiate Christianity." 
 
 " One must take account of the national hypocrisy," re- 
 marked 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 hyjDocrite in essence, but is perfectly serious in 
 his judgment of the man next door; and the latter char- 
 acteristic 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 i^ainters 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, lie 
 was conscious of but weakly representing the tendencies 
 which were a passionate force in this man with the singularly
 
 104 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 fine head, witli sucli a glow of wild life about him. Ho 
 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 Eome. 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 oi^inion. 
 
 " 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 i^ainters who were wont to call themselves 
 "historical." Where is the line between subjects for the
 
 CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS. I65 
 
 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 sot Kneipe ; 
 the Englishmen, unable to drink quite so heroically, were 
 scarce behind in vehemence of debate. Mallard, gi'imly ac- 
 cepting 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 un- 
 earthed ; 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 Colos- 
 seum ; here too it needed but to stand for a few minutes in 
 the dead stillness, and the air grow 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 
 viproarious 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
 
 io6 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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. Mal- 
 lard 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 Positaao and Amalfi. Suppose you come with 
 me ? " 
 
 The other hesitated. 
 
 " You mean you are going to walk ? " 
 
 " IS'o. 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 morn- 
 ing ; 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, vou 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."
 
 CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS. 107 
 
 " Better come on with. me. I shall be glad of your com- 
 pany." 
 
 It was said with, decision, but scarcely with lieai-tiness. 
 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 proj^ose are trivial/' 
 
 " My traps are at Naples, and \ 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 r* 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. 
 Mar(;h ! " 
 
 And before very long they were side by side in the vehicle,
 
 jo8 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 speeding along the level road towards Castellammare and the 
 mountains. This exertion of native energy had been bene- 
 ficial 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 weU as 
 you know me." 
 
 " Then what a contemptible creature you must be ! If a 
 man knows his weakness, he is inexcusable for not overcom- 
 ing it." 
 
 " A preposterous contradiction, allow me to say. A man 
 is what he is, and will be ever the same. Have you no tine, 
 ture of philosophy ? You talk as though one could govern 
 fate." 
 
 " And you, very much like the braying jackass in the field 
 there." 
 
 Mallax-d 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 I'lpwards, everywhere thickly clad with olives and 
 orange-trees, fig-trees and aloes. Beyond Vico comes a jut- 
 ting headland ; the road curves round it, clinging close on 
 the hillside, turns inland, and all at once looks down upon
 
 CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS. 109 
 
 the Piano di Sorrento. Instinctively, the companions rose 
 to their feet, as though any other attitude on the first revela- 
 tion of such a prospect were irreverent. It is not really a 
 plain, biit a gently rising wide and deep lap, surrounded by 
 lofty mountains and ending at a line of sheer cliffs along the 
 Bea-front. A vast garden planted for Nature's joy ; a plea- 
 sance 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 ! " mut- 
 tered 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 tovni of Tasso, and to an inn which 
 stood upon the edge of a profound gorge, cloven towards the 
 sea-cliff's. 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 hie, hsec, 
 hoc" 
 
 He was at his best this afternoon ; Mallard could scarcely 
 identify him with the reckless, and sometimes vulgar, spend- 
 thrift who had been rushing his way to ruin in London. His 
 talk abounded in quotation, in literary allusion, in high- 
 spirit€'d 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 ou 
 the road to Massa.
 
 no THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " 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. OJi, 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 Mephi- 
 bosheth. 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 ? "
 
 CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS. in 
 
 " 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 Isehia to 
 Capri ; Naples in its utmost extent, an unbroken line of 
 delicate pink, from Posillipo to Torre Annunziata. Far 
 below their feet the little Ttmrina of Sorrento, with its row 
 of boats drawn up on the strand ; behind them noble lime- 
 stone 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 pro- 
 posed, 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 Psestum," 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 Positauo, 
 and thence took boat for Amalfi. Elgar was like one pos- 
 sessed 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 clambei'ing 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
 
 112 THE EMANCIPATED. . 
 
 on wliat 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 unpro- 
 voked 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 ; remark- 
 ing 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 asce ats and descents, narrow 
 stairs, precipitous gardens, and noisy paper-mills. Probably
 
 CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS. I13 
 
 no unassisted stranger ever made liis way out of Amalfi on to 
 tlie 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, cared 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 hive 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, villanous 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. Mallai-d, in whose heart a sick weari- 
 ness conflicted with his will and his desire, went on in a 
 dogged way. 
 
 " I want to work here for a time." Work 1 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 
 
 X
 
 114 THE EMANCIPATED 
 
 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 liappily 
 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 
 tlie next six months." 
 
 Mallard made a movement of irritation. 
 " Then why did you come here at all ? Tou say you have 
 no money to waste." 
 
 " Oh, it isn't quite so bad witli 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
 
 CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS. 115 
 
 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 n.ature 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 
 wiU ! " 
 
 " 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. Tou 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 Avith energy. And for the moment Mallard wag 
 the truer fatalist. 
 
 Again they left the inn, this time going seaward. Still in 
 rain, they walked towards Minori, along the road which is 
 
 5 2
 
 ii6 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 cut in tiie mountain-side, liigh above the beach. They 
 talked about the massive strongholds which stand as monu- 
 ments 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 cared 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 dis- 
 gust. 
 
 " You'll get to work as soon as I'm gone," cried Keuben, 
 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 liis 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 pur- 
 chasable 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
 
 CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS. 117 
 
 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 " Tin 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 cUnging, 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 
 ql Bohemia "yvere far from inspiring Clifford with zeal for
 
 ii8 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 naturalization. Elated with wine and companionship, he 
 liked to pose as one who was saci'ificing " 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 con- 
 tent 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 ; doubt- 
 less 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. Othei-wise, let the fastidious gentleman pay his own 
 tailor's bills. 
 
 Clifford's difficulties were complicated by his relations 
 with Madeline Dcnyer. It was a year since he had met 
 Madeline at ISTaples, 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 bis allowance ; Mrs. Denyer had reasons for thinking 
 otherwise, and her daughter saw the case in the same light. 
 It must be added that he pi-e3umed 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
 
 THE MARTYR, 119 
 
 not have slirunk from moderate assistance at the liands of 
 his parents-in-law. Madelina 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 xi:as 
 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 ? "
 
 120 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " 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 oniy 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 
 hoih 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 suscepti- 
 bilities. She had long ago gauged him, and not inaccurately
 
 THE MARTYR. 121 
 
 on tlie whole ; it seemed to her that he was of the men who 
 can be " managed." 
 
 " I fail to miderstand 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 under- 
 stand, 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 pro- 
 posal — 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 bo stars of the first magni- 
 tude. Be content to shine in a provincial sphere, at all 
 events for a time. Madeline as your wife will help you sub- 
 stantially. You will have good society, and better the
 
 122 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 richer you become. Tou 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 
 api^eared 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 
 MadeUne's friendhness 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 Chfford 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 spote 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 di'aw ? " 
 
 " 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 any- 
 thing 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," rephed 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 enter-
 
 THE MARTYR. 123 
 
 tained ter, and Madeline she came really to like. With 
 Mrs. Denyer she comjmred notes on the Italy of other 
 days. 
 
 "A sad, sad change !" Mrs. Denyer was wont to sigh. 
 •' All the poetry gone ! Think of Eome 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. Lessiugham, 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, 
 uaturally not to be spoken of in plain terms. Mrs. Lessing- 
 ham 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 experi- 
 ments proved that it needed but a moderate ingenuity to 
 make Mr. Musselwhite's favourite topic practically inex- 
 haustible. The " place " itself having been sufiiciently 
 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 fx'ona the " place " to the 
 town, fnjin the " place " to such another "place," and so on. 
 Mr, Musselwhito was undisguisedly grateful for every
 
 124 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 remark or question that kej^t liim talking at Lis ease. It vras 
 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. ISTear 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. Bar- 
 bara 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 
 ter sister's eyes fell. 
 
 ♦' Eeally, it's very hard to decide," said Mr. Musselwhite
 
 THE MARTYR. 125 
 
 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 phan- 
 tasmic world through which he struggled against his 
 ennui. 
 
 "Childish? Oh dear, no!" he remarked, almost viva- 
 ciously. " It is charming ; they are both charming. Eeally, 
 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 Made- 
 line, 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, resent- 
 ful, strong in a sense of her own imj^ortance. 
 
 When he again took his place at Mrs. Gluck's table, Clif- 
 ford had the air of a man who has resigned himself to the 
 lack of sympathy and appreciation — nay, who defies every- 
 thing external, and in the strength of his genius goes 
 serenely onwards. Never had he displayed such self-con- 
 sciousness ; not for an instant did he forget to regulate 
 the play of his features. Mrs. Denyer he had greeted dis- 
 tantly; her daughters, more distantly still. He did not
 
 126 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 look more than ouce or twice in Miss Doran's direction, iot 
 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 con- 
 sequence never saw her friends at the villa without express- 
 ing 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. 
 Clilford was never so much in his element as when convers- 
 ing 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. Lessiug- 
 ham he could not be entirely at his ease ; her eye was 
 occasionally disturbing to a pretender who did not lack dis- 
 cernment. 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 what- 
 soever 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 pain- 
 ful 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
 
 THE MARTYR. \2y 
 
 otlier reacli Mrs. Lessingham, and so perchance come to 
 Miss Dorau's ears. He made no unworthy charges ; he 
 spoke not in auger, but in sorrow ; he was misunderstood, 
 he was depreciated, by those who should have devoted them- 
 selves 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. 
 
 " Tou 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 calmlv. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 fEOOP AGAINST ILLTJSIOlT. 
 
 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 wliat seemed a disconnected subject. 
 
 " I don't tliink it's time yet for Cecily to give up her set 
 studies. I should like to find some one to read with her
 
 128 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 know- 
 ledge 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 
 jjleases her. " Of course, I very soon understood that the 
 ordinary surveillance and restrictions and moral theories 
 wex'e 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 suffei-ed dreadfully in mind. 
 I studied her carefuUy during the first two years ; then I 
 was able to pursue my method with a good deal of con- 
 fidence. 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 1 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
 
 PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION. 129 
 
 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
 
 130 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 that a girl must know nothing, think nothing, hut what is 
 likely to meet the approval of the average husband — that is 
 to say, the foolish, and worse than foolish, husband. 
 1 see no such difference between girl and boy as demands a 
 difference in moral training ; we know what comes of the 
 prevalent contraiy 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 experi- 
 ence 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 exijerience. 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."
 
 PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION. 131 
 
 " Cecily is very mature for lier age," contiuued Mrs. Les- 
 singliam, with evident pleasure in stating and restating her 
 grounds of confidence. " She feels strongly, but never 
 apart fi-om 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. Mal- 
 lard ? 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 Sj)ences and 
 Miriam jvere 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 
 
 £ 2
 
 132 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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-morrovr, 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 bricklayerj 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 pro- 
 mised him ; I shall keep my word." 
 
 " He is working himself ? " 
 
 " Will be by now ; we had a horrible day of rain at Amalh. 
 He seems rather glummer than usual, but that won't hinder 
 his work. 1 wish I had the old fellow's energy. After all, 
 though, one can force one's self to use peucils 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 to- 
 morrow ? " 
 " 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 some- 
 thing not unlike his vehemcncics on the day of arrival.
 
 PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION. 133 
 
 "You must judge for yoiirself, of course," said Miriam. 
 " We won't talk about it." 
 
 Reuben nodded agreement carelessly. Tlien 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 imrtone, 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. 1 saw them irive 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.
 
 134 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Eeuben 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 busi- 
 ness 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 
 he 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 aimt were 
 takiT.g 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 himseK to temptation?
 
 PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION. 135 
 
 Because he ch. )se 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 cer- 
 tain hrio ; 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 cafe, 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 disapf»ointed again." 
 
 " I think of going to Amalfi to-morrow morning, perhaps 
 for a long time," i-emarked 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 exi)ected. Then she asked for an account of Elgar's
 
 136 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 doings siuce thej last met. The conversation grow easier ; 
 Reuben began to recover his natural voice, and to lose dis- 
 agreeable self-cousciousness 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 as 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 question- 
 ing ; 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 hei'e in the com-tyard. A slight, rather boyish fellow." 
 
 " 1 think you mean Mr. Marsh," rephed Cecily, smiling. 
 " He has recently been at Pompeii, I know." 
 
 " You are on friendly terms with him ? " 
 
 " Not on wftfriendly," 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 iU- 
 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 rej)ly, 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 ideahza- 
 lion 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,"
 
 ■PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION. 137 
 
 " He stowed you them ? " 
 
 " No ; one of the Miss Denyers did. He had given ihem 
 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 maid- 
 servant, 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 sJiut out the evening sky," said Cecily, stand- 
 ing 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
 
 138 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 since, witli botli of us. Yet I don'c feel very old, not oppres- 
 sively 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 natiu*al 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 moi'ning of spi'ing." 
 
 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 ap- 
 proached 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, piitting 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 wiU come with us, I hope. Aud 
 to Capri too." 
 
 "I must see Cai)ri. I shouldn't wonder if I go there 
 soon ; probably it woidd 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
 
 PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION. 139 
 
 exceptional in his power o£ 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. " Per- 
 haps 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 slu3 betrayed no sui"prise ; 
 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 ovorcomo with weariness. Mrs.
 
 140 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Lessingliam liad 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-emjitied 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 comi^lete 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
 
 PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION. 141 
 
 belong to the same species. What numbers of sucli yoimg 
 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. Tou 
 might write an essay on ' The Young Man of Promise ' of 
 our day. I shquld 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, wlio appeared 
 to muse the subject with sportful malice. 
 
 " I am not svire," 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 
 train 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 ho left the house, ho 
 walked without seeing anything, stumbling against things 
 and people. 
 
 Of course, he knew last night that there was no joui*ney 
 for him to-day. Promise? A promise is void when its 
 fultiluient has become impossible. Vc^ry likely Mallard had 
 a conviction that he would not come back at the appointed
 
 i|2 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 time. To-morrow, perhaps ; and perliaps 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 
 lymg 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 con- 
 trol 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 colfee, 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.
 
 IN THE DEAD CITY. 143 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN THE DEAD CITY. 
 
 Though 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 di-ove up by herself, and first of all saw the Spences. 
 From them she leai'nt 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 U3 old people with your 
 brightness." 
 
 So Cecily went with light step along the corridor, and with 
 light fijQgers 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 'i " 
 
 " 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."
 
 144 'I'HE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 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 cari-iage and drive somewhere together, 
 we two alone." 
 
 Miriam shook her head. 
 
 " Because it is Sunday ? " asked Cecily, with a mischievous 
 Bmile, 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 Jam
 
 IN THk DEAD CITY. 145 
 
 allowed to enjoy tlie suusliine, and you not ? Oggi e festal 
 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, " Tour brother came to see us yesterday, to 
 say good-bye." 
 
 " Did he ? " 
 
 " It doesn't interest you. You care nothing where he 
 ^•oes, 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 imnatural." 
 
 "And you, Cecily, are childish. I never knew you so 
 childish as to-daj." 
 
 " 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 jingliugs 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,
 
 146 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 "Do you like it?" 
 
 There was no answer. Slie looked ster iclilj at tlie troubled 
 face, 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 car- 
 riage, and drive there, and come back by train." 
 
 " What day ? "
 
 IN THE DEAD ClTV. 147 
 
 ** To-morrow, if it be fine. Let me take tliem your 
 assent." 
 
 Miriam agreed. 
 
 On Monday morning, as arranged, slae 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 sj)eak. 
 
 " Where are you off to ? " he asked. 
 
 •' You are still here ? " 
 
 " I haven't been well. Didn't feel able to go yesterday. I 
 "ivas just coming to see you." 
 
 " Not well, Eeuben ? 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'U 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 
 in finding 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 Ijack 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 ine. This one day, Miriam." 
 
 L 2
 
 143 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Again slie loolced at liiin, and reflected. On account of 
 the driver, tliougli of course lie could not understand them, 
 tLey 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 v^ish," 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. 
 Eveij. Mrs. Bradshaw, sitting over against her in the car- 
 riage, 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 Baise. " 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 hai'assed with a painful conflict of 
 thoiights. 
 
 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 in- 
 vitation to come with us to-day," he said, about midway in 
 the drive. "What pi'ecious mischief we could have made 
 by asking him, Hannah ! " 
 
 " There's no room for him, fortunately/* 
 
 *• Oh yes ; up on the box."
 
 IN THE DEAD CITY. 149 
 
 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 rohmdo, 
 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 impres- 
 sive enough, and exacted no little subservience. 
 
 Strong in the experience of two former visits, Mr. Brad- 
 shaw would have no guide to-day. Murray in hand, ho 
 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 iu Manchester. 
 Unin^bued with history and literature, he knew nothing of
 
 I50 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 the scliolar's or tlie poet's euthusiasm ; 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 ; yoti 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. Bashe ; 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 pre- 
 ferred to bo alone here with Miriam ; best of all — or nearly 
 so — if they could have made the same party as at Baise. 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. 
 
 " Amalti 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 moun- 
 tains. 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 cjuick steps, and saw 
 Eeuben 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-
 
 IN THE DEAD CITY. 151 
 
 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 presentments; 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 coinpany. 
 
 And why should Cecily disguise that now only was her 
 enjoyment of the day begun — that only now had the sun- 
 shine its familiar brightness, the ancient walls and ways 
 their true enchantment ? She did not at once become 
 more talkative, but the shadow had passed uttei-ly from 
 her face, and there was no more listlessness in her move- 
 ments. 
 
 "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
 
 152 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 from Cecily. Hitlierto lier 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. 
 Jji 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, whei-e 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, Mi's. Bradshaw. Reuben seemed to 
 draw aside for Cecily, but she saw his hand extended 
 towai'ds 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 jjassion that leaps like flame to its desire — mouth to 
 mouth and heart to heart for one instant that coijcentx-ated 
 all the joy of being.
 
 IN THE DEAD CITY. 
 
 ^53 
 
 "Wheat hand, centuries ago crumbled into indistinguishable 
 dust, painted that parable of the youth making his award to 
 Love P 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 
 imborn 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 th^n her grave look,
 
 154 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE DECLARATION. 
 
 It was true enougli 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 diffi- 
 culty 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 sym- 
 pathies ? His air of graceful sadness could not but lead 
 her to muse as often as she observed it ; he had contem- 
 plated himself in the mirror, and each time with reassur- 
 ance 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 Madi line 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 aU 
 times self-esteem had the force of an irresistible argument.
 
 THE DECLARATION. 155 
 
 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 temi^tation 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 oj)portunity ; 
 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 machina- 
 tion. 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 si)eaks 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 be perfectly honest ; but people iu general are 
 BO 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 with- 
 out resei*ve ; when he talked freely, he a])plauded 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 plctted with 
 himself to engage Cecily's interest, he said that it was tho
 
 156 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 course any lover would have pursued. And in the end lie 
 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 uncon- 
 cemedness 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 bi'oke 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. Eemember 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 thiuk that not every man would 
 have followed this course, For myself, it is well indeed that
 
 THE DECLARATION. 157 
 
 I see the res alt 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 con- 
 versation 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. Eather 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 Chfford : 
 
 " 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
 
 158 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 betrotlial, Tout 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 pic- 
 ture before she left the room. Clifford was left with laiitted 
 brows and uneasy mind ; he had not believed her capable of 
 this sedateness. For some reason, Madeline had been dress- 
 ing 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 refei'ence 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 ser- 
 vants deposited a parcel in his chamber. When he foimd 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 ex- 
 quisite 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
 
 THE DECLARATION. 159 
 
 bad taten place to-day. It had left him his complete free- 
 dom. 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 care- 
 lessly 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 pas- 
 sage 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 conjec- 
 tures ; in her |ilain 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- 
 alMy," she continued, " but there's a danger that he will 
 never do justice to himself."
 
 166 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " I don't put mucli faith ia him myself," said Mrs. Brad* 
 shaw, meaning nothing more by the phrase than that she 
 considn-ed 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 iu 
 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 kiud of thing at 
 I^aples. I trust you haven't had a chill ? " 
 
 " Oh dear, no ! I never was better in my life ! " 
 
 " Yet with fever ? Gro to bed. Veiy 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 
 the point of saying something a little while ago, and I inter- 
 rupted 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
 
 THE DECLARATION. 161 
 
 spasm. The visitoi' drew apart and looked about the 
 chamber. Her eyes rested on a little writing-desk, where 
 lay a dii"ected 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 maiden- 
 hair, 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, with- 
 out letting the light fall directly upon her face, looked at 
 her for a long time. She whisj^ered feelingly, " Poor girl ! 
 poor child ! " then, with a sigh almost as deej) 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 j>ostmark. She wont 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 fevor 
 hasn't gone. Your face burns." 
 
 •' Yes." 
 
 " May I ask from whom the letter was ? " 
 
 IX
 
 i62 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 "I Have it here — to show you." A cliokmg of her voice 
 broke the sentence. She held out the letter. Mrs. Lessing- 
 ham 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, 
 
 " E. Elgar." 
 
 Mrs. Lesslngham 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 revela- 
 tion 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, auut ? " 
 
 " Never, that I know. Where have you met then ? " 
 
 " Only at the times and places of which you know."
 
 ^HE DECLARATION. 163 
 
 '• Where did jou give Mr. Elgar tlie right to address jou 
 in this manner ? " 
 
 " Only yesterday. I think you mustn't ask me more than 
 that, aunt." 
 
 "I'm afraid 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 care- 
 fully 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 him- 
 self to other people." 
 
 " Other people ? But you don't understand, aimt. 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 con- 
 ventional 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 lias 
 happened, it was Mr. Elgar's duty to address himself to me, 
 or to Mr. Mallard, before making privato appointments with 
 you." 
 
 M 2
 
 t64 the emancipated. 
 
 " Aunt, you ciu see tliat this letter is written so a,S 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 hajjpening. 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 sj)ite 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 fotmd it impossible to utter herself in the present 
 juncture as she could have done to a mother — as she could
 
 THE DECLARATION. 165 
 
 liave done to Miriam ; impossible, likewise, to insist on her 
 heart's ui-gent desire, though she knew not how she should 
 forbear it. To refuse compliance would have been some- 
 thing 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 sj^eak 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 
 responsibihty. Eemember 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 myseK 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. 
 Lessiugham'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 resent- 
 ment 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 tliink, aunt," she said, in a changed voice, speaking as 
 though her opinion had bccu consulted in the ordinary way.
 
 1 65 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 " it will be better for you to see Mr. Elgar — if you are 
 willing to do so." 
 
 " Quite." 
 
 " But I must ask you to let him know exactl/ 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. Lessing- 
 ham 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. Lessiugham'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 foi'ward ; 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 char- 
 acter, 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
 
 THE DECLARATION. 167 
 
 certain of her sympatliies. 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 Eeuben 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 im- 
 possibly 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 wondei*ed at that she felt annoyed with the man who, at 
 a touch, made the elaborate structure collaj)se 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." 
 
 Eeuben 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
 
 i68 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 liim, and he acted as desire bade. Had Cecily been em. 
 barrassed ? Was she annoyed at his not proceeding with 
 f ormahty ? He had never thought of her in the light of 
 conventional obligations, and even now could not bring him. 
 seK 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. Lessiug- 
 ham? 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 ? " 
 
 " Tor 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 re- 
 cognized 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 ! 
 Mr«, Lessingham was gratified with his look as he departed }
 
 THE DECLARATION. 169 
 
 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, Publias 
 Octavius Rufus, decurio." 
 
 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 imknown, 
 the faith that would have bidden him write himself a miser- 
 able sinner ; what ho deemed himself in life, what perchance 
 his friends and neighbours deemed him, why not declare it 
 upon the marble when he 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,"
 
 lyo THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Someliow like that would it run, if lie were to write Lia 
 own epitaph at present. 
 
 The quiet of the dim sanctuary was helpful to such self- 
 communing. He relished being alone again, ^nd after an 
 houi-'s brooding had recovered at all erents 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 gi-eater 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 sar- 
 casms ; body and soul were oppressed with uttermost 
 fatigue, and for a time must lie torpid. Fortunately he was 
 sure ©f 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 soli- 
 tude 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 Eeuben'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 
 ihat 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
 
 THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY. 171 
 
 pain lier if she knew of it ! "With what sad, wondering 
 tenderaess her e/es would regard him ! How kindly would 
 she lay her soft hand in his, and entreat him to be com- 
 forted ! 
 
 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 un- 
 certain humours, his dubious reputation. How often must 
 he picture these results, and conviace 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 unlike- 
 ness ; common to both that temperament of enthusiasm. 
 On Ihe one hand, Cecily with her unsullied maidenhood ; 
 and on the other, Elgar with his reckless experiences — con- 
 trasts 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. 
 Ho 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 
 represent her brother unfavoural^ly, with the right colour of 
 uufavourabloness ? Or was it not rather to be fuared that the 
 thought of Cecily's influence might tempt her to encourage
 
 172 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 what otherwise she must have condemned ? He retraced in 
 memory that curious dialogue he had held with Miriam 
 on the drive back from Baise ; 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 futvire ? 
 
 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 endea- 
 voured 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 slie 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 ? l^ot, he 
 suspected, a meek martyr ; anything but that, Miriam Baske. 
 And how magnificent to see her flash out into revolt aeainst 
 circumstances ! Then indeed she would be interesting. 
 
 Nay, suppose she fell in love — desperately, with grim 
 fate against her ? For somehow this came more easily 
 to the fancy than the thought of her loving without 
 obstacle. Presumably she had never loved ; her husband
 
 The appeal to Authority. 173 
 
 was out of tlie 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 convention- 
 alities, 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 bl-jw. 
 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 Eeuben would in reality settle to some kind of 
 work was a diffecent 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 px-obable 
 liour 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 sudd(.'nly and boldly out of the sea, tower- 
 ing 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, tho
 
 iU ^^^ EMANCIPATED. , 
 
 road follows the curving of the liills. 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 sj^ecks, 
 villages which seem utterly beyond the traffic of man, soli- 
 tary for ever in sun or mountain mist. 
 
 Mallard paid little hoed 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 occu2:>ants, only 
 to be disappointed by sti-ange 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 con- 
 centrate 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 Salei-no, 
 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 over- 
 take 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
 
 THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY. 175 
 
 one his letter would be a lie. What was to be expected of 
 him but a he ? 
 
 Monday, Tuesday, and now "WednesJ.ay morning. Hither- 
 to 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. 
 lu every struggle he had speedily overcome, and found in 
 work the one unfaiUug resoui'ce. If he were robbed of this, 
 what stay had life for liim 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. 
 Lessincjham. 
 
 'J3' 
 
 " Dear Me. 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 some- 
 how contrived to fall in love with each other — or to imagine
 
 176 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 that they have done so, which, as regards results, unfortu- 
 nately 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 
 ehould 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 can- 
 not think of it without dread. We must save her from 
 becoming wise through bitter sorrow, if it can in any way be 
 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."
 
 THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY. 177 
 
 At S3veu o'clock in the evening, Mallard was in Naples. 
 He did not go to Casa Eolandi, 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 pre- 
 sented 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. 
 
 " JSTor 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. 1 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 in. 
 quired, 
 
 " No. I know nothing about him. I haven't been to 
 Casa Eolandi, 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 tliink it not uiipossible that Mrs. Baske connived at 
 their meeting in that way ? "
 
 1 78 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " One doesn't like to use words of that kind, but '* 
 
 " I suj)pose 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." 
 
 Mallai'd pausi3d; 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 P 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 rea- 
 sonably be shortened — unless, of course, Mr. Elgar 
 leaves."
 
 THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY, 179 
 
 " 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 post- 
 ponement. 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 to- 
 night. He is still at Casa Eolandi, 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, Signer Elgar was in his chamber ; he had entered 
 
 N 2
 
 i8o THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 but a quai ter of an hour since. Tlie signor seemed not quite 
 well, unhapi^ily — 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 hona 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 pallia- 
 tion, 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
 
 THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY. l8l 
 
 had told tte truth, I knew you would come at once. To he 
 sure, silence might have had the same result, hut I had to 
 risk something, and I risked that." 
 
 " I marvel at your disinclination to he." 
 
 "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 yoxir 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 ex- 
 pressly 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 
 her 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."
 
 1 82 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 hand 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.
 
 THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY. 183 
 
 " 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 immedia,te 
 marriage ? " said Mallard. 
 
 " It is useless to pretend that I should." 
 
 " Not even from the point of view of Mrs. Lessingham 
 and myseK ? " 
 
 " 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. Lessing- 
 ham 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," rciilied 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
 
 i84 The emancipated. 
 
 "because of iny 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 stej) 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. J 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
 
 THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY. 185 
 
 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 understand- 
 ing 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 ? " 
 
 " Sae 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.
 
 i86 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 ON THE HEIGHTS. 
 
 In vain, at eacli meal, did Clifford Marsli 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 con- 
 firmed. Mrs. Denyer found it difficult to assume the 
 becoming air when she put civil questions to Mrs. Lessing- 
 ham, 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 
 Cliiford's very hearing, she spoke of Cecily with tender con- 
 cern, 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 au 
 air of absorption. He was wont to begin conversation with 
 the remark, flatteringly toned, " Eeading Italian as usual.
 
 ON THE HEIGHTS. 1B7 
 
 Miss Denyer ? " but this evening a new subject, bad been 
 suggested to bim. 
 
 "I bope Miss Doran is not seriously unwell, Miss 
 Denyer ? " 
 
 " Oh, I think mt." 
 
 Mr. Musselwhite reflected, stroking bis whiskers in a 
 gentlemanly way. 
 
 " One misses her," was bis 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 mdi'e time. Mr. Musselwhitef 
 dimly feeling that this topic demanded no further treat- 
 ment, racked his brains for something else to say. He was 
 far towards Lincolnshire when a rustle of the pages tinder 
 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 arc very kincl, I don't read much English, but I 
 shall bo 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.
 
 i88 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 " Who ean he be ? " 
 
 " Eather a strange-lookiug 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, Eeuben. 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 Eomeo ! " 
 
 " So it is ; I wish I had no worse than Eomeo'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
 
 ON THE HEIGHTS. 189 
 
 believe that my longing had power to bring you, so stiong 
 it was. But tell me." 
 
 He did so, and again they lost themselves iu rapturous 
 dreamland. 
 
 " Do you think Mr. Mallard will wish to see me ? " she 
 asked timidly. 
 
 " I can't be sure. I half think not." 
 
 " Tet 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 iu saying 
 odd, half-rude things ; but we are excellent friends — or 
 have been. Such a delightful day as we had at Baise ! I 
 have always liked him." 
 
 " At Baiee ? Tou didn't go alone with him ? " 
 
 " No ; Miriam was there and Mr. Spence. We found 
 him dreaming at Pozzuoli, and carried him off iu 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 ? " 
 
 El gar led her a few paces, until they stood before a 
 mirror.
 
 190 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " 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 ? Yo'ii 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 sug- 
 gested 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 sus- 
 picions. He read on her face how she was pained, and her 
 next words proved his folly.
 
 ON THE HEIGHTS. 191 
 
 " 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, 
 sjioke 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 heai't 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 how 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 bo full of 
 hideous misgivings. Remember that every one will be doing 
 the utmost to part us." 
 
 " Let them do tho utmost twice over! You must have 
 faith in me. Look into my eyes. Is there no assurance, no 
 Btrength for you ? Do they look too happy ? That is
 
 192 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 because you are still here ; time enoiigli for sadness wheii 
 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 to- 
 day. 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 accus- 
 tomed; 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
 
 ON THE HEIGHTS. 193 
 
 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 n\ight 
 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 case 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.mindP " 
 
 " 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 anytliing uiikiud; Imt if you feel equal to a 
 woman's responsiljilities, 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; 
 
 o
 
 194 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 doesn't it seem to you tliat you might lielp 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 yourseK. 
 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 curio- 
 sity, step by step, the progress of mental anguish, but when 
 that point is passed, analysis loses its interest ; the vocabu- 
 lary 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 on©
 
 ON THE HEIGHTS. 195 
 
 tead but some otlier must therefore lie down Under male- 
 diction? 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 conceiTed a subtle 
 sympathy with that haj^less one but for whose sacrifice its 
 own elation were impossible ? 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 tSCHO AND PRELUDE. 
 
 At Villa Sannazaro, the posture of affairs was already 
 understood. When Eleanor Spence, casually calling at the 
 jjension, 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 conver- 
 sation, 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, imj^elled to make the admis- 
 sion 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 explana- 
 tions 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 tho 
 villa that afternoon. This was communicated to Eleanor. 
 
 o 2
 
 ig6 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 "Whore'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 strongr-minded 
 man." 
 
 " Pooh 1 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 pro- 
 posed 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 riew; its rear windows regard a
 
 ECHO AND PRELUDE, I97 
 
 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 discon- 
 tent. The table is very white, very cold, very uninviting. 
 
 Ten minutes later appears the master of the house, 
 shaven, also in garments that appear new and uncomfort- 
 able, 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 there- 
 after preserve a countenance of rebellion subdued by fear. 
 His father eats very httle, 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 glimj^se 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 thoy induQ
 
 198 777^ EMANCIPATED. 
 
 other garments yet more uncomfortable than those they 
 already wear. This process over, they descend again to the 
 brealifast-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 superq^ie. 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 unctuousl}'^ ; 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 succes- 
 sive 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
 
 ECHO AND PRELUDE. 199 
 
 frieuds 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. 
 
 Eeligious 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 Eeuben 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 
 demurcness. Nor was Miriam herself a hypocrite when, 
 mistress of Eedbeck House, she' began to establish her 
 reputation and authority throughout dissenting Bartlcs. 
 
 Her instruction had been rigidly sectarian. Whatever 
 she studied was represented to her from the point of view of
 
 soo THE EMAACIPATED. 
 
 its relation to Cliristianity as hei' 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, Eeuben uttered words which signi- 
 fied 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. Thence- 
 forth, 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 Christian- 
 ity ; one or two of these, she had learnt from the jDulpit, 
 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 uncon- 
 sciously, to stimulate her pride and supply her with incen- 
 tives to unworthy ambition. He was rich, and boasted of 
 it vulgarly ; he was ignorant, and vaunted the fact, thank- 
 ing Heaven that for him the purity of religious conviction 
 had never been endangei-ed by the learning that leads astray ; 
 he was proud of possessing a young and handsome wife, and
 
 ECHO AND PRELUDE. 201 
 
 for tlie 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 sujDport of re- 
 ligion. 
 
 Most happily, the man died. Had he remained her con- 
 sort 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-breahing ; 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 
 draGrsred her down. ISTor was it long before she herself 
 understood it in this way, though dimly and uncertainly- 
 She found herself looking on things with eyes which some- 
 how had a changed power of vision. With remarkable 
 abruptness, certain of her habits fell from her, and she 
 remembered them onlv with distaste, even with dissrust 
 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 hberty. 
 
 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 differ- 
 ences her reasoning faculty was familiar, and with her to 
 thick of religion was to think of the points at issue between 
 one church and another — always, moreover, with pre-judg- 
 ment 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 Brad- 
 Kuaws' family life j she had business transactions j she read
 
 i62 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 chaj)el for Bartlos 
 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 
 Boeial importance than Mr. Baske had been ; it soon became 
 evident that Mrs, Welland, who also aspired to pi'ominence 
 in religious life, would be a formidable rival to the lady of 
 Eedbeck House. On the occasion of some local meetinar, 
 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 haK his per- 
 sonal estate. For a time, this had not concerned her ; now 
 she was beginning to think of it occasionally with discoulent, 
 followed by reproach of conscience. Like i*eproach did she 
 suffer for the jealousy and envy excited in her by Mrs. 
 Welland' s arrival. A general uneasiness of miad was 
 gradually induced, and the chapel-buildiag 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 sjwke 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 re- 
 ceived were unsatisfactory, alarming. The corresi^ondenco 
 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
 
 ECHO AND PRELUDE. 203 
 
 depression, duiing whicli 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 shp 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 "^^at 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 
 e^tement 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, indej)endeut of 
 these precei)ts, was to her very simply a form of sin, a 
 species of temptation for wliich she liad been taught to 
 pi-epare 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 difiicult 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 pi-oving too strong for her. When-
 
 204 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 ever 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 positiov. 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 lilt'ed 
 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 
 m.atters 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. Ho^v 
 far otherwise had it proved! They pitied her, compas- 
 sionated 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 persona
 
 ECHO AND PRELUDE. 205 
 
 tsrlio lived in a seemly manner could be sceptics, pertaps 
 " 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 di-eadful 
 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 j)assed 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 ; Eleau'^r'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 ; slie was undeceived 
 in glancing thi'ough it. Poetry had hitliorto 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
 
 2o6 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 an hour ; slie 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 
 passable, 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 boots. 
 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 them. 
 
 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 suj^pose 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 ? "
 
 ECHO AND PRELUDE, 207 
 
 *' Just wliat 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 
 Beuben 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 himseK ? " 
 
 " 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 queiy 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 hkely 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 mis- 
 taken clue. 
 
 Two days later, Mrs. Lessingham and her niece, accom- 
 panied by Reuben Elgar, departed for Capri. The day after 
 that, Mr. and Mrs. Bi-adshaw in very deed said good-bye to 
 Naples and travelled northwards. They j^urposed spendiug 
 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 aftenioon would be a convenient time." 
 
 Miriam assented, but not without betraying surprise and
 
 2o8 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 uneasinesa. 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 agita- 
 tion. 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 j^art she had played in connection 
 with that eventful day at Pompeii ? What would be his 
 tone ? Did he come to ask for particulars (;oncerning 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 overpower- 
 ing curiosity as to the way in which this event had affected 
 the strange man. Reports were no satisfaction to her j 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 conse- 
 quence 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 unembar- 
 rassed 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 
 fihe cast down her eyes in helpless abashment. 
 
 " I have had a long letter fx-om 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 wi'ites begging
 
 ECHO AND PRELUDE. 209 
 
 mo 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 elo- 
 quence 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 delibe- 
 ration : 
 * "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 difl&culty 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 any- 
 thing 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 con- 
 vincing 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 care- 
 fully 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 
 
 p
 
 210 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 
 ohown 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 marry- 
 ing 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. Lessing- 
 ham. 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 
 vsdshed to assure him that she would do her best with 
 Eeuben, b^^t 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, Mi's. Baske." 
 
 She would have begged him to resume his seat. The con- 
 versation 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 
 liad turned to the door. " If necessary, I will go and see him." 
 
 " Thank you," he replied with civility, and left her.
 
 ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING. 211 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING. 
 
 " I CANNOT answer your long letter ; to such correspond- 
 ence 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 ; Sj^ence will give you all par- 
 ticulars, 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 ; Eeuben'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 sliy. For a 
 long time she had felt the luring charm of that island, 
 always before her eyes, yet never more than a blue 
 m< (untainous shape. Lately she had been reading of it, and 
 her fancy, new to such picturings, was possessed by the mys- 
 terious 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 htwl known nothing of fairy- 
 land, and now, in this tardy awakening of the imaginative 
 part of her nature, she thought sometimes of Caj^ri much as 
 
 V 2
 
 212 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 a cliild is wont to think of the enchanted countries, nameless, 
 regionless, in books of fable. 
 
 What thoughts for Sundaj ! 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 paiised 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 sods. 
 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 enjoy- 
 ment. 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 obsei*ved 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
 
 ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING. 213 
 
 fixed on Capri. One more delay on the voyage ; the steamer 
 stopped near tlie Blue Grrotto, 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 Eeuben awaited 
 her. 
 
 He had a carriage ready for the drive up the serj)ent road 
 to the hotel where Mrs. Lessingham and her niece were stay- 
 ing. 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. Tou 
 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 lias 
 been talking you over ? " 
 
 Miriam had no resolve by which to guide herself. She 
 knew not distinctly wliy 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
 
 214 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 take; the one emotion of which she was clearly conscious 
 was of so strange and disturbing a hind 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 
 sijeaking his thoughts. 
 
 " You understand, I dare say, why Mallard is making 
 such a fuss ? " 
 
 " How could I helj) 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."
 
 ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING. 215 
 
 ' They reached the hotel without further debate of this 
 Bubject. 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 io 
 have accepted the inevitable. Her fii'st 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 
 io wandering about the island. On the return at sunset, 
 Miriam and Eeuben had a long talk together, in which it 
 was made manifest that the "plans " were just as vague as 
 ever. Eeuben 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 
 evenmg 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 Gi'otta Azzurra to-morrow," he said gaily. "Per- 
 haps you won't care to go again ? My grave sister will 
 make a very proper cliaperon." 
 
 " Let us discuss that when to-morrow comes. Please to 
 limit your moon-gazing to five minutes." 
 
 " At the utmost."
 
 2i6 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 From tlie hotel garden opened a clear prosi^ect 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 Vesu- 
 vius. 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 sti'aight from Naples, but I can't 
 go now ; every hour with you has helped to make it impossi-
 
 ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING. ii-j 
 
 ble. 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 ciushed 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 ard buy 
 what things you need. I have quite enough money for the 
 present." 
 
 " But thiuk 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
 
 2i8 " THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 dea.rest ; oli, I can't do this ! I will see Mr. Mallard, as I 
 
 wished " 
 
 " Tou 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. Tour 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 relinquish- 
 inc 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 imkindness to Mallard ' ? " 
 She looked up into his face. 
 
 " Why does love make a man speak so bitterly and un- 
 truthfully ? 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 upoa
 
 ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING. 219 
 
 tlieniselves to say what is good for us, what we may Lo 
 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, 
 bi'ing you to beggary. Do you beheve 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 yoimg — 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 hkcly 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. 
 
 " l)arc you risk that, my love ? " 
 
 " I dare not." 
 
 Her answer trembled upon his hearing as though it camo 
 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
 
 220 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 ■wliispering 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. Lcssingham 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 imj)artial. 
 
 " 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 fore- 
 seen 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.
 
 ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING. 221 
 
 A short and troubled sleep at night's heaviest ; then long 
 waiting for the first glimmer of dawn. How 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.
 
 222 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 CHAPTEE 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 pos- 
 sessed him wholly. Miss Doran was not for him, and in the 
 meantime he had offended Madehne 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 sui'e, 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 
 faciUty 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 himseK. He by no means 
 liked the thought of relinquishing [Madeline ; he had not 
 done so, even when heating his brain with contemj^lation of 
 Cecily Doran. In what manner coidd 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 his 
 behalf. On the day which saw the departure of the Brad- 
 ehaws, there landed at ISTaples, from Alexandria, a certaia
 
 « WOLF/'* 223 
 
 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 eveiy variety of men were life-long habits. 
 
 His 'business conducted him to the MergelHna, to the 
 house of Mrs. Gluck, where he inquired for Mrs. Decyer. 
 He was led upstairs, and into the room where sat Mrs. 
 Denyer and her daughters. The sight of him caused com- 
 motion. Barbara, Madeline, and Zillah pressed aroimd 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 
 ommously 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- 
 cufEs, 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
 
 224 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 attempt to keep lais ejes 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, bMt it is better to tell you 
 all plainly." 
 
 Mrs. Denyer'sbrows 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 again. 
 " 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 somethiag. I'm afraid you had bett-er go
 
 'nVOLF/'^ 225 
 
 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 sjjoke 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 pro- 
 ceeded, 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 
 Signified retic/)nce, " that I think we should have had longer 
 warning of this ! "
 
 226 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 " 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 power- 
 less 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 
 insjjired 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 be paid, indignities must be swal- 
 lowed. The Aunt Dora of whom Mr. Denyer had spoken 
 was his own sister, the wife of a hotel-keeper at South- 
 ampton. 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 pi-esent 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 
 gpent a very black hour indeed.
 
 « WOLF!'' 227 
 
 They were to start to-morrow morning, WitL. rage 
 Barbara saw tlie iuterdiction 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 absent- 
 minded. 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. 
 
 " Tou have no book this evening, Miss Denyer ? '* 
 
 "No." 
 
 •' E'o 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 h^^rry. Unexpect- 
 edly, we have to leave Naples to-morrow ; we are going to 
 England." 
 
 " Indeed ? Tou don't say so ! Eeally, I'm very sorry to 
 hear that, Miss Denyer." 
 
 " I am soiTy too — to have to leave Italy for such a climate 
 at this time of the year." She shuddered. " But my father 
 has just arx*ived 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 lenely 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 Eenyer." 
 
 "We had no idea of it ourselves till lo-day." 
 
 A long silence, during which Mr. Musselwhite's reflections 
 grew intense. 
 
 " You are going to London ? " he asked mechanically. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " ISTot at first. I hardly tnow. I tliiok 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 dia- 
 logue. 
 
 " 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 are settled." 
 
 " Thank you so very much." He looked up after long
 
 " WOLFP' 229 
 
 meditation. " 1 really do noi know wliat I shall do wlien 
 you are gone, Miss Denyer." 
 
 And then, without warning, he said good-night and 
 walked away. Barbara, who had thought that the conversa- 
 tion 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 ClifEord Marsh. They had met only once hitherto, sis 
 months ago, when Mr. Denyer paid a flying visit to London, 
 and had just time to make the acquaintance of his pro- 
 spective son-in-lav\'. This afternoon they walked together 
 for an hour about the Chiaia, with the result that an under- 
 ftanding of some kind seemed to be ai'rived at between 
 ihem. 
 
 Mr. Denyer returned to the pension, and, when dinner- 
 time 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 invita- 
 tion readily. Before long, they drove into the town. Pei*- 
 haps 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 Made- 
 line, 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 unad-
 
 230 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 viseJ steps lie had taken iu fear of impending calamity. 
 Snugly seated at the little marble table, they grew very con- 
 fidential 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 vmdertaking at Vera Cruz would be his 
 last exile ; he explained it in detail, and dwelt on its pro- 
 mising 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 lie 
 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 re- 
 ferred casually to his meeting with Mr. Denyer that after- 
 noon. 
 
 "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. 
 
 " ISTo ; I am a man of the old world. I must live in tho 
 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 ? Madehne 
 made a few objections — she would really prefer to accom- 
 pany her father ; she would not trouble Mr. Marsh — bat in 
 the end she found herself seated by Clifford in a carriage, 
 passing rapidly through the streets.
 
 « WOLF!" 231 
 
 ITow was Clifford's opportunity ; be liad 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 haij- 
 pened." 
 
 " 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 your- 
 self, no one ever shalL "Whatever yo^l may do, I cannot 
 break faith. Tou ought to know me better than to mis- 
 interpret 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 some- 
 thing else." 
 
 " You must, at all events, understand my position before 
 we part. This morning I was as finnly 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 yoti,. 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 inteniipt me, I entreat ! It 
 is uo matter to me if you i-epulse me now, in your anger. I 
 consider the engagement as still existing between us, and, 
 such being the case, 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 be 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
 
 232 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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." 
 
 " Tou 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 car- 
 riage stopped at Mrs. Gluck's, mutual rej^roaches 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. Tou 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. 
 
 " Tou are heartless ! Tou have played with me from the 
 first." 
 
 " If so, I only treated you as you thought to treat me,** 
 
 " That you can atti'ibute such baseness to me proves how 
 incapable you are of distinguishing between truth and false- 
 hood. 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 accejiting his unqualified submission. To part 
 from her on such terms as these meant despair j the con-
 
 "^IVOLF/" 233 
 
 sequences wotila be tragic. And wlien 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 J ask you to become a man of business. You 
 shall never charge me with that. It is your natm-e 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 pur- 
 suit, amply repaid by the hope she granted him. 
 
 They had walked some distance, and were out of sight of 
 the Mergelhna, 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 
 Spcncc, 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
 
 234 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 on the envelopes. He found Eleanor wliere 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. Thit^ 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 be here after dinner ; the likelihood is that 1 
 shouldn't find him." 
 
 " Occasionally — very occasionally — you lack tact, my hus- 
 band. He would hardly care to open this and read it in our 
 pi'esence." 
 
 " 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 addi'essed 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 ? "
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 235 
 
 "Yes." Miriam suppressed lier voice, and held out the 
 slieet of note-paper, wliicli fluttered. " Eead 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 brotlier 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 T write to Mallard, addressed to him 
 at the villa. I hope be 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 be just the same, to everybody concerned, as if 
 we had been married in the most foolish way that respecta- 
 bility 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 hapj^y than that 
 we spent in tracking out old Tiberius." 
 
 Eleanor looked up, and again was struck with the singu- 
 lar 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 Speuces, who sat alone, 
 received the foreseen visit from Mallard. They welcomed
 
 23'5 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 him silently. As lie sat down, he had a smile on his face ; 
 he drew a letter deliberately from his pocket, and, with- 
 out i^reface, began to read it aloud, still in a deliberate 
 manner. 
 
 " Let me j&rst 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 informa- 
 tion regarding Cecily's age ; this was an inevitable conse- 
 quence 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 sm 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 incon- 
 sistency, 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 cann'>t 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
 
 LETTERS. 237 
 
 sincerely wisli Cecily hasl, notliing, that tlie 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, agaia 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 througli 
 lawvers, but I had better be in London." 
 
 " And then ? " asked Eleanor. 
 
 " I shall perhaps go and sj^end 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 wisjx 
 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 re- 
 lieve 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 some- 
 thing more than acquiescent. After all, granted that these 
 two must make choice of each other, was it not in the fitness of
 
 2,3S THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 things that they should act as they have done? For ua 
 comfortable folk, life is too humdrum ; ought we not to he 
 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 ci-eatures 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 unreasonino- 
 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 modem woman need bj 
 no means be a mere emooaied 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 dis- 
 appointed 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 ^eune fille, 
 according to society's pattern, is my abhorrence: an 
 ignorant, deceitful, vain, immoral creatiire. Cecily is as un- 
 like 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. Tou
 
 LETTERS. 239 
 
 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 appre- 
 ciated. Mallard spoke little ; he had clasped his hands 
 behind his head, and listened miisingly. 
 
 There was no effusion in the leave-taking, though it might 
 be for a long time. Warm clasping of hands, but Httle 
 said. 
 
 •*A good-bye for me to Mrs. Baske," was Mallard's last 
 word. 
 
 And his haggard but composed face turned from Villa 
 Sannazaro.
 
 PART IL
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A CORNER OF SOCIETY. 
 
 In a Loodon dramng-room, where the murmiTr 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 pi'ctty, and speaks French ; neither the 
 one thing nor the other is tmcommon, I believe. Do you 
 Bee 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 kiud 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 
 Kaples affair, you know ? " 
 
 " 2^en eais rien. But I hear odd things about her hus- 
 band. 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 
 
 E 2
 
 244 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 at Craven Hill opened its doors at ten o'clock, and until mid- 
 night 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 wei'e frequent ; their 
 presence made a characteristic of the salon. This evening, 
 for instance, honour was paid by the hostess to M. Amedee 
 Silvenoire, whose experiment in un romantic 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 Pai-is, in the days when Cecily was with her, 
 and in the winter just past she had come upon Irene Delj^h 
 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. Lessing- 
 ham 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 orna- 
 ment 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 conversa- 
 tion 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 
 glight disadvantage of knowing no tongue but his own — was
 
 A CORNER OF SOCIETY. 245 
 
 making a study of Englisli 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 TroUope's 
 novels, that they might learn what is permissible in con- 
 versation 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. Bickerdike," 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 Bis book, but to personal interest 
 which the author moved in her; she was curious to dis- 
 cover how far the idealism of "A Crown of Lilies" v/as 
 a genuine fruit of the man's nature. Mr. Bickcrdiko's 
 couutcnance 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 riarricd lady 
 named Mrs. Travis; they both regarded Mr. Bickerdike with 
 * close scrutiny. 
 
 " Who coidd have imagined such an author for the book I " 
 murmured the giil, in wonder.
 
 246 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 "I could perfectly well," murmured badi Mrs. Travis, 
 witli a smile wliicli 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 unfortuucately 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-wez 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 ? " 
 
 " Eeuben 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 jiro found 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 Ii'ene to Mrs. Travis.
 
 A CORNER OF SOCIETY. 247 
 
 The otlier assented ; then asked : 
 
 " Why don't you paint her portnut ? " 
 
 " 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 mc a 
 charmingly Avritten romance." 
 
 The novelist, seated upon too low a chair, leaning forward 
 so that his knees and chin almost touched, was not in him- 
 self a very graceful object ; the contrast with his neighbour
 
 248 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 made him worse than grotesque. His visage was disagree* 
 ably animal as it smiled with condescension. 
 
 "You mean something by that," he remarked, mth 
 awkward attempt at light fencing. 
 
 There was bai-ely 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 case 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 
 foi'cing 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 Uttle confusing." 
 
 It was made sufficiently so to Mr. Bickerdike. He thrurt 
 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 fi-ction,"
 
 A CORNER OF SOCIETY. 249 
 
 •• 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." 
 
 "Tes," said Cecily, as he paused for a moment, "I see that 
 it would take too long. Tou must deal with so many pre- 
 judices — such, for esami^le, 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 he 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, sjDoilt 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 Tmassuming Cecily was, and with what deference she 
 spoke when good feeling dictated it. Or again, there was her 
 manner with the peojjle who, by the very respect with which 
 they inspired her, gave her encouragement to speak without 
 false restniint; such as Mr, Bird, tlje art critic, a grizzle-
 
 250 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 headed man with, whom she sat for a quai'ter of an hour this 
 evening, looking her very brightest and talking in her 
 hapi^iest vein, yet showing all the time her gratitude for 
 what she leamt 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, suc- 
 ceeded 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 Mi-s. Lessinsrham. 
 
 " Still better, I believe. I left him to-night without un- 
 easiness." 
 
 " Oh, I had a letter this morning from Mrs. Science. 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 t.ad a face one could not regard without curi- 
 osity. 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 com- 
 plexion was dark, her hair of a rich brown j she had very
 
 A CORNER OF SOCIETY. 251 
 
 large eyes, wliicli generally wandered in an absent, restless, 
 discontented way. If she smiled, it Avas 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 unhap- 
 piness. 
 
 After a minute or two of silence, Cecily was beginning to 
 speak on some indifferent subject, when her companion in- 
 terrupted her. 
 
 " Will you let me tell you something about myself ? " 
 
 " Whatever you wish, Mrs. Travis," Cecily answered, with 
 eymi^athy. 
 
 " I've left my husband. Perhaps you thought of that ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 The sudden disclosure gave her a shock. She had the 
 iiensation 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 tliis time." 
 
 " Have you really no choice but to do this V " 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 exi)ect. 
 Perhaps you'll think me unreasonable. A Turkish woman 
 would." 
 
 Cecily sat mute. She could not but resent the harsh tono 
 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
 
 252 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 sucli 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 in- 
 dignities which no wife oucjlxt 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 believ- 
 ing 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 'mar- 
 riage ' ! " 
 
 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,
 
 A CORNER OF SOCIETY. 253 
 
 '^ Winning him back ? Oli, he is affectionate enough. But 
 you mean winning him back to faithfuhiesg. 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 youi condemnation, Mrs. 
 Travis F " 
 
 " 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 philosopihy ; she lets things take their course, just turn- 
 ing 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. Ti-avis now lived was a quarter 
 of an hour's drive beyond that of the Elgars ; she would
 
 254 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 liave alighted and walked, raaking notliing 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. 
 
 ' *HE PE0PEIETIB8 DEFENDED. 
 
 The house was in Belslze 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 stiU 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 dread- 
 fully 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 ? "
 
 THE PROPRIETIEB DEPENDED. 255 
 
 " 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 comj)liinents on my French. Madame 
 Jacquelin, a stout and very plain woman, who told us anec- 
 dotes of George Sand ; remind me to repeat them to-morrow. 
 And Mr. Bickcrdike, the pillar of idealism." 
 
 " Bickcrdike 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 ? " 
 
 " Eather pertly, I'm afraid. He was silly enough to ask 
 me what I thought of his bookj 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." 
 
 Eeuben 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
 
 256 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 for a woman like your aunt to gather about her all the lis« 
 reputable men and women who claim to be of some acco int ; 
 but they are not fit comj^anions for you. I don't lite it at 
 all." 
 
 She looked at him in astonishment, with bewildered eyes, 
 that were on the verge of laughter. 
 
 " What are you talking about, Eeuben ? " 
 
 " 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 temj)tation of 
 society irresistible. People admire you and talk about you 
 and crowd round you, and you enjoy it — nevermind 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, 
 Eeuben. 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 keej)- 
 ing his eyes on the floor, he continued in the same half- 
 embarrassed way :
 
 THE PROPRIETIES DEFENDED. 257 
 
 " 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 v^ague, 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 P 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 
 mistakeo, this is the common error of husbands — of those
 
 258 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 who are at lieart 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 
 shaU 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 ti-uth. 
 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."
 
 THE PROPRIETIES DEFENDED. 259 
 
 Elgar hesitated before replying. 
 
 " I'm afraid you can't do that. You have tact enouarh 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 con- 
 demn 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, (^iss, you arc not so foolish as to misunder- 
 stand me. When I said that I distrusted your discretion, I 
 meant, of course, that you might innocently do things which 
 
 s 2
 
 26o THL EMANCIPATED. 
 
 would make people talk about you. There is no harm in 
 reminding you of the danger." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; though it would be more like yourseK 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 P " 
 
 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 rej^lying, 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.
 
 THE PROPRIETIES DEFENDED. 261 
 
 " 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 scut her yesterday 
 morning, that's all." 
 
 " Tou wrote — in the way you proposed ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 He allowed her to pass without saying anything more. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 aEADATION. 
 
 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 sea- 
 side 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 con- 
 fidant 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 
 l^assage 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 con- 
 fession one more delight. It was impossiljle for me not to
 
 262 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 under- 
 stood 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 reproach- 
 fully 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 thovightin j^retending — Tfeel 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 lodk at me with admiration. I rejoice that I have 
 beauty ; I rejoice that I have read much, and ca.n think for 
 myscK now and then, and sometimes say a thing that every 
 one would not think of. Supjiose I were an imeducated girl, 
 not particularly good-looking, and a man loved me ; well, in 
 that case perhaps the one joy would be mere worship of him
 
 GRADA TION. 263 
 
 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 mag- 
 nificent 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 bo 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 ex- 
 istence ? 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
 
 264 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 suffice me ; 1 want my husband to distinguisli 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 mate 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 con- 
 tradiction 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 Tie 
 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 state- 
 ment ? 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, I 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 con- 
 fidence, 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 ignor- 
 ance. 
 
 " 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."
 
 CRADATIOM. 265 
 
 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 prox- 
 imity would be of any value. Cecily inclined towards 
 London, feeling that there only would her husband find in- 
 centives to exertion ; but Eeuben 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 sjjirits 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 in- 
 fant gave a good deal of ti-ouble, 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 Belsizc Park. 
 
 The immediate effect of patc.rnity 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
 
 266 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 jfind fulfilment. Not many 
 days after their taking possession of the English home, 
 Eeuben 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 in- 
 tellectual life is to deal a savage blow at the influences which 
 ruined all my early years. Tou 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 Uterary 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 ex- 
 cite hatred and make my name known." 
 
 They were sitting in the library, late at night. As usual 
 when he was stirred, Eeuben 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
 
 GRADATION. 2C7 
 
 make fixed plans of study ; there are so many tilings 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 substantiar help — read- 
 ing, 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. 
 " Tou will make no pretence of historic calm and im- 
 partiality." 
 
 " Not I, indeed ! My book shall be cited as a splendid ex- 
 ample of odium antitheologimim. 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 emancipa. 
 tion 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. Al] 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 ojtpressively 
 hot, and it was plain that they could not carry out the pro- 
 ject of remaining in town all through the autumn. Already 
 Eeuben was languishing in his zeal, when little Clarence had
 
 268 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 a sudden and alarming illness. As soon as possible, all 
 went off to the seaside. 
 
 Since his work had begun, Eeuben'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, Eeuben 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 ? " 
 
 "ISTo; 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 T 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 't " 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 1 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
 
 GRAB A TION. 269 
 
 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 mav find in a dogf." 
 
 " Has love anything to do with reason, Eeuben ? " 
 
 " 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 argu- 
 ment 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 to^^ether 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 any- 
 thing? If, in meditating about him, she discovered char- 
 acteristics 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.
 
 270 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 What part had reason in the impulses which possessed 
 her from her first meeting with Eeuben in Italy, unless that 
 name were given to the working of mysterious aflBnities, 
 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 Eeuben'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 Eeuben 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 Tinfruitful mind. It was not to be 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 character- 
 ized her. Had she been constrained to occupy herself cease- 
 lessly with the demands of babyhood, something more than 
 impatience wouldj 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 
 wliich is in revolt against the law of labour. Picture Reuben 
 Elgar reduced to the necessity of toiling for daily bread —
 
 GRADATION. 271 
 
 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 raihng 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, Eeuhen 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 in- 
 viting his confidence, but of necessity they spoke together at 
 last. Reuben could no longer disguise the ennui under 
 wliicli he was labouring. Instead of sitting in the library, 
 lie 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
 
 2/2 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 had supplied them with a few introductions, but these peopla 
 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. Eeuben had resumed two or three of his old con- 
 nections ; a bachelor acquaintance now and then came to 
 dine ; but this was not the kind of society they needed. Im- 
 possible 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 Eeuben 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 bis 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. Thei-e 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
 
 GRADATION. 373 
 
 did not wish him to be altogether like his fathef . Perhaps 
 in no other way could she have come to so clear an under- 
 standing of Eeuben's character — at all events, of those parts 
 of it which had as yet revealed themselves in their wedded 
 Hfe. 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 
 Fortnifjlitly ? Something strange awaits us, be sure of that." 
 
 X
 
 274 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 The winter dragged to its end, and with the sj)ring 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 
 ejEcaciously 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. 
 
 Cecilv. 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 ? Eeally ? 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
 
 GRADATION. 275 
 
 reply. "Do just look at that sweet little creature playing 
 with the dog ! Look at its collar ! And that ribbon ! " 
 
 Eeuben 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. Eeuben 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 ? " 
 
 " T 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 Ecubcn's love of her could drive liim 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 resent- 
 ment of her husl>and's conduct. 
 
 When the reply from Mrs. Travis iustinicted him in what 
 
 z 2
 
 276 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 had been done, Eeuben 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 wont down to the library, resolving to 
 wait there for Eeuben's return. 
 
 She heard him enter, and heard the servant speaking 
 with him. He came into the room, closed the door, and 
 Bauntered 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 how I ought to behave. I thought it better 
 to keep to myself till we had come to a -clearer understand- 
 ing." 
 
 " 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
 
 GRADA TION. 277 
 
 between writing to lier 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 petu- 
 lantly. 
 
 "My dear, you ivere 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 rei^rescnted 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 q, name for liberal thinking among your
 
 278 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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, Eeuben ? " 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 theoreti- 
 cal 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. 
 Tou have become an idealist of a curious kind ; you 
 like to think of me as an emanciijated woman, and yet, 
 when I have the opportunity of making my independence 
 practical, you show yourseK 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 tbey would bear 
 on the lips of an ordinary man. Can't you help me out of 
 this difficulty ? " 
 
 Eeuben 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 sj^eak, 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 j)ut 
 on a stem face, and told you that your moi'als were io 
 danger?"
 
 GRADATION. 279 
 
 " Pooli ! wliat 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 
 Buperb self-confidence. 
 
 " Without meaning it, you insult me, Eeuben. 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 gettijvg rhetorical, Cecily. Then at this rate 1 
 should never be justified in interfering? " 
 
 " In interfering with mere command, never." 
 
 " N"ot 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 diflScult 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 loolced 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,"
 
 28o THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 "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 loom without again speaking. 
 
 CHAPTER rV. 
 
 THE DENYERS IN ENOLAND. 
 
 " Theee ! " said Mrs. Denyer, laying money on the table. 
 " There are your wages, up to the end of Ajjril — notwith- 
 standing your impertinence to me this morning, you see. 
 Once more I forgive you. And now 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 paj)ers 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 de- 
 cision : 
 
 " 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 " 
 
 Tbo conflict lo-sted for 9, good quarter of an hour, but the
 
 THE DENYERS IN ENGLAND. 28 1 
 
 domestic was to be staken 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 deter- 
 mined ? 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. *' Neither 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 sec if anything in the world will shame you. She 
 shall know ivky I wait on her, be sure of that ! "
 
 282 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Barbar?. 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 medi- 
 cine-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 house- 
 maid 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 Madehne, 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 Hke 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 tnmk.
 
 THE DENYERS IN ENGLAND. 283 
 
 This was pleasant news to send to liei- 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, ths 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, address- 
 ing 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 condolemcnt 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
 
 284 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 as this ? In any case, lie knew what their j)o.sition was ; all 
 had been put before him, as though he were a member of the 
 family. If they succeeded in obtaining whatever Mr. Den- 
 yer 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, pulhng 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
 
 THE DENVEkS IN ENGLAND. 2S5 
 
 as his letters became shorter and arrived at longer Intervals ; 
 there besan 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 him- 
 self 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. 
 
 Quan-elling incessantly, Mrs. Denyer and Barbara pre- 
 pared 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 pud- 
 ding. 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 broiight a gi'eat 
 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 ! "
 
 286 THlE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " Very. 1 must ask you to excuse me, Mrs, Travis, if 1 
 do these tliinpjs 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. ISTo, 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 ItpJiau 
 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. Denyei', 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, 
 " bnt 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 polite- 
 ness.
 
 THE DENVERS iN ENGLAND. 2S7 
 
 "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 whoii great suffer- 
 ing 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 1 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 Made- 
 line put a question. When at length there came a pause, 
 Bhe 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 itnagine 
 yourself in the same case ? I want you to tell me trutlifully. 
 I'm not an uneducated girl, you know ; I can think about 
 life and death as people do nowadays." 
 
 Mi's. Travis looked at her curiously. 
 
 " I can imagine positions far worse," she answered. 
 
 "That means, of course, that you could not bear to picture
 
 288 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 stiU 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 your- 
 self ? 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 ? "
 
 7HE DENYERS IN ENGLAND. 2S9 
 
 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 JSTajjles ! 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 deir Ovo. Now I'm turning the corner and cominsr 
 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 unHke what is wont to pass in such places. On 
 Madeline's side it was tlioroughly morbid ; on that of her 
 visitor, a curious mixture of unhealthy speculation and pure 
 f eehng. 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 con- 
 stantly with creeds of negation ; but she felt it as an un- 
 natural 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 Madeliuo did but declare the 
 
 y
 
 290 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 same tendency in lier rambling and quasi-pMlosopLlc talk. 
 Slie was fond of warning Mrs. Travis against attributing to 
 lier 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 circum- 
 stances 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 supjily no food for the curiosity of her mother and 
 sister when they questioned her about the long private con- 
 versations. 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 fi'om home until 
 late at night. About the quality of the attendance given 
 her she was wholly indifferent ; in spite of frequent incon- 
 veniences, 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 vdth 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
 
 THE DENYERS IN ENGLAND. 29I 
 
 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 tlie 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. " Gro into the back 
 room, mamma. Let's say you're not at home to-day. Send 
 for the teapot, and get some moi'e 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 j 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 abihties, and a kind 
 man." 
 
 " I am s\ire he was — from what you have told me of him." 
 
 u 2
 
 292 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " Mj nepliew succeeds to the title and tlie estate ; te Is 
 now Sir Eoland Musselwhite. I have mentioned him in 
 our conversations. He is about thirtj-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 in- 
 come ; 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 Eoland. 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 T might be pardoned for doing so, 
 if I spoke with— with a desire for your friendly sympathy.
 
 THE DENYERS IN ENGLAND. 293 
 
 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 
 iv'ith 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 to- 
 morrow 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. 
 
 " Miidfly ! " 
 
 Then inil(!ed she looked at the speaker, and with surprise, 
 Bo unwonted was this tone on Barbara's lips. Surprise waa 
 quickly succeeded by a smile,
 
 294 THE EMANCIPATED 
 
 " 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 
 ine." 
 
 " 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 to- 
 day ? " 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " Gro 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
 
 THE DENVERS IN ENGLAND. 295 
 
 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 IX PARTO. 
 
 Elgae'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 per- 
 manently 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 can- 
 not supply him with a force greater than he is born to ; 
 oven 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, Eeuben 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
 
 296 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 Keuben, 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 Keuben's temper- 
 ament 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. 
 
 El gar 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 hini almost bitter against hej-f
 
 MULTUM IN PARVO. 297 
 
 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 com- 
 pany. He had never been trained to social usages, and he 
 could not feel at ease in any drawing-room but his own. The 
 Bohemiauism 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 rule. 
 
 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 re- 
 source. Its very obviousness should, of course, have warned 
 him away, but his reason for attacking Mrs. Travis had an
 
 298 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 intimate connection wifh the general causes of his dis- 
 content. 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 incon- 
 sistency, 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. 
 Lessiugham, with a smile, when she came to visit Cecily. 
 Eeuben 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 Eeuben. 
 
 " Tou 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 
 Eeuben 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
 
 MULTUM IN PARVO. 299 
 
 tliat is more demoralizing than putting up with the other in- 
 dignity. 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 
 Keuben 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 re- 
 sult 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 
 ditficulties 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 Eeuben, with the common evasion of one who can- 
 not 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 extra- 
 ordinary haste."
 
 300 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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. 
 Lessiugham. " Let her confess that there was a misunder- 
 standing. I am sure Mrs. Travis will accept it. She has a 
 curious character ; very sensitive, and very impulsive, but 
 essentially trustful and wai'm-hearted. You should have 
 heard the pathetic surprise with which she told me of Cecily's 
 letter." 
 
 "I should rather have imagined her speaking con- 
 temptuously." 
 
 " 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 Mm 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 ^''round 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 worshipj^ed, but one who had 
 asserted a suj^eriority of mind and character, and behttled 
 him to himself. He was tired of her society — the simplQ
 
 MULTUM IN PARVO, %oi 
 
 formula wliicli sufficiently explains so many domestic 
 troubles. 
 
 He would have luucli 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 quarrel- 
 some. 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 thi'ice repeated, made him turn his eyes. Then he 
 saw that his companion was a girl of a,bout five-and-twenty, 
 with a pretty, good-natured face, whicli 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 yo^^ ! " 
 
 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 mora than you have, I'm sure."
 
 302 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " And what care you doing ? You look tnucli more cteer- 
 ful than you used to." 
 , " I can't say the same o£ you." 
 
 " Have you been in London all the time ? " 
 
 " Oh no. Two years ago I went back to Liverpool, and 
 had a j^lace 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 Eeuben'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 in 
 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
 
 MULTUM IN PARVO. 303 
 
 favourite pieces, among thein 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 
 stUl 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. 
 
 " Tou haven't been anxious about me, Ciss ? " 
 
 " Not at all," she replied quietly, rather permitting his 
 cvTesses than encouraging them. 
 
 " Some one I hadn't met for several years. He was going 
 doAvn 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 P " 
 
 " 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 bo 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 ? "
 
 3o4 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 "I feel ashamed to. I know very well how 1 should 
 receive such a letter." 
 
 " Oh, you ! But every oue 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 Eeuben 
 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 her- 
 self 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
 
 MULTUM IN PARVO. 305 
 
 Keuben, as often as it was possible, avoided accompanying 
 his wife when she went from home. His own engagements 
 multiplied, and twice before the e-nd of July he spent 
 Saturday and Sunday out of town. Cecily made no close 
 inquiries conceruiug 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 sjjare much 
 time from her work. 
 
 " I don't care to be away long myself," Reuben said, 
 when Cecilv 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. Lessing- 
 ham' 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 homo kept silence. The child, too, was con- 
 stantly ailing, and its cry irritated him. 
 
 " The fact of the matter is," lie exclaimed one evening, 
 "I don't feel altogether well! I ought to have had more
 
 3o6 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 change tlian tliis. 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 hked 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 miglat, 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 Eobinsons 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 att^-act him. ' Cecily assented, and 
 in a few houi'S 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 
 Ehine. 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.
 
 MULTUM IN PARVO. 307 
 
 One night in January Eeuben 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 move- 
 ment, no cry ever claimed her attention. Tears had stained 
 her face, but they no longer fell. Holding a waxen httle 
 hand that would never again caress hei", she gazed at the 
 dying fire as though striving to read her destiny. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AT P^STUM. 
 
 The English artist had finished his work, and the dirty 
 little inn at Psestum 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 
 shouldei'. 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 inter- 
 mingled growths that cover the gi-ound 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 
 uoon, to eat his salame and drin'c his Calabrian wino, and 

 
 3o8 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 himseK to the delicious 
 warmth, the restful silence. Within reach of his hand was 
 a fern that had shot up between the massive stones ; he 
 gently caressed its fronds, as though it were a sentient crea- 
 ture. 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 ; tlie 
 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 •ndth them in 
 Greece, but always his departure was postponed ; habits of
 
 AT P^STUM, 309 
 
 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 Anialfi ; 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 Amalii he had made 
 a number of studies which would be useful ; at Psestum 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 them- 
 selves, 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 bs 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 ho 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 hai 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
 
 310 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 circumstauces which had made his desire vain. Herein he 
 went a littl3 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 hun, 
 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 Eeuben Elgar, did it not prove that the possi- 
 bilities of her nature were quite other than those which could 
 have assured liis 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 fore- 
 thought ; 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. Sufiicient that he could think of 
 her without a pang, that he could even hope to meet her 
 again before long. And, best of 11a, 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 con- 
 cerned 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 pai-ted only a week ago.
 
 AT P^STUM. 311 
 
 " 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 any- 
 thing, 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 aj^t 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 salamc in abundance." 
 
 " So I supposed," Spence replied, drily. " I recall the 
 quality of both. Also the vino di Calahria, which is vil- 
 lanously sweet. Show us what point of view you chose."
 
 312 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 For an hour tliey walked aud talked. Miriam alone waa 
 almost silent, but she paid constant attention to the ruins. 
 Mallard heard her say something to Eleanor about the dif- 
 ference 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, aud 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 and 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 Grermans, 
 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 sj^ectacle 
 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 herseK, 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 them- 
 selves 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."
 
 AT P^STUM. 313 
 
 " You will meet one iu Eome in a few days," rcmarlced 
 Eleanor, " if you go on with us — as I liope you intend 
 to?" 
 
 " Yes, I shall go with you to Eome. "VVho is the man ? " 
 
 " Mr. Seaborne — your most reverent admirer." 
 
 "Ah, I should like to know the fellovr." 
 
 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 Psestum," he said, smiling ; " perhaps of Posei- 
 donia. 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 symj)athy. 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 acxoss 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."
 
 314 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 At Salerno tliej caught a train wh'.cli enabled tliem to 
 reach Naples late iu the evening. Mallard accompanied his 
 friends to their hotel, and dined with them. As he and 
 Spence were smoking together afterwards, the latter com- 
 municated 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 lie 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 pre- 
 ferred 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. Lessing- 
 ham 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 afPect him much ? " 
 
 "I know nothing about it." 
 
 They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Then Mallard 
 observed, without taking the cigar from Iiis 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
 
 AT P^STUM. 3TS 
 
 witli yo'Li all tliis time is iu 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 verv welcome to 
 shai'e 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 substr rtial kind. Not at all 
 connected with religion ; it would be a mistake to suppose 
 that she has been going in for a course of modem 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 hei 
 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 Bartlcs ? " 
 
 Spence shook his head and laughed, and the dialogue came 
 to an end. 
 
 The next morning all started for Rome.
 
 3i6 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 LEARNING AND TEACHING. 
 
 Easteu was just gone by. The Spenees 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 Psestum 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, tiU 
 he hates it for a few faults that no one else can perceive or
 
 LEARNING AND TEACHING. 3^7 
 
 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, Eoss 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 pre- 
 dicted 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 enter- 
 ing, he observed only a gentleman and a young girl, who 
 stood in the middle of the floor, consulting their guide-book ; 
 but when he 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
 
 3i8 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 the glass and regard Mm. Mallard noticed the sudden 
 change fiom 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 to- 
 gether. 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."
 
 LEARNING AND TEACHING. 319 
 
 " I have learnt to understand that," she said, with some- 
 thing 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 diffi- 
 dently, 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 stern 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."
 
 320 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 Miriam looked at liim 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 imder 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 ilmt 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 docs 
 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 treat-
 
 LEARNING AND TEACHING. 321 
 
 ment, the lovely landscape, the tender idealism througliout, 
 the perfect adaptedness of gem-like colouring. 
 
 Miriam endeavoured to see with his eyes, but did not pre- 
 tend to be wholly successful. The very names were discor- 
 dant 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 
 Yatican 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.** 
 
 " Tou 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 neces- 
 sary 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 over- 
 much exertion. The glance led him to observe Miriam's 
 gait ; its grace and refinement gave him a sudden sensation 
 (^f keen pleasure. He thought, without wishing to do sc, of 
 
 Y
 
 322 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Cecily ; Her matchless, maidenly cliarm in m( vement 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 inflectioD of her voice, as 
 though she were not quite certain of the tone she wished to 
 strike, whether playful or sarcastic : 
 
 " Ton wouldn't prefer me to make an exclamation ? " 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Decidedly not. If you were accustomed to do so, I 
 should not be exjDressing my serious thoughts."
 
 LEARNING AND TEACHING. 323 
 
 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 jpoint 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 satis- 
 faction ? " 
 
 " I am conscious of having progressed an inch or two on 
 the way of infinity," Mallard rephed. " That brings me no 
 nearer to an end." 
 
 " But you liave a purpose ; you follow it steadily. It i 
 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 
 
 T 2
 
 324 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 Moutorio. 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.
 
 LEARNING AND TEACHING. 325 
 
 " Certainly not. It's only tliat 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 be 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 Yolsci," she said, in 
 'a subdued voice. " Some Koman must have stood here and 
 looked towards it, in days when Rome was struggling for 
 6Ui)remacy witli them. Think of all that happened between 
 that day and the time when Horace saw the snow ou 
 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
 
 326 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 spoken witli more entliiisiasm, but it was doubtful wli ether 
 she would have displayed Miriam's accuracy of knowledge. 
 
 " Well, let us go," he said at length. " Tou don't insist 
 on walking liome ? " 
 
 " 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 witb 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 unmistak- 
 ably," 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 appoint- 
 ment for the morning, lie 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 fort- 
 night at longest. 
 
 " I met Mrs. Baske at the Vatican this morning," said 
 Mallard presently, as lie knocked tlie ash off his cigar. " We 
 liad some talk." 
 
 " On Vatican subjects ? *' 
 
 " Yes. I find her views of art somewhat changed. But 
 sculpture still alarms her."
 
 \ 
 
 LEARNING AND TEACHING. 327 
 
 " Still ? Do you suppose she'will ever overcome that feeling ? 
 Are you wholly free from it yourseK? 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 \)Q 
 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 collec- 
 tions 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. Modem wprk of that kind is toler- 
 ated, nothing more. What on earth is the good of an 
 artistic production of which peojjle in genei-al are afraid to 
 speak freely ? Tou take your stand before the Yenus 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 
 gahinetto 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, X 
 always leave my wife and Mrs. Baske to go about those 
 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
 
 328 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 practical demonstrations against it, is to oppose, as I said, 
 all the civilization of our world. Perhaps there will come a 
 time ooce 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- 
 nouncing 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, 
 Tet 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 thei*e be any at all ? And Puri- 
 tanism 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 bour- 
 geois 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
 
 LEAkNiNG AND TEACHING. 329 
 
 ■Wrong as regards me. If ever I marry, amico mio, my wife 
 shall learn to oiake more than a theoretical distinction be- 
 tween what is art and what is grossness. If ever I have 
 children, they shall from the first be 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 Spence, 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 ques- 
 tion was not of Greek statues and classical books, but of 
 modern pruriencies and shallowness and irresponsibility." 
 
 "Tou 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 sup- 
 pose 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 wa-ong," 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
 
 2^0 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 progi'ess? 
 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, philo- 
 sophically 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 Spence, sustaining his tone of 
 impartial speculation. " Are you quite sure that Mr. and 
 Mrs. Jones are not too much in your mind ? " 
 
 " Whatever modem 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. , 
 
 " G-et 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 dis- 
 tinctly the more modem of the two." 
 
 " Not with regard to women. When you raaiTy, 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."
 
 LEARNING AND TEACHING. 331 
 
 " 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 per- 
 haps 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 fi:-st. That confirms 
 me in distiiist 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 know- 
 ledge to go upon. You can judge an original picture senti- 
 mentally, and your sentiment will not be wliolly 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 ? "
 
 J32 . THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 "I should be able to do something — somethiu,^ definite 
 and tolerably good." 
 
 " Why, so you cau 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 : 
 
 " 1 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 tenns. Mallard was silent when she ceased, and 
 she looked uj? 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 infalli- 
 bility. I am a painter of landscape ; out of my own sphere, I 
 become an amateur. You are not bound to accept my j udgment." 
 
 " 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."
 
 LEARNING AND TEACHING. 333 
 
 " 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 horriblv 
 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 Eome," 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 responsi- 
 bilities, 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 pic- 
 tures, 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 mle 
 life. Since boyhood, I have never known it in the noi'th. 
 Out of Eomo, perhaps only in fine weather ou the Mediter- 
 ranean. But in Kome is its perfection."
 
 334 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " 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 ai*e all brought out there. 
 Here 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 di'ag 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," 
 
 Mn-iam 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."
 
 LEARNING AND TEACHING. 335 
 
 " You will have much to talk of. And your stay in Eonie 
 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 be 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 youi* 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 galleiy. 
 
 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 uijon 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
 
 336 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 th3 new scheme. Of those who are 
 destined to pass beyond the boimds of dogma, verv few 
 indeed do so by the way of studious investigation. How 
 many of those who abide by inherited faith owe their stead- 
 fastness 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 abru^^tly 
 from the ideal she had pursued, and with unforeseen energy 
 begin to qualify herself for the assertion of ne\^ 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 herseK; 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 beHefs 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
 
 SfUMBLTNGS. 337 
 
 speak of lier to their friends ? What impression did ghe 
 make upon Mallard ? These memories were torture ; they 
 explained the mixture of humility and assumption which on 
 certain days made her company disagreeatL? 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 sjjeak 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 ])laying 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 th';'y had after all this time. 
 
 E
 
 338 ' THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " I remember you talked of doing so," replied Eleanor, 
 mtli lier usual quiet good-nature, 
 
 " Unfortunately, I did more than talk about it. I made a 
 distinct promise to certain people gravely interested. The 
 prom'se 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. 
 
 " Tes," 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 
 disti-ess you to thiak that they shook their heads in mention- 
 ing your name ? "
 
 STUMBLINGS. ^-t,^ 
 
 " 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 
 Eedbeck 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. IMallard for his thoughts on the 
 feubject ? " said Eleanor, as if at the bidding of a cai)rice. 
 
 " Docs 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 judg- 
 ment about anything. As you arc such good friends, why 
 not cor suit him ? " 
 
 z 2
 
 340 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " Our friendship doesn't go so far as that." 
 
 " And after all, I do n'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. K 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 conscientious- 
 ness ; 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 com- 
 municate 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
 
 STUMBLINGS. 341 
 
 birthright ; the revival of this desire now united itself with 
 disquietudes of the maturing intellect, and she looked for- 
 ward 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 imrest 
 which would otherwise have developed slowly. 
 
 It seemed to be her fate to live in pretences. As the 
 mistress of Eedbeck 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 pre- 
 tender 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 visitiugs 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 hand 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 Ihe 
 hotel, she stayed in all day. But he did not come. The 
 next afternoon Mrs. Lessingham and her ( ompanion reached 
 Home. 
 
 It was known that Cecily's health had suffered from her
 
 342 THE EMTINCIPATED. 
 
 watchiugs by tlie sick child, and from lier 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 con- 
 trast 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 mox'e like herself than hitherto.
 
 STUMBLINGS. 343 
 
 " 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 veiy 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. 
 
 " ' Yiews ' 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 in- 
 terests 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 Keubeu is 
 working on ? " 
 
 " Very glad." 
 
 Cecily waited a little j then, watching the other's face, 
 asked : 
 
 " You know what he is writing ? " 
 
 " In a general way," Miriam answered, averting her eyes. 
 " Po you think he has made a wise choice ? "
 
 344 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " I dare say it is the subject on whicli 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 mis- 
 representation 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. Eeflectiug 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 
 ])rogress. 
 
 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 greetel her with 
 warm friendhness. Miriam had turned, but did not regard 
 the pair directly ; her eye caught their reflection in 3, mirror,
 
 STUMBLINGS. 345 
 
 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 sj)oke to him it 
 was with the unmistakable accent of emotion. Mallard was 
 gentle, reverent ; he held her hand a Httle longer than was 
 necessary, but his eyes quickly fell from her countenance. 
 
 " Your husband is well ? " he asked ia a full, steady 
 voice. 
 
 They seated themselves, and Miriam again turned to the 
 window. Cecily's voice made a jamng 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 irrita- 
 tion as she heard him. 
 
 " They have told me of the picture you painted at Psestum. 
 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 inscrijjtior. for 
 a friend at Florence." 
 
 Whilst she was speaking, Mrs. Lessingham and Eleanor 
 returned. Mallard, rising, looked at Miriam with a singular 
 gmile ; then talked a little longer, and, with a promise to 
 come again, soon took his leave.
 
 346 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " Dou't disa^ppoint 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 informa- 
 tion 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 stii-red fresh resent- 
 ment 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 bis 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 Mal- 
 lard had been showing his friends a number of little draw- 
 inars 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. 
 
 " Iha': is a clever piece of work," ho 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 ? " 
 
 " Tes. 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 ? "
 
 STUMBLINGS. 347 
 
 Thank you, Mr. Mallard ; I had rather not go this after- 
 
 noon." 
 
 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 leEt 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 disj^lay. With a miser- 
 able sense of humiliation, Miriam comjiared her own insig- 
 nificant 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 cf 
 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 common- 
 place in her remarks and admiration. 
 
 She felt herself a paltry- pretender to those possibilities of
 
 348 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 modern womanliood which were open to Cecily from her birth. 
 In the course of natural development, Cecily, whilst still a 
 girl, thi'ew 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 Eome for the first time, but she could 
 not enjoy it in the way natural to her. It was only at rare 
 moments that she fdt Eome. One of the most precious of 
 her life's anticij^ations was fading into memory, disjilaced 
 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. Sj^ence. 
 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
 
 SILENCES. 349 
 
 eeemt'd impossible for herself ever to attain. Fortune Lad 
 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
 
 350 TH^ EMANCIPATED. 
 
 at this marriage, for Mr. Musselwhite is tlie brother of a 
 baronet ! " 
 
 " Very satisfactory indeed. Well, now for Mr. Marsli. 
 Edward heard from Mr. Bradshaw when avc were in Sicily, 
 and this young gentleman had a great part in the letter. It 
 seems he has long abandoned his artistic cai*eer, and gone 
 ijito 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 miich 
 alone these last few days, and this morning was out by 
 hex'self 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 Eotonda 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
 
 SiLENCliS. 351 
 
 once saw the world at their feet : Plotina, the wife of 
 Trajan ; Faustina, the wife of Antoninus Pius ; Juha, 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 mai-velling at the 
 perfection of soulless beauty. And the Jupiter of Otricoli, 
 most majestic of marble faces ; in that one deej) 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, 
 vhc 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 
 o£ 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 caine by a young 
 priest, holding open a missal or breviary or some such book, 
 and muttering from it, as if learuiug by heart. Cecily 
 followed him with her gaze.
 
 355 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " What a place for study of that tind ! " 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 pre- 
 ferred 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 
 pertnesso from the attendant, in the common way, when he 
 came out, so that he could enter again immediately. He 
 walked rapidly to the place whei-e they had left Miriam, but 
 she was gone. He went forward, and discovered her sitting 
 before the Belvedere Apollo. As his entrance drew her at- 
 tention, 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 Eome ; but I was not sure that you would grant it, 
 BO I took my chance instead." 
 
 She waited a moment before replying.
 
 SILENCES. 353 
 
 " 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 ex- 
 citing 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 in- 
 terested Mallard ; and the artist found it very hard to per- 
 suade 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 como 
 to the hotel to-morrow, just to say good-bye." 
 
 A A
 
 .354 
 
 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 He rose ; and Miriam, as she did the same, asked for- 
 mally : 
 
 " 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. Lessiugham 
 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 cast 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
 
 SILENCES. 355 
 
 Eleanor ; when she was alone, thej had their way. She felt 
 vaguely miserable — was troubled with shapeless ajjpre- 
 bensions, 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 Eeuben 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 in- 
 tention to write to-day, but now she coxild not. She had eveu 
 less to say than he. 
 
 He expressed no wish for her return, and felt none. Per* 
 haps 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 like- 
 lihood 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, con- 
 sciously 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 
 
 A A 2
 
 3sS THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 froir them, and would probably suffer from their contact. 
 But in these things she had long been passive, careless. Ex- 
 perience 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 for- 
 merly 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 attribiited 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 re- 
 cognized 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, assui-edly she must exert a 
 force of character which she had begun to susjiect 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. In- 
 voluntarily, she had spoken to Miriam as to no one else. 
 This might be a result of old associations. But had it a con- 
 nection 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 
 lie would ever perceive the true issue of her seLf-wiU ; and, 
 so far from desiring to blind him, she had almost a hope that
 
 SILENCES. 357 
 
 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 Vim her confidant. However it was to be ex- 
 plained,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 believ- 
 ing that Eeuben 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 sin- 
 cerity 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 prol)lem. 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. 
 Jilrs, Lcssingham hinted an opinion that the change did not
 
 358 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 go very deep ; Puritanism, the result of birth and breeding, 
 was not so easily eradicated. 
 
 Mallard stayed on in Eome, but during this next week 
 Cecily only saw him twice — the first time, for ^ 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 re- 
 quested. 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 
 not 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 uj)on her in- 
 tensely when she »tood 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.
 
 ELGAR AT WORK. 359 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ELGAR AT WOEK. 
 
 At Dorer it was cold aud foggy; the shore looked 
 mildewed, the town rain-soaked and mnd-stained. In 
 London, a solid leaden eky 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-estab- 
 lished 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. Eletclier, and Redbcck House. Before 
 leaving London, she must visit Eeuben ; 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.
 
 36o THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Slie reached Belsize Park at ten o'clock, and dismissed 
 tlie 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 thej 
 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, {hough 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 
 Eeuben 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
 
 ELGAR AT WORK. 36 1 
 
 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 uncer- 
 tain," 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," Eeuben 
 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 ia often to bo
 
 363 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 away like this, there's no possibihty 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 1 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, throw- 
 ing 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 Eome. 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."
 
 ELGAR AT WORK, 363 
 
 " 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 shako 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, 
 gut — well, never mind, we won't talk about it." 
 
 He threw up an arm, and began to pace the floor again.
 
 3^4 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 His nervousuess was increasing. In a few moments lie 
 broke out in the same curious tone, which was half com- 
 phiining, 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 peo^jle. 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 jiiece of counsel, she feels it an 
 insult. I suppose I am to blame myseK, 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 goiug 
 about alone among all sorts of people. Of course some- 
 thing 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 ? "
 
 ELGAR AT WORK. 365 
 
 ** That's true also. Could I say plainly that I saw what 
 she wished ? " 
 
 " I thint 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 
 pi(!ce of papei', and seemed absorbed in covering it with a 
 sort of pattern of his own design. 
 
 " R'ght 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 myseK 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 laiigh. 
 
 " Well, that's better and more honest than saying you 
 ■believe what is contrary to all human experience. Look 
 Lack on your life. Has its course been of your own 
 shaping? Compai-e yourself of to-day with yourself of 
 four years ago; has the change come about by your 
 own agency ? If you are lorong, are you to blame ? Ima- 
 gine some fanatic seizing you by the arm, and shout- 
 ing 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 sup- 
 pressed scorn. 
 
 "True. Just as little as you know of mo, 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
 
 366 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 otherwise tliau they did ? Do you think it lay in yoitr OWil 
 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, walk- 
 ing 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 susj^ected. 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 in- 
 dependently 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 peiverse 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 con- 
 sidered, Cecily would not have left for so long an absence but 
 on her own wish. 
 
 And, this determined, she thought with increased bitter*
 
 ELGAR AT WORI^. 3^7 
 
 liess of Mallard's remaining in Eome. He too could not 
 but suspect tlie 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 Eome, inventing chance encounters, imagining 
 conversations. Mrs. Lessingham was as good as no obstacle 
 to their intimacy ; her, Miriam distrusted profoundly. Judg- 
 ing by her own impulses, she attributed to Cecily a strong 
 desire for Mallard's svistaining 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 passiont^tely 
 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 sinrit of pure sympathy. 
 
 On the following day, the S])Onces dined from home, and 
 Miriam, who had excused herself from accompanying them, 
 sat through the evening in their drawing-room. The 
 weather was wx-etched ; a large fire made the comfort within 
 contrast pleasantly enough with sounds of wind and rain 
 against the house. Mii-iam's mind was far away from 
 Chelsea ; it haunted the Via del Eabuino, 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. 
 
 Keuben was in evening dress. 
 
 ** What ! you are alone? " he said on entering. " I'm glad
 
 368 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 of that. 1 supposed I should have to meet the people. I 
 waut 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 a,nswer. Pres- 
 sently 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
 
 ELGAR AT WORK. 369 
 
 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 hag 
 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 simj^le result of my 
 knowledge of her. She has an exquisite nature, an 
 admirable mind. I have never heard her sj^eak a sentence 
 that was unworthy of her, not one ! " 
 
 His voice trembled with earnestness. Miriam looked at 
 him 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 uj)on 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 eyes were moist. 
 
 " Why do you say this ? " his sister asked, still scrutiniz- 
 ing 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." 
 
 B B
 
 370 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " Tou seem to me to be attributing moral responsibility tv> 
 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 imder- 
 standing is not affected by that. Unless your mind is un- 
 steadied by excess of feeling." 
 
 " I believe you are a victim of sophistry — sojihistry 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 Eeuben for a
 
 ELGAR AT WORK. 371 
 
 moment was shaken ; his features moved in a way which 
 indicates a sudden failure of self-possession. But he re- 
 covered 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 dehverances 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 con- 
 viction makes me incapable of struggle for the good. No- 
 thing of the kind. Where I am destined to struggle, I do so, 
 without any referenoe 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 despair- 
 ing 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, Eeuben." 
 
 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 
 
 B B 2
 
 372 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 Man- 
 chester, 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 alicjhted. The lonsr 
 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 station- 
 master 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 Eedbeck 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. 
 
 lu the house itself nothing was new ; even the servants
 
 IN DUE COURSE. 373 
 
 wore 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 conscious- 
 ness 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 con- 
 science 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. From 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
 
 374 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 of sucli rumours as liad set wagging tlie tongues of dissident 
 Bartles ; slie spolce 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 occa 
 sionally 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 Eedbeck 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 covetous- 
 ness 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 neces- 
 sary, owing to the sad state of her health, to make long 
 residence in Eoman Catholic countries. Mrs. Fletcher had 
 preserved these newspapers, and now produced them. 
 Mix'iam read and smiled. 
 
 "Why didn't it occur to them to suggest that I had 
 become an atheist ? " 
 
 Mrs. Fletcher screamed with horror. ISTo, no ; Bartles did 
 not contain any one so malicious as that. After all, what- 
 ever had been said was merely the outcome of a natural
 
 IN DUE COURSE. 37S 
 
 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 trans- 
 formation, 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, coming thus late, was all but as violent as that 
 which had animated her brother from his boyhood. In- 
 tellectual 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 pro- 
 mised 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 bo 
 angry. It shamed her, moreover, to be reminded of the pre- 
 tentious spirit -which was the origin of this trouble ; and to 
 be shamed by her inferiors was to Miriam a veuomod 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 ita 
 ugliest little towns ; small doubt of that.
 
 27^ THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 No wonder a grave old gentleman wlio 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 coun- 
 tenance not often to be studied in the railway-carriage. 
 
 It was with distinct pleasure that she found herself a^ain 
 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 hfid 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 wi'iting 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 sufferingr. 
 
 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 con- 
 versation with Mallard. 
 
 He had been in London, he said, only a day or two. 
 Miriam inquired whether Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily had 
 also left Eome. Not yet, he thought, but certainly they
 
 TN DUE COURSE, 377 
 
 would be starting in a few days. Tlie 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. Every- 
 thing seemed of a sudden so flat and commonplace, tliat 
 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 mis- 
 giving. 
 
 " 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."
 
 378 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " What is it ? About wliom ? " Miriam asked, witli fear- 
 ful impatience, talf rising. 
 " Your brother." 
 
 Miriam took the paper, and read what was indicated. It 
 was the report of a discreditable affair — in journalistic lan- 
 guage, a fracas — that had happened the previous night at 
 dotting Hill. A certain music-hall singer, a lady who had 
 of late achieved popularity, drove home about midnight, ac- 
 companied 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 gen- 
 tleman 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. E. Elgar, of Belsize Park. 
 
 Miriam laid down the paper. She had overcome her ex- 
 treme agitation, but there was hot shame on her checks. 
 She tried to smile. 
 
 " One would think he had contrived it for his wife's greet- 
 ing 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 ? "
 
 IN DUE COURSE. 379 
 
 " For auy tiling 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 
 fui-ther 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 sus- 
 picion 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 fore- 
 saw it." 
 
 " I am afraid to look forward. I don't think she is the 
 ""rind 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 re- 
 spect, 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.
 
 38':> THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 Cecily's return. 
 
 On alighting at Cliaring Cross, Cecily searched the plat- 
 form for Eeuben. There could be no doubt of his coming 
 to meet her, for she had written to tell him that Mrs. Les- 
 singham 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 disapjjointment. On the jour- 
 ney, 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 Eeuben appeared at the station, 
 she would have pressed his hand warmly. Her health had 
 improved ; hope was again welcome. It came not like the 
 ho2>e 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 mis- 
 taken the train, or something inevitable had hindered him ; 
 possibly she had made a shp of the pen in writing, bearing 
 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 obsei-ve 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.
 
 CECILY'S RETURN. 381 
 
 "Tliere 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 con- 
 fused thoughts, the servant came and asked if she would pay 
 the cabman. 
 
 Then she ascended to the di-awing-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 for- 
 warded 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. Pres- 
 ently, 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 ask- 
 ing 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 com- 
 posure as she could command, Cecily inquired whether Mr. 
 Elgar had spoken of her expected ari-ival. 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
 
 382 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 kept away voluntarily. Would he not in any case have s^mt 
 word, ereu though the excuse were untruthful? What 
 motive could he have for treating her thus ? His la.st letter 
 was longer and kinder than usual. 
 
 She was troubling herself needlessly. The simple explana- 
 tion 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 Eeuben 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 ex- 
 pressed 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 com- 
 pany 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'S RETURN. 383 
 
 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 an- 
 nounced to her. 
 
 It was Mrs. Travis. Cecily hesitated, but decided to re- 
 ceive 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 con- 
 vince 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 sym- 
 pathetic companionship, and allowed such sad glimpses into 
 her own wrecked hfe, 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,
 
 384 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 constrainedly. They never spoke of ordii.ary topics, and 
 eacli 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 Made- 
 line. 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 any- 
 thing 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,
 
 CECILY'S RETURN. 385 
 
 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 othei-, 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 sj^oke. 
 
 " 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, 
 

 
 386 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Cecily gazed at lier with changed eyes, inquiring, offended^ 
 fearful. 
 
 " What need have I of your sympathy, Mrs. Travis ? " 
 she asked distantly. 
 
 " None, I see," auswered the other, with a scarcely per- 
 ceptible 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 re- 
 member 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 moi*al 
 point of view. He did me justice at last, but it was very 
 j)ainful, as you will undei'stand, 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 T 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 di-eadfully 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 heard, but scarcely with understanding. The word 
 for which she was waiting did not come. 
 
 " Why," she asked, " do you speak of offering me sym- 
 pathy ? What do you hint at ? " 
 
 *• Seriously, you don't know ? " 
 
 "I don't," was the cold answer.
 
 CECILY'S RETURN. 387 
 
 " Wliy did you go abroad without youi* husband ? " 
 
 It came uj)on Cecily with a shock. Were peo^^le discussing 
 her, and thus interi^reting 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 every- 
 where — 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 j)roceedings 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 j)ut out a 
 hand and touched hers ; then she drew back, as in repug- 
 nance. 
 
 " 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 re- 
 presented 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 pi-ice. 
 
 " That is the ' lady,' " said Mrs. Travis, with a slight em- 
 phasis 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 an* uot sure," replied Cecily, " that you haven't some 
 
 c c 2
 
 388 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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. Perhaj^s the strange manner of the re- 
 velation tended to produce this result; the strong self-con- 
 trol which she had exercised, the mingling of incongruous 
 emotions, the sudden end of her expectation, bi-ought 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, pro- 
 vided 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, impalpa- 
 ble. 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
 
 CECILY'S RETURN. 389 
 
 her wth 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 Eeuben 
 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 melo- 
 dramatic 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 acquaint- 
 ances. The end of sham heroics wovild 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. AVhen Eeuben 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 sei-vants 
 appeared with lamps. She dined, returned to the drawing- 
 room, and took up a book she had been I'eading on her jour- 
 ney. 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 
 Eeuben 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 wislicd to form.
 
 390 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 tliere kept coming before her mind tlie repulsive pliotograph 
 •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 Avas overcome 
 by passion for a wornan 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 5 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 vibness ? 
 
 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 sleej? 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. Eeuben might come to- 
 day; she washed 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 resent- 
 ment. The emotions which were yesterday so dulled began
 
 CECILY'S RETURN. 391 
 
 to stir in lier heart and brain. Walking about tte 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 in- 
 dignation 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 firet was it real to her, 
 in the sense of an ill that goads and tortures. Not society 
 aloae 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 him- 
 self ; 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 educa- 
 tion 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 ; rehgious 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 ignoblcncss ? His path was downwards, 
 and how could she hope to keep her own course in indepen- 
 dence of him ? It shamed her that she had ever loved him. 
 But indeed she had not loved the Eeuben tliat now was ; the 
 better part of him was then predominant. No matter that 
 he was changed ; no matter how low he descended ; she must
 
 392 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 for- 
 head 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 tempt- 
 ing persistency. She could not begin another night without 
 having spoken to some one. She seemed to have been fore- 
 saken 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.
 
 ONWARD TO THE VAGUE. 393 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ONWARD TO THE VAGUE. 
 
 The cab drew uj) 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. 
 
 " Ai-e you alone, Mr. Mallard ? " fell at length from her. 
 
 " Yes. Come and sit down." 
 
 There was a giiiffness in the invitation which under ordi-
 
 394 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 nary circumstances would have repelled a visitor. But Cecily 
 was so glad to liear 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 Psestum. 
 This canvas held Cecily's gaze for a moment. 
 
 " When did you get home ? " Mallard asked abiniptly. 
 
 " 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 f alteringly : 
 
 " You know why ? You have heard about it ? " 
 
 " Do you mean what happened the other day ? " he re- 
 turned, 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 j^rofoundly 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 
 featui-es working painfully. " It is not my part to seek for 
 him."
 
 \ 
 
 ONWARD TO THE VAGUE. 395 
 
 *' Then how cviu I help you ? " Mallard asked, still gruffly, 
 but with more evidence of the feeling that his tone dis- 
 guised. 
 
 " You can't help me, Mr. Mallard. How could any one 
 help me ? I was utterly alone, and I wanted to hear a 
 fi-iend's voice." 
 
 " That is only natural. It is impossilile for you to re- 
 main alone. Ton 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 
 paiu 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 in- 
 substantial 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 Baise ? That 
 which is to come, already is. In the stress of a deep emotion 
 we sometimes arc made conscious of this unity of things, aud 
 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."
 
 39§ THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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
 
 ONWARD TO THE VAGUE. 397 
 
 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 sad- 
 ness. 
 
 " 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 pur- 
 pose. He had feared other things. It was hateful that she 
 saould 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.
 
 398 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " 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. Lessing- 
 ham 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 
 abihty 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 any- 
 thing ; it was not their function to do, but to he, Eleanor 
 Spence would in all hkelihood have illustrated the same un- 
 happy problem had it been her lot to struggle against adverse 
 conditions ; she lived the natural life of an educated woman, 
 and therefure was beset by no questionings as to her 
 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 fortime 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 :
 
 ONWARD TO THE VAGUE. 399 
 
 " Have you taken your meals to-day ? " 
 
 She smiled a little. 
 
 " Yes. But I am thirsty. Cau 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 companion- 
 ship, 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 ques- 
 tion. 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 any- 
 thing, not good, but almost good, if I began again and 
 woi-ked 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
 
 400 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 to- 
 morrow, you promise me to communicate with Mrs. Lessing- 
 ham. 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. Tou 
 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 tui'ned 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 refer- 
 ence 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 
 Begent'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 Keuben 
 had returned ; there would be again an endless evening of 
 misery in solitude. When the cab was at the end of Belsize 
 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
 
 OmVAJ?i> TO THE VAGUE. 401 
 
 Inind and revived lier sympathies. Was there not some re» 
 semblance 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 wiithed her fingers togetlier 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 pro- 
 found 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 quali- 
 ties, 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 J she is staying at Sir Roland's, in Lincolnshire,
 
 402 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Barbara and her luisband 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 1 help you to-night ? Do let me. I have only been 
 
 home two days, and came in re];)ly 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 ap- 
 proached 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.
 
 ONWARD TO THE VAGUE. 403 
 
 " Did you go to Naples ? " 
 
 " Only as far 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 tlie 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 Ltiow I was engaged 
 to Mr. Marsh ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " He used to write me letters ; I mean, since i\%s. 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 pre- 
 vent him. It's nothing to me now. I should even be glad 
 to hear of it. He ought to marry some good-natured, ordi- 
 naiy 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 hold- 
 ing 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 eould have cried with joy. But 
 
 £i £ 2
 
 404 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Zillali gave me something, and I came bact. 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. Tou 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 Eoland hasn't any children. 
 Doesn't it make you laugh ? " 
 
 She herseK 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 ? "
 
 ONWARD TO THE VAGUE. 405 
 
 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 tears streamed from 
 Cecily's eyes. 
 
 " You cry, like Zillah docs 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
 
 4o6 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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. 
 
 BUGGESTION 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 iu anything at hand.
 
 SUGGESTION AND ASSURANCE. 407 
 
 A model wlio one day came out of the gate, and made inspec- 
 tion of the handsomely attired lady just going by, little 
 suspected for what^jmrpose 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 her- 
 self must be observed ; for an instant her foot was checked. 
 But Cecily paid the driver withou.t looking this way or that, 
 and entered the gateway. Miriam walked on for a few 
 i:>aces ; then glanced back and saw the cab waiting. She 
 reached the turning of the road, a^ud 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
 
 4o8 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 im- 
 patient, 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 destina- 
 tion at the ajjpointed 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 fi-om 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 Mi-s. 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, t]ie wreck of a ma»
 
 SUGGESTION AND ASSURANCE. 409 
 
 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 hand 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 7ter." 
 
 " 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 ha.shly. 
 
 " I tell you, I am not going to talk of my affairs," ho 
 answered, with a burst of passion. " If you want to drive 
 me mad ! Can't you answer me? Do you knoAV any- 
 thing, or guess anything, about her ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Miriam, after some delay, speaking deliber- 
 ately, "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 sho 
 was there. Then I saw them both go away together,"
 
 4IO THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Elgar stared, lialf incredulously. 
 
 " You saw this ? Do you mean that you waited about 
 aud 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 Eome ? " 
 
 " 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 
 ijou 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.
 
 SUGGESTION AND ASSURANCE. 411 
 
 " If I find Mallard," he said, " of course I shall tell him 
 who my authority is." 
 She turned. 
 
 '• No ; that jou will not do ! " j 
 " 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 vrill 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. Remem- 
 ber 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 sug- 
 gestions. 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
 
 412 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 to destroy wliat natural tenderness remained in her feelino- 
 towards him. Cecily she hated, without the power of con- 
 demning her as she formerly would have done. The old 
 voice of conscience was not mute, but Miriam tm-ned 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 womam, how was she to blame ? 
 Eeuben'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 disdain, 
 ful condemnation, or a fugitive wife, a dishonoured woman. 
 But the power of sincerely judging thus was gone. Eeuben 
 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 he 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," rej^lied 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 indis- 
 posed 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
 
 SUGGESTION AND ASSURANCE. " 453 
 
 going out. He recognized his visitor ■with a grim movement 
 of brows and lips, and without speaking turned back, 
 Eeuben 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 with- 
 out 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 rvigged, 
 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. 
 
 " 1 haven't come in answer to your invitation," Eeuben 
 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 ques- 
 tions," returned the other, quietly.
 
 414 ' THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " She lias 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 gi'ound 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 j 
 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 compre- 
 hended 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 accom- 
 panied her." 
 
 " I understand." 
 
 " That is more than I do. Will you please to explain it?" 
 
 " Tou 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."
 
 SUGGESTION AND ASSURANCE. 415 
 
 I]lgar reflected. Yes, lie remembered tliat tlie 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 
 go?" 
 
 " Nothing whatever." 
 
 Elgar became silent. The artist, after moviDg 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 corrobor- 
 ating 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 Eeuben, 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. " 1 
 have given you all the information I can." 
 
 " All you will" replied Elgar, whose temper was exasper- 
 ated 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
 
 4i6 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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. Tou are prob- 
 ably unaccustomed, of late, to receive simple and straight- 
 forward answers to your questions ; but you'll oblige me by 
 remembering where you are." 
 
 Elgar might rage inwardly, but he had no power of doubt- 
 ing what he heard. He understood that Mallard would not 
 even permit an allusion to anything save the plain circum- 
 stances 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 con
 
 SUGGESTION AND ASSURANCE. 417 
 
 jecture, but he was convinced that a few hours would solve 
 the mystery. Had she really failed in her detei'mination, 
 then assuredly she would write to him, even though it were 
 without saying where she had taken refuge. But he per- 
 sisted 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 yourseK, 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. 
 
 Eeuben 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. 
 
 IPEACE IN SHOW AND PEACE IN TRITTH. 
 
 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 a,n hour he began to 
 suffer from impatience, and when the time of Cecily's return
 
 41 8 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 approached, lie was in a state of intolerable agitation. 
 Mallard's severity lost its force now that it was only remem- 
 bered. 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 ; was 
 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 fol- 
 lowed, 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 
 ehe might have regarded an insolent servant. 
 
 '• What right have you to question me in such a tone ? "
 
 PEACE m SHOW AND PEACE IN TRUTH. 419 
 
 " Never mind my tone, but answei* me." 
 
 " What riglit have you to question me at all ? ** 
 
 "Every right, so long as you choose to remain in niy 
 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-con- 
 trol. 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 
 
 £ E 2
 
 420 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 accept. By what right do you demand more of me than 1 
 of you ? " 
 
 " You know that you are talking absurdly. You know as 
 Well as I do the diffei'ence." 
 
 " Whatever laws I recognize, they are in myself only. Aa 
 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
 
 PEACE IN SHOW AND PEACE IN TRUTH. 421 
 
 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 com- 
 pletely 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 every- 
 thing, 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 be said, 
 virtually "abandoned" him?
 
 422 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Elgar observed her, and recognized the effect of his 
 woi-ds, 
 
 " 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 
 thovight 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 whei*e 
 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 con- 
 temptuously 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. 
 
 " Tou said that to Mallard ? " 
 
 " I'eg, It can be nothing to me what you think of it. I
 
 PEACE IN SHOW AND PEACE IN TRUTH. 423 
 
 had waited here till I could hear 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 superi- 
 ority 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 j^assion for a creature whom I never 
 one moment resp)ected, 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 civihzation. The 
 rules are laid down so broadly and plainly, and the con- 
 science they have created answers so readily when appealed
 
 424 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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. Com- 
 munion 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, cqnsciously 
 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 ihis. You, who are all love and womanhness, 
 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."
 
 PEACE IN SHOW AND PEACE IN TRUTH. 425 
 
 " You -mil 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 every- 
 thing except what we wish to take with us. I don't care if 
 T 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. Denver 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. 
 
 "K 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 haK-past ten there came a loud knocking at the house- 
 door, and the servant admitted Mrs. Dcnycr, who was alone. 
 In the little room above, the two watchers were weeping 
 over the dead girl.
 
 426 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 THE TWO FACES. 
 
 Mallard, wlien lie had taken leave of Cecily by Eegent'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 wai-mer 
 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 hai*dest 
 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 neighbovirhood, 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 set 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.
 
 THE TWO FACES. 427 
 
 " 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 witliout special insist- 
 ence. 
 
 " 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 after- 
 noon." 
 
 "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 foimd 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 bis promise
 
 428 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 and communicate any news lie 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 ; Mi's. Baske had re- 
 ceived 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 purj^osed 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 inter- 
 view between Eleanor and Mrs. Lessingham; nothing of 
 moment, but illustrating the idiosyncrasies of Cecily's re- 
 lative. 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. Sj^ence 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. 
 
 " Tou 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
 
 THE TWO FACES. . 429 
 
 averted ter 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 ques- 
 tion which sounds impertinent, but which I think you will 
 understand is not really so. Will you tell me how you re- 
 gard Mrs. Elgar ? I mean, is it your wish to be still as 
 friendly with her as you once were ? Or do you, for what- 
 ever 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 — fhat needs no explaining — and I have 
 reason to fear that something in which I was recently con- 
 cerned 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 how I 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 si^oke 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
 
 430 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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. 
 
 " K 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. Tou told him of that. How did you \x^o^' 
 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 re- 
 mained, 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. 
 
 " Tou 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 not returned home 
 that night, you believed that she had left her husband for 
 ever ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mallard drew back a little, and his voice softened.
 
 THE TWO FACES. 431 
 
 "forgive me for losing sight of civility. Knowing this, it 
 was perhaps natural that jou should inform your brother of it, 
 Tou 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 difiiculty. He motioned to her to 
 sit down, but she gave no heed. 
 
 " Then why did slie 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 kind- 
 ness. You had held apart from her ; you had been cold and 
 unsympathetic. Am I unjust ? " 
 
 " Can one command feelings ? " 
 
 " That is to say, yon felt coldly to her. Are you conscious 
 of any reason ? I believe religious i^rejudice no longer 
 influences you ? " 
 
 "No."
 
 *32 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " Then I am obliged to recall something to your mind. 
 Do yon 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. Eeubeu 
 betrayed my lack of firmness, as he betrays every one who 
 trust3 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 differ- 
 ences. 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."
 
 THE TWO FACES 433 
 
 He lield his hand to her, theu turned awaj ; but in a 
 moment faced her again. 
 
 " One word^a yes or no. Do yovi believe what 1 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 direc- 
 tion. 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 
 on the other side. In Mallard's case this was a young lady 
 whom he had once before met, a pretty, bright, charming 
 girl; without hesitation, she abandoned her companion 
 proper, and drew the artist into lively dialogue. It was
 
 434 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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 ease. 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 hia 
 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 kind- 
 ness to come here to-morrow early in the afternoon ? If you 
 have an engaigement, 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 men- 
 tioned, Mallard walked about his room in impatience. Just
 
 THE TWO FACES. 435 
 
 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 have come because you asked me." 
 
 " To be sure. — Can you sew, Mrs, Baske ? " 
 
 She looked at him in confusion, half indignant. 
 
 " Tes, 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, Tor a time there was 
 perfect quietuess. 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 ? "
 
 436 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 " I saw no one except my sister-in-law and her family." 
 
 " Tou felt no inclination ? " 
 
 "None whatever." 
 
 " By -tie-bye " — lie seemed to speak half absently, looking 
 closely at his work — " hadn't you once some thought of build- 
 ing 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 imj^ression that you went beyond think- 
 ing 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. Tour 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 pubHc baths in Bartles ? " 
 
 " There were none when I lived there."
 
 THE TWO FACES. 437 
 
 ." The proverb says that after godliness comes cleanliuess. 
 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 phed 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 l)C'nt 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,
 
 438 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 and aimiug at unworthy predominance. Tlie 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 namb 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 
 mei-cy of chance and change of circumstance." 
 
 He i^aused, 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 tha.t 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 siuile 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."
 
 THE TWO FACES. 439 
 
 Miriam again spoke, all but raising lier 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. 
 
 " Tou 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. Malkird? " 
 He laid down his implements, and approached tho table 
 by which she stood. 
 
 " Do you understand," he asked, " what is meant when 
 one says of a man that he is a Bohemian ? "
 
 440 THE EMANCIPATED, 
 
 " 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 indig- 
 nation 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
 
 END AND BEGINNING. 441 
 
 been marl-ied some two inontlis — did not come. By Mrs. 
 Lessingham's will, the greater part of lier possessions fell to 
 Cecily ; there was a legacy of money to Irene Delj^h, 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 tender- 
 ness 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. Bi'adshaw, 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 retv;rning from their honey- 
 moon. 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 mc aside. I answered that it 
 met with your husband's entire approval. 'Well,' ho 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 arc mentioned.
 
 442 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " 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 Cecilj- 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 Pai'is 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 Trench." 
 
 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 j then, one morning in November,
 
 END AND BEGINNING. 443 
 
 Eleanor received a note from Cecily, asking her to call as 
 soon as she was able at an address ill 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. El gar, 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. Tou under- 
 stand 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. 
 
 " Tou 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. Ho couldn't live as 
 I wish him to, so he would have done with pretences and 
 leave rac free. I waited there in my ' fi-ecdom ' 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. "VVTiat I inherited from my aunt makes me indepen- 
 dent ; there is no need of any arrangements about money.
 
 444 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 fortunately. I dare say lie foresaw this when he expressed 
 a wish that I should ke#p 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 
 pui'sued. "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 is no need 
 for you to keep silence about me when you see her ; what 
 has haj^pened 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 throw- 
 ing 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 com- 
 ment. For the tone of the speech put her painfully in mind
 
 END. AND BEGINNING. 445 
 
 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. Befoi-e we left London, he charged me with contribut- 
 ing to what had befallen us, and in a measure he was i-ight. 
 He said that I had made no effort to keep him faithful to 
 me ; that I had watched the gulf growing between us with 
 indiiference, 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 grate- 
 ful 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."
 
 446 • THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 " But, Cecily," said Eleanor, " how can the end be yet ? " 
 " Tou 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 foolish- 
 ness. 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.
 
 END AND BEGINNING. 447 
 
 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 di'ew, 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 
 yoxi, 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 ? "
 
 448 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 Miriam went to see her sister-in-law, and repeated the 
 risit at intervals during the next few ^months; but Cecily 
 would not come to Eoehamj^ton. 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 recog- 
 nized as an influence towards better thing's. 
 
 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 niid-M;,y, 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 Eeuben. 
 
 " 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 ?
 
 END AND BEGINNING. 449 
 
 "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 P " 
 
 " It's all very well for you to talk like that. Eveiy 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 con- 
 vinced 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 j 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 par- 
 ticular object, he stopped and struck again, more fiercely. 
 
 G o
 
 450 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 •'Does Cjcily 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 P " 
 
 " 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 
 11 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, 
 Eeuben ? " 
 
 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 bne. — Do you 
 know why I smashed the stick ? I had a devilish tempta- 
 tion to strike you across the face with it. That would have 
 been nice, wouldn't it ? " 
 
 " You had better go your own way, Eeuben, and let me 
 go mine." 
 
 She drew apart, and not without actual fear of him, so
 
 END AND BEGINNING. 451 
 
 brutal lie looked, and so strangely coarse liad 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 deej^ 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 ; 
 Mallai-d 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 exer- 
 cised 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
 
 452 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 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, Eeuben. 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 wi-eck 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, man- 
 like. 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 mnst 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 / 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, ro 
 matter how it debased him, he strove frantically to subdue 
 her to his purpose. But Mii-iam was immovable. At length
 
 END AND BEGINNING. 453 
 
 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 sternlv. "March! 
 Arid never let me see you here again." 
 
 Eeuben 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 eaiiy next morn- 
 ing. 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 ofiice. I observe, by-the-bye, that 
 Mallard's influence is sti-engthening your character. For- 
 merly you were often rigorous, but it was S])asmodic. You 
 can now persevere in pitilessness, an essential in one who 
 would support what' we call justice. Don't think I am writ- 
 ing ironically. Whenever I am free from passion, as now — 
 and that is seldom enough — I can see myself precisely as you
 
 454 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 and all those on your side of the gulf see me. The finer 
 qualities I once had survive in my memory, but I know it is 
 hopeless to try and recover them. I find it interesting to 
 study the processes of my degradation. I should like to 
 wi-ite a book about it, but it would be of the kind that no 
 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 feehng towards her is a strange 
 and vile compound of passions, but I beUeve that hatred pre- 
 dominates. 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 con- 
 fessed, 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 a 
 share of the devil's spirit. But to give a thing a bad name 
 doesu'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 recog- 
 nized. 
 
 "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 en-
 
 END AND BEGINNING. 455 
 
 countered his wife's lover, and shot him dead. The victint 
 was " un jeune Anglais, nonanie Elgare." 
 
 The sender of this newspaper had also written ; his letter- 
 contained fuller details. He had seen the corpse, and identi- 
 fied it. Could he do anything ? Or wovild some friend of 
 Mrs. Elgar come over ? 
 
 Eleanor carried the intelligence first of all to Eoe- 
 hampton. In her consultation with the Mallards, it wa& 
 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 
 aews 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 ex- 
 pected." 
 
 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 in- 
 troduced. 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 Eleanoi", 
 she became aware of veiled trouble on her countenance. 
 
 "Have you come only to see me r Or is there some- 
 thing ? " 
 
 Eleanor broke the news to her. And as she spoke, the
 
 456 THE EMANCIPATED. 
 
 bea,utiful 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 im- 
 perishable." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 Woodfall & Kinder, Printers, 70 to 76, Long Acre, London W.C. 
 
 1>
 
 Autiinm Season^ iSg^. 
 
 MESSRS. 
 LAWRENCE & BULLEN'S 
 
 Hist of Pufilifations. 
 
 LONDON: 
 iG, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Allen, Grant 
 
 PAGE 
 
 5 
 
 American Indian Faii7 Ta 
 
 es 5 
 
 Anacreon 
 
 • 5 
 
 Andersen, Hans Christian . 
 
 5 
 
 Barrett, C. R. B 
 
 . 6 
 
 Beckford, William ... 
 
 . 8 
 
 "Blue Beard" 
 
 . S 
 
 Boccaccio, Giovanni... 
 
 . 8 
 
 " Border Ballads " ... 
 
 . 8 
 
 Bullen, A. H 
 
 8 
 
 Busby, Richard 
 
 • 9 
 
 Catullus 
 
 • 9 
 
 Churchill, Charles ... 
 
 lO 
 
 " Cossack Fairy Talcs " 
 
 . lO 
 
 Crane, Walter 
 
 . ID 
 
 Crespigny, Sir Claude C. c: 
 
 e lo 
 
 D'Aulnoy, Madame... 
 
 II 
 
 Davidson, John 
 
 II 
 
 Earle, A. M 
 
 1 1 
 
 Edmonds, Mrs. 
 
 II 
 
 Finck, Henry T 
 
 12 
 
 Ford, John ... 
 
 12 
 
 Fouquc, F. de la Mo'.te 
 
 12 
 
 Gifr, Theo 
 
 • '3 
 
 Gissing, George 
 
 ■ '3 
 
 Harraden, Beatrice ... 
 
 ■ H 
 
 Hood, Thomas 
 
 .. 14 
 
 Jokai, Maurus 
 
 .. 14 
 
 Knight, Josenh 
 
 .. 14 
 
 Linton, W. J. 
 Masuccio 
 Middleton, Colin 
 Miscellanies — 
 
 Salomon and Marcolphus 
 
 Antonio de Guaras 
 
 Caxton .. 
 
 Infnfmacunforl'vlgrynie 
 Morris, William 
 Munchausen .. 
 Muses' Library — 
 
 John Keats 
 
 John Donne 
 
 William Drummond 
 
 William Browne 
 
 William Blake 
 
 Robert Ilerrick 
 
 Andrew Marvel 
 
 Kdmund Waller 
 
 John day 
 O'Neill, Moira 
 Orme, Temple 
 Owen, J. A. . . 
 Pearce, J. II.... 
 Poe, Edgar .Vllen 
 Powell, G. IL 
 Ptideaux, Miss S. T 
 Pyle, Howard 
 Rabelais, Francis 
 
 14 
 
 15 
 
 i6 
 
 17 
 17 
 17 
 i8 
 i8 
 i8 
 
 19 
 19 
 19 
 19 
 19 
 19 
 19 
 
 20 
 20 
 20 
 20 
 
 21 
 21 
 21 
 22 
 22 
 23 
 24
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Roberts, Morley 
 
 PAGE 
 • 25 
 
 Roberts, Cecil 
 
 . 26 
 
 Robinson, II. J 
 
 . 26 
 
 Russian Fairy Tales... 
 
 . 26 
 
 Scarron, Paul 
 
 • 27 
 
 " Sindbad the Sailor " 
 
 • 27 
 
 Strang, William 
 
 • 27 
 
 Straparola 
 
 . 28 
 
 " Told in the Verandah " . 
 
 . 28 
 
 "ABlackPiince" ... 
 
 I'Ar.R 
 ... 28 
 
 Tynan, Katharine ... 
 
 ... 28 
 
 Vanbrugh, Sir John... 
 
 ... 29 
 
 Wallis, Henry 
 
 ... 29 
 
 Walpole, Horace 
 
 ... 2q 
 
 Wells, Charles 
 
 ... 30 
 
 Wills, C. J 
 
 ... 30 
 
 Yeats, W. B 
 
 ... 30
 
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 net. 
 
 * The edition consists of 400 numbered copies. 
 
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 COSSACK FAIRY TALES.— Translated by R. 
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 CRANE, WALTER.- CLAIMS OF DECORA- 
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 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. ii 
 
 periences extend over a period of nearly thirty years ; he 
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 c 2
 
 12 MESSRS. LAWRENCE 6- BULLEN'S 
 
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 FOUQUE, FRIEDRICH DE LA MOTTE- 
 UNDINE: A Romance. Translated by 
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 The success which Undine met with from the 
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 Italian, and Russian translations.
 
 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 13 
 
 GIFT, THEO— FAIRY TALES FROM THE 
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 14 MESSRS. LAWRENCE d- BULLEN'S 
 
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 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 15 
 
 view, our political instincts have developed since '4S, it 
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 MASUOCIO.— THE NOVELLINO OF MASUC- 
 CIO. Now first translated by W. G. Waters.
 
 i6 , MESSJiS. LAWRENCE 6- BULLEN'S 
 
 With Eighteen full-page Illustrations by E. R. 
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 * One thousattd mnnbered copies printed. Also 210 
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 Masuccio is commonly rated the fourth in order of 
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 somewhat behind all the aforesaid in elegance of style, a 
 foremost, if not the first, place must be given him as a 
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 ness of his Italian style may arise from the fact that he 
 wi'ote with a purpose in a popular strain for the people of 
 Naples, setting before them his stories in the lingua 
 maierna. Of all the Novellieri Masuccio shows the great- 
 est originality in the themes he illustrates ; comparatively 
 few of the fifty Novels are found elsewhere. In spite of 
 occasional lapses into the coarseness of expression charac- 
 teristic of his time, he was full of zeal for right doing. 
 The Novellino was first published in Naples in 1476. No 
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 MIDDLETON, COLIN WITHOUT RE.SPECT 
 
 OF PERSONS. A Novel, i vol. Crown 8vo. 
 IS. €d.
 
 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 17 
 
 MISCELLANIES— Bibliographical and Historical. 
 
 THE DIALOGUS OR COMMUNYNG BETWIXT 
 THE WYSE KING SALOMON AND MAR- 
 COLPHUS. Reproduced in facsimile by the Oxford 
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 printed by Gerard Leeu about 1492. Edited by 
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 " Mr. Duff's edition possesses in a singular degree all tlie 
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 Guardian. 
 
 ANTONIO DE GUaRAS ; OR, The Accession of 
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 SEX OUAM ELEGANTISSIME EPISTOLE IM- 
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 DILIGENTER EMENDATE PER PETRUM 
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 Times.
 
 1 8 MESSRS. LAWRENCE d- BULLEN'S 
 
 MISCELLANIES— f^;/////;/^^. 
 
 INFORMACON FOR PYLGRYMES : Reproduced in 
 facsimile by the Oxford University Press from the 
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 Edinburgh. Edited by E. Gordon Duff. Sm. 4to. 
 loi-. 61'/. net. (350 copies printed.) 
 
 * A prospectus of the Miscellanies will be sent on application. 
 
 MORRIS, WILLIAM THE WOOD BEYOND 
 
 THE WORLD: A Rom.\nce. Small 4to. 
 6s. net. 
 
 * A very few copies printed on handmade paper, 
 ^i \s. net. 
 
 " We question whether the Artist of the Beautiful 
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 MUNCHAUSEN. —THE SURPRISING AD- 
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 Copiously illustrated by WiLLIAM STRANG and 
 J. B. Clark. Demy 8vo. ys. 6d. 
 
 " The power and grotesquerie of the drawings are of 
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 "The volume, is finely printed and handsomely 
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 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 19 
 
 MUSES' LIBRARY- 
 POEMS OF JOHN KEATS. Edited by G. 
 Thorn Drury, with an Introduction by 
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 POEMS OF JOHN DONNE. Edited by E. 
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 POEMS AND SATIRES OF ANDREW 
 MARVELL. I':ditcd by G. A. Aitken. 2 vols. 
 i8mo. IOJ-. net.
 
 20 MESSRS. LAWRENCE 6- BULLEN'S 
 
 MUSES' LI BRKR^— continue J. 
 
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 O'NEILL, MOIRA.— AN EASTER VACATION. 
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 M."— World. 
 
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 " Wittily and pleasantly told." — Athemenm. 
 
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 ORME, TEMPLE. — MATRICULATION 
 CHEMISTRY. Small 8vo. 2s. 6d.
 
 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 21 
 
 ORME, TEMPLE.— RUDIMENTS OF CHEM- 
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 OWEN, J. A. (Editor of "On Surrey Hills," &c.) 
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 POE, EDGAR ALLEN. — THE WORKS OF 
 EDGAR ALLEN POE, newly collected and 
 edited, with a Memoir, Critical Introductions, 
 and Notes, by EDMUND Clarenxe Stedman
 
 22 MESSRS. LAWRENCE 6- BULLEITS 
 
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 POWELL, G. H. — OCCASIONAL RHYMES 
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 POWELL, G. H.— EXCURSIONS IN LIBRA- 
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 Co7ttents : — The Philosophy of Rarity — A Gascon 
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 — A Medley of Memoirs — With Rabelais in Rome — The 
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 PRIDEAUX, MISS S. T.— H I S T O R I C A L 
 SKETCH OF BOOKBINDING. (With a
 
 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 23 
 
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 On cither side of the Atlantic Mr. Howard Pylc is 
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 24 MESSRS. LAWRENCE &- BULLED S 
 
 RABELAIS, FRANCIS. — THE WORKS OF 
 MASTER FRANCIS RABELAIS. Translated 
 by Sir THOMAS Urquhart, of Cromarty, and 
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 The copious racy vocabulary of Urquhart's " Rabe- 
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 The publishers of the present edition claim to have 
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 Prefixed to the translation is an essay on Rabelais 
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 The volumes are printed by Messrs. Whittingham in 
 the best style of the Chiswick Press.
 
 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 25 
 
 MR. MORLEY ROBERTS' WORKS. 
 
 KING BILLY OF BALLARAT, and other 
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 26 MESSRS. LAWRENCE 6- BULLENS 
 
 MR. MORLEY ROBERTS' N^ORK^— continued. 
 
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 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 27 
 
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 SCARRON. PAUL— COMICAL WORKS. Done 
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 STRANG, WILLIAM. — DEATH AND THE 
 
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 * 110 copies printed, of which 100 are for sale. 
 Plates destroved.
 
 2 8 MESSRS. LAWRENCE 6- BULLEN'S 
 
 STRAPAROLA.— THE NIGHTS OF STRA- 
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 "Admirable reading, tender, restrained, and winning.
 
 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 29 
 
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 " Though there is plenty of prejudice and temper in
 
 30 MESSRS. LAWRENCE &- BULLEN'S 
 
 them, they also afford many droll and cynical glimpses of 
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 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 31 
 
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