The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Emancipated
by George Gissing
(#16 in our series by George Gissing)
Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before distributing this or any other
Project Gutenberg file.
We encourage you to keep this file, exactly as it is, on your
own disk, thereby keeping an electronic path open for future
readers. Please do not remove this.
This header should be the first thing seen when anyone starts to
view the etext. Do not change or edit it without written permission.
The words are carefully chosen to provide users with the
information they need to understand what they may and may not
do with the etext.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*****These Etexts Are Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get etexts, and
further information, is included below. We need your donations.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a 501(c)(3)
organization with EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541
Title: The Emancipated
Author: George Gissing
Release Date: August, 2003 [Etext #4311]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on January 4, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Emancipated
by George Gissing
******This file should be named thmnc10.txt or thmnc10.zip******
Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, thmnc11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, thmnc10a.txt
Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)
Project Gutenberg Etexts are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not
keep etexts in compliance with any particular paper edition.
We are now trying to release all our etexts one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.
Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.
Most people start at our sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg
These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
etexts, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).
Those of you who want to download any Etext before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.
http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03
Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90
Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2001 as we release over 50 new Etext
files per month, or 500 more Etexts in 2000 for a total of 4000+
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
should reach over 300 billion Etexts given away by year's end.
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.
At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 4,000 Etexts. We need
funding, as well as continued efforts by volunteers, to maintain
or increase our production and reach our goals.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.
We need your donations more than ever!
As of November, 2001, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Arkansas, Connecticut, Delaware,
Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky,
Louisiana, Maine, Michigan, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Oregon,
Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee,
Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin,
and Wyoming.
*In Progress
We have filed in about 45 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.
As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.
In answer to various questions we have received on this:
We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.
While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.
International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.
All donations should be made to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109
Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fundraising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fundraising will begin in the additional states.
We need your donations more than ever!
You can get up to date donation information at:
http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html
***
If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:
Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>
Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.
We would prefer to send you information by email.
**The Legal Small Print**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this etext if you want to.
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etexts,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.
To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.
THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.
INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this etext,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the etext,
or [3] any Defect.
DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,
if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
including any form resulting from conversion by word
processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
*EITHER*:
[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
does *not* contain characters other than those
intended by the author of the work, although tilde
(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
be used to convey punctuation intended by the
author, and additional characters may be used to
indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
form by the program that displays the etext (as is
the case, for instance, with most word processors);
OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are
payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to
let us know your plans and to work out the details.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.
The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com
[Portions of this header are copyright (C) 2001 by Michael S. Hart
and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.]
[Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales
of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or
software or any other related product without express permission.]
*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.10/04/01*END*
Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)
George Gissing
The Emancipated
PART I
CHAPTER I
NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT
By a window looking from Posillipo upon the Bay of Naples sat an
English lady, engaged in letter-writing. She was only in her
four-and-twentieth year, but her attire of subdued mourning
indicated widowhood already at the stage when it is permitted to
make quiet suggestion of freedom rather than distressful reference
to loss; the dress, however, was severely plain, and its grey
coldness, which would well have harmonized with an English sky in
this month of November, looked alien in the southern sunlight. There
was no mistaking her nationality; the absorption, the troubled
earnestness with which she bent over her writing, were peculiar to a
cast of features such as can be found only in our familiar island; a
physiognomy not quite pure in outline, vigorous in general effect
and in detail delicate; a proud young face, full of character and
capacity, beautiful in chaste control. Sorrowful it was not, but its
paleness and thinness expressed something more than imperfect health
of body; the blue-grey eyes, when they wandered for a moment in an
effort of recollection, had a look of weariness, even of ennui; the
lips moved as if in nervous impatience until she had found the
phrase or the thought for which her pen waited. Save for these
intervals, she wrote with quick decision, in a large clear hand,
never underlining, but frequently supplying the emphasis of heavy
stroke in her penning of a word. At the end of her letters came a
signature excellent in individuality: "Miriam Baske."
The furniture of her room was modern, and of the kind demanded by
wealthy _forestieri_ in the lodgings they condescend to occupy. On
the variegated tiles of the floor were strewn rugs and carpets; the
drapery was bright, without much reference to taste in the ordering
of hues; a handsome stove served at present to support leafy plants,
a row of which also stood on the balcony before the window. Round
the ceiling ran a painted border of foliage and flowers. The chief
ornament of the walls was a large and indifferent copy of Raphael's
"St. Cecilia;" there were, too, several _gouache_ drawings of local
scenery: a fiery night-view of Vesuvius, a panorama of the Bay, and
a very blue Blue Grotto. The whole was blithe, sunny, Neapolitan;
sufficiently unlike a sitting-room in Redheck House, Bartles,
Lancashire, which Mrs. Baske had in her mind as she wrote.
A few English books lay here and there, volumes of unattractive
binding, and presenting titles little suggestive of a holiday in
Campania; works which it would be misleading to call theological;
the feeblest modern echoes of fierce old Puritans, half shame-faced
modifications of logic which, at all events, was wont to conceal no
consequence of its savage premises. More noticeable were some
architectural plans unrolled upon a settee; the uppermost
represented the elevation of a building designed for religious
purposes, painfully recognizable by all who know the conventicles of
sectarian England. On the blank space beneath the drawing were a few
comments, lightly pencilled.
Having finished and addressed some half a dozen brief letters, Mrs.
Baske brooded for several minutes before she began to write on the
next sheet of paper. It was intended for her sister-in-law, a lady
of middle age, who shared in the occupancy of Redheck House. At
length she penned the introductory formula, but again became absent,
and sat gazing at the branches of a pine-tree which stood in strong
relief against cloudless blue. A sigh, an impatient gesture, and she
went on with her task.
"It is very kind of you to be so active in attending to the things
which you know I have at heart. You say I shall find everything as I
could wish it on my return, but you cannot think what a stranger to
Bartles I already feel. It will soon be six months Since I lived my
real life there; during my illness I might as well have been absent,
then came those weeks in the Isle of Wight, and now this exile. I
feel it as exile, bitterly. To be sure Naples is beautiful, but it
does not interest me. You need not envy me the bright sky, for it
gives me no pleasure. There is so much to pain and sadden; so much
that makes me angry. On Sunday I was miserable. The Spences are as
kind as any one could be, but--I won't write about it; no doubt
you understand me.
"What do you think ought to be done about Mrs. Ackworth and her
daughter? It is shameful, after all they have received from me. Will
you tell them that I am gravely displeased to hear of their
absenting themselves from chapel. I have a very good mind to write
to Mr. Higginson and beg him to suspend the girl from his employment
until she becomes regular in her attendance at worship. Perhaps that
would seem malicious, but she and her mother ought to be punished in
some way. Speak to them very sternly.
"I do not understand how young Brooks has dared to tell you I
promised him work in the greenhouse. He is irreclaimable; the worst
character that ever came under my notice; he shall not set foot on
the premises. If he is in want, he has only himself to blame. I do
not like to think of his wife suffering, but it is the attribute of
sins such as his that they involve the innocent with the guilty; and
then she has shown herself so wretchedly weak. Try, however, to help
her secretly if her distress becomes too acute.
"It was impertinent in Mrs. Walker to make such reference to me in
public. This is the result of my absence and helplessness. I shall
write to her--two lines."
A flush had risen to her cheek, and in adding the last two words she
all but pierced through the thin note-paper. Then her hand trembled
so much that she was obliged to pause. At the same moment there
sounded a tap at the door, and, on Mrs. Baske's giving permission, a
lady entered. This was Mrs. Spence, a cousin of the young widow; she
and her husband had an apartment here in the Villa Sannazaro, and
were able to devote certain rooms to the convenience of their
relative during her stay at Naples. Her age was about thirty; she
had a graceful figure, a manner of much refinement, and a bright,
gentle, intellectual face, which just now bore an announcement of
news.
"They have arrived!"
"Already?" replied the other, in a tone of civil interest.
"They decided not to break the journey after Genoa. Cecily and Mrs.
Lessingham are too tired to do anything but get settled in their
rooms, but Mr. Mallard has come to tell us."
Miriam laid down her pen, and asked in the same voice as before:
"Shall I come?"
"If you are not too busy." And Mrs. Spence added, with a smile, "I
should think you must have a certain curiosity to see each other,
after so long an acquaintance at secondhand."
"I will come in a moment."
Mrs. Spence left the room. For a minute Miriam sat reflecting, then
rose. In moving towards the door she chanced to see her image in a
mirror--two of a large size adorned the room--and it checked her
step; she regarded herself gravely, and passed a smoothing hand over
the dark hair above her temples.
By a corridor she reached her friends' sitting-room, where Mrs.
Spence sat in the company of two gentlemen. The elder of these was
Edward Spence. His bearded face, studious of cast and
small-featured, spoke a placid, self-commanding character; a
lingering smile, and the pleasant wrinkles about his brow, told of a
mind familiar with many by-ways of fancy and reflection. His
companion, a man of five-and-thirty, had a far more striking
countenance. His complexion was of the kind which used to be called
adust--burnt up with inner fires; his visage was long and somewhat
harshly designed, very apt, it would seem, to the expression of
hitter ironies or stern resentments, but at present bright with
friendly pleasure. He had a heavy moustache, but no beard; his hair
tumbled in disorder. To matters of costume he evidently gave little
thought, for his clothes, though of the kind a gentleman would wear
in travelling, had seen their best days, and the waistcoat even
lacked one of its buttons; his black necktie was knotted into an
indescribable shape, and the ends hung loose.
Him Mrs. Spence at once presented to her cousin as "Mr. Mallard." He
bowed ungracefully; then, with a manner naturally frank but
constrained by obvious shyness, took the hand Miriam held to him.
"We are scarcely strangers, Mr. Mallard," she said in a
self-possessed tone, regarding him with steady eyes.
"Miss Doran has spoken of you frequently on the journey," he
replied, knitting his brows into a scowl as he smiled and returned
her look. "Your illness made her very anxious. You are much better,
I hope?"
"Much, thank you."
Allowance made for the difference of quality in their voices, Mrs.
Baske and Mallard resembled each other in speech. They had the same
grave note, the same decision.
"They must be very tired after their journey," Miriam added, seating
herself.
"Miss Doran seems scarcely so at all; but Mrs. Lessingham is rather
over-wearied, I'm afraid."
"Why didn't you break the journey at Florence or Rome?" asked Mrs.
Spence.
"I proposed it, but other counsels prevailed. All through Italy Miss
Doran was distracted between desire to get to Naples and misery at
not being able to see the towns we passed. At last she buried
herself in the 'Revue des Deux Mondes,' and refused even to look out
of the window."
"I suppose we may go and see her in the morning?" said Miriam.
"My express instructions are," replied Mallard, "that you are on no
account to go. They will come here quite early. Miss Doran begged
hard to come with me now, but I wouldn't allow it."
"Is it the one instance in which your authority has prevailed?"
inquired Spence. "You seem to declare it in a tone of triumph."
"Well," replied the other, with a grim smile, leaning forward in his
chair, "I don't undertake to lay down rules for the young lady of
eighteen as I could for the child of twelve. But my age and sobriety
of character still ensure me respect."
He glanced at Mrs. Baske, and their eyes met. Miriam smiled rather
coldly, but continued to observe him after he had looked away again.
"You met them at Genoa?" she asked presently, in her tone of
habitual reserve.
"Yes. I came by sea from London, and had a couple of days to wait
for their arrival from Paris."
"And I suppose you also are staying at Mrs. Gluck's?"
"Oh no! I have a room at old quarters of mine high up in the town,
Vico Brancaccio. I shall only be in Naples a few days."
"How's that ?" inquired Spence.
"I'm going to work at Amalfi and Paestum."
"Then, as usual, we shall see nothing of you," said Mrs. Spence.
"Pray, do you dine at Mrs. Gluck's this evening?"
"By no means."
"May we, then, have the pleasure of your company? There is no need
to go back to Vico Brancaccio. I am sure Mrs. Baske will excuse you
the torture of uniform."
With a sort of grumble, the invitation was accepted. A little while
after, Spence proposed to his friend a walk before sunset.
"Yes; let us go up the hill," said Mallard, rising abruptly. "I need
movement after the railway."
They left the villa, and Mallard grew less restrained in his
conversation.
"How does Mrs. Baske answer to your expectations?" Spence asked him.
"I had seen her photograph, you know."
"Where?"
"Her brother showed it me--one taken at the time of her marriage."
"What is Elgar doing at present?"
"It's more than a year since we crossed each other," Mallard
replied. "He was then going to the devil as speedily as can in
reason be expected of a man. I happened to encounter him one morning
at Victoria Station, and he seemed to have just slept off a great
deal of heavy drinking. Told me he was going down to Brighton to see
about selling a houseful of furniture there--his own property. I
didn't inquire how or why he came possessed of it. He is beyond
help, I imagine. When he comes to his last penny, he'll probably
blow his brains out; just the fellow to do that kind of thing."
"I suppose he hasn't done it already? His sister has heard nothing
of him for two years at least, and this account of yours is the
latest I have received."
"I should think he still lives, He would be sure to make a _coup de
theatre_ of his exit."
"Poor lad!" said the elder man, with feeling. "I liked him."
"Why, so did I; and I wish it had been in my scope to keep him in
some kind of order. Yes, I liked him much. And as for brains, why, I
have scarcely known a man who so impressed me with a sense of his
ability. But you could see that he was doomed from his cradle.
Strongly like his sister in face."
"I'm afraid the thought of him troubles her a good deal."
"She looks ill."
"Yes; we are uneasy about her," said Spence. Then, with a burst of
impatience: "There's no getting her mind away from that pestilent
Bartles. What do you think she is projecting now? It appears that
the Dissenters of Bartles are troubled concerning their chapel; it
isn't large enough. So Miriam proposes to pull down her own house,
and build them a chapel on the site, of course at her own expense.
The ground being her freehold, she can unfortunately do what she
likes with it; the same with her personal property. The thing has
gone so far that a Manchester firm of architects have prepared
plans; they are lying about in her room here."
Mallard regarded the speaker with humorous wonder.
"And the fact is," pursued Spence, "that such an undertaking as this
will impoverish her. She is not so wealthy as to be able to lay out
thousands of pounds and leave her position unaltered."
"I suppose she lives only for her religious convictions?"
"I don't profess to understand her. Her character is not easily
sounded. But no doubt she has the puritanical spirit in a rather
rare degree. I daily thank the fates that my wife grew up apart from
that branch of the family. Of all the accursed--But this is an
old topic; better not to beat one's self uselessly."
"A Puritan at Naples," mused Mallard. "The situation is
interesting."
"Very. But then she doesn't really live in Naples. From the first
day she has shown herself bent on resisting every influence of the
place. She won't admit that the climate benefits her; she won't
allow an expression of interest in anything Italian to escape her. I
doubt whether we shall ever get her even to Pompeii. One afternoon I
persuaded her to walk up here with me, and tried to make her confess
that this view was beautiful. She grudged making any such admission.
It is her nature to _distrust_ the beautiful."
"To be sure. That is the badge of her persuasion."
"Last Sunday we didn't know whether to compassionate her or to be
angry with her. The Bradshaws are at Mrs. Gluck's. You know them by
name, I think I There again, an interesting study, in a very
different way. Twice in the day she shut herself up with them in
their rooms, and they held a dissident service. The hours she spent
here were passed in the solitude of her own room, lest she should
witness our profane enjoyment of the fine weather. Eleanor refrained
from touching the piano, and at meals kept the gravest countenance,
in mere kindness. I doubt whether that is right. It isn't as though
we were dealing with a woman whose mind is hopelessly--immatured;
she is only a girl still, and I know she has brains if she could be
induced to use them."
"Mrs. Baske has a remarkable face, it seems to me," said Mallard.
"It enrages me to talk of the matter."
They were now on the road which runs along the ridge of Posillipo;
at a point where it is parted only by a low wall from the westward
declivity, they paused and looked towards the setting sun.
"What a noise from Fuorigrotta!" murmured Spence, when he had leaned
for a moment on the wall. "It always amuses me. Only in this part of
the world could so small a place make such a clamour."
They were looking away from Naples. At the foot of the vine-covered
hillside lay the noisy village, or suburb, named from its position
at the outer end of the tunnel which the Romans pierced to make a
shorter way between Naples and Puteoli; thence stretched an
extensive plain, set in a deep amphitheatre of hills, and bounded by
the sea. Vineyards and maizefields, pine-trees and poplars,
diversify its surface, and through the midst of it runs a long,
straight road, dwindling till it reaches the shore at the hamlet of
Bagnoli. Follow the enclosing ridge to the left, to where its slope
cuts athwart plain and sea and sky; there close upon the coast lies
the island rock of Nisida, meeting-place of Cicero and Brutus after
Caesar's death. Turn to the opposite quarter of the plain. First
rises the cliff of Camaldoli, where from their oak-shadowed lawn the
monks look forth upon as fair a prospect as is beheld by man. Lower
hills succeed, hiding Pozzuoli and the inner curve of its bay;
behind them, too, is the nook which shelters Lake Avernus; and at a
little distance, by the further shore, are the ruins of Cumae, first
home of the Greeks upon Italian soil. A long promontory curves round
the gulf; the dark crag at the end of it is Cape Misenum, and a
little on the hither side, obscured in remoteness, lies what once
was Baiae. Beyond the promontory gleams again a blue line of sea.
The low length of Procida is its limit, and behind that, crowning
the view, stands the mountain-height of Ischia.
Over all, the hues of an autumn evening in Campania. From behind a
bulk of cloud, here and there tossed by high wind currents into
fantastic shapes, sprang rays of fire, burning to the zenith.
Between the sea-beach at Bagnoli and the summit of Ischia, tract
followed upon tract of colour that each moment underwent a subtle
change, darkening here, there fading into exquisite transparencies
of distance, till by degrees the islands lost projection and became
mere films against the declining day. The plain was ruddy with dead
vine-leaves, and golden with the decaying foliage of the poplars;
Camaldoli and its neighbour heights stood gorgeously enrobed. In
itself, a picture so beautiful that the eye wearied with delight; in
its memories, a source of solemn joy, inexhaustible for ever.
"I suppose," said Mallard, in the undertone of reflection, "the
pagan associations of Naples are a great obstacle to Mrs. Baske's
enjoyment of the scenery."
"She admits that."
"By-the-bye, what are likely to be the relations between her and
Miss Doran?"
"I have wondered. They seem to keep on terms of easy correspondence.
But doesn't Cecily herself throw any light on that point?"
Mallard made a pause before answering.
"You must remember that I know very little of her. I have never
spoken more intimately with her than you yourself have. Naturally,
since she has ceased to be a child, I have kept my distance. In
fact, I shall be heartily glad when the next three years are over,
and we can shake hands with a definite good-bye."
"What irritates you?" inquired Spence, with a smile which recognized
a phase of his friend's character.
"The fact of my position. A nice thing for a fellow like me to have
charge of a fortune! It oppresses me--the sense of responsibility;
I want to get the weight off my shoulders. What the deuce did her
father mean by burdening me in this way?"
"He foresaw nothing of the kind," said Spence, amused. "Only the
unlikely event of Trench's death left you sole trustee. If Doran
purposed anything at all--why, who knows what it may have been?"
Mallard refused to meet the other's look; his eyes were fixed on the
horizon.
"All the same, the event was possible, and he should have chosen
another man of business. It's worse than being rich on my own
account. I have dreams of a national repudiation of debt; I imagine
dock-companies failing and banks stopping payment. It disturbs my
work; I am tired of it. Why can't I transfer the affair to some
trustworthy and competent person; yourself, for instance? Why didn't
Doran select you, to begin with--the natural man to associate with
Trench?"
"Who never opened a book save his ledger; who was the model of a
reputable dealer in calicoes; who--"
"I apologize," growled Mallard. "But you know in what sense I
spoke."
"Pray, what has Cecily become since I saw her in London?" asked the
other, after a pause, during which he smiled his own interpretation
of Mallard's humour.
"A very superior young person, I assure you," was the reply, gravely
spoken. "Miss Doran is a young woman of her time; she ranks with the
emancipated; she is as far above the Girton girl as that interesting
creature is above the product of an establishment for young ladies.
Miss Doran has no prejudices, and, in the vulgar sense of the word,
no principles. She is familiar with the Latin classics and with the
Parisian feuilletons; she knows all about the newest religion, and
can tell you Sarcey's opinion of the newest play. Miss Doran will
discuss with you the merits of Sarah Bernhardt in 'La Dame aux
Camelias,' or the literary theories of the brothers Goncourt. I am
not sure that she knows much about Shakespeare, but her appreciation
of Baudelaire is exquisite. I don't think she is naturally very
cruel, but she can plead convincingly the cause of vivisection. Miss
Doran--"
Spence interrupted him with a burst of laughter.
"All which, my dear fellow, simply means that you--"
Mallard, in his turn, interrupted gruffly.
"Precisely: that I am the wrong man to hold even the position of
steward to one so advanced. What have I to do with heiresses and
fashionable ladies? I have my work to get on with, and it shall not
suffer from the intrusion of idlers."
"I see you direct your diatribe half against Mrs. Lessingham. How
has she annoyed you?"
"Annoyed me? You never were more mistaken. It's with myself that I
am annoyed."
"On what account?"
"For being so absurd as to question sometimes whether my
responsibility doesn't extend beyond stock and share. I ask myself
whether Doran--who so befriended me, and put such trust in me, and
paid me so well in advance for the duties I was to undertake--
didn't take it for granted that I should exercise some influence in
the matter of his daughter's education? Is she growing up what he
would have wished her to be? And if--"
"Why, it's no easy thing to say what views he had on this subject.
The lax man, we know, is often enough severe with his own womankind.
But as you have given me no description of what Cecily really is, I
can offer no judgment. Wait till I have seen her. Doubtless she
fulfils her promise of being beautiful?"
"Yes; there is no denying her beauty."
"As for her _modonite_, why, Mr. Ross Mallard is a singular person
to take exception on that score."
"I don't know about that. When did I say that the modern woman was
my ideal?"
"When had you ever a good word for the system which makes of woman a
dummy and a kill-joy?"
"That has nothing to do with the question," replied Mallard,
preserving a tone of gruff impartiality. "Have I been faithful to my
stewardship? When I consented to Cecily's--to Miss Doran's passing
from Mrs. Elgar's care to that of Mrs. Lessingham, was I doing
right?"
"Mallard, you are a curious instance of the Puritan conscience
surviving in a man whose intellect is liberated. The note of your
character, including your artistic character, is this
conscientiousness. Without it, you would have had worldly success
long ago. Without it, you wouldn't talk nonsense of Cecily Doran.
Had you rather she were co. operating with Mrs. Baske in a scheme to
rebuild all the chapels in Lancashire?"
"There is a medium."
"Why, yes. A neither this nor that, an insipid refinement, a taste
for culture moderated by reverence for Mrs. Grundy."
"Perhaps you are right. It's only occasionally that I am troubled in
this way. But I heartily wish the three years remaining were over."
"And the 'definite good-bye' spoken. A good phrase, that of yours.
What possessed you to come here just now, if it disturbs you to be
kept in mind of these responsibilities?"
"I should find it hard to tell you. The very sense of
responsibility, I suppose. But, as I said, I am not going to stay in
Naples."
"You'll come and give us a 'definite good-bye' before you leave?"
Mallard said nothing, but turned and began to move on. They passed
one of the sentry-boxes which here along the ridge mark the limits
of Neapolitan excise; a boy-soldier, musket in hand, cast curious
glances at them. After walking in silence for a few minutes, they
began to descend the eastern face of the hill, and before them lay
that portion of the great gulf which pictures have made so familiar.
The landscape was still visible in all its main details, still
softly suffused with warm colours from the west. About the cone of
Vesuvius a darkly purple cloud was gathering; the twin height of
Somma stood clear and of a rich brown. Naples, the many-coloured,
was seen in profile, climbing from the Castel dell' Ovo, around
which the sea slept, to the rock of Sant' Elmo; along the curve of
the Chiaia lights had begun to glimmer. Far withdrawn, the craggy
promontory of Sorrento darkened to profoundest blue; and Capri
veiled itself in mist.
CHAPTER II
CECILY DORAN
Villa Sannazaro had no architectural beauty; it was a building of
considerable size, irregular, in need of external repair. Through
the middle of it ran a great archway, guarded by copies of the two
Molossian hounds which stand before the Hall of Animals in the
Vatican; beneath the arch, on the right-hand side, was the main
entrance to the house. If you passed straight through, you came out
upon a terrace, where grew a magnificent stone-pine and some robust
agaves. The view hence was uninterrupted, embracing the line of the
bay from Posillipo to Cape Minerva. From the parapet bordering the
platform you looked over a descent of twenty feet, into a downward
sloping vineyard. Formerly the residence of an old Neapolitan
family, the villa had gone the way of many such ancestral abodes,
and was now let out among several tenants.
The Spences were established here for the winter. On the occasion of
his marriage, three years ago, Edward Spence relinquished his
connection with a shipping firm, which he represented in Manchester,
and went to live in London; a year and a half later he took his wife
to Italy, where they had since remained. He was not wealthy, but had
means sufficient to his demands and prospects. Thinking for himself
in most matters, he chose to abandon money-making at the juncture
when most men deem it incumbent upon them to press their efforts in
that direction; business was repugnant to him, and he saw no reason
why he should sacrifice his own existence to put a possible family
in more than easy circumstances, He had the inclinations of a
student, but was untroubled by any desire to distinguish himself,
freedom from the demands of the office meant to him the possibility
of living where he chose, and devoting to his books the best part of
the day instead of its fragmentary leisure. His choice in marriage
was most happy. Eleanor Spence had passed her maiden life in
Manchester, but with parents of healthy mind and of more literature
than generally falls to the lot of a commercial family. Pursuing a
natural development, she allied herself with her husband's freedom
of intellect, and found her nature's opportunities in the life which
was to him most suitable. By a rare chance, she was the
broader-minded of the two, the more truly impartial. Her
emancipation from dogma had been so gradual, so unconfused by
external pressure, that from her present standpoint she could look
back with calmness and justice on all the stages she had left
behind. With her cousin Miriam she could sympathize in a way
impossible to Spence, who, by-the-bye, somewhat misrepresented his
wife in the account he gave to Mallard of their Sunday experiences.
Puritanism was familiar to her by more than speculation; in the
compassion with which she regarded Miriam there was no mixture of
contempt, as in her husband's case. On the other hand, she did not
pretend to read completely her con sin's heart and mind; she knew
that there was no simple key to Miriam's character, and the quiet
study of its phases from day to day deeply interested her.
Cecily Doran had been known to Spence from childhood; her father was
his intimate friend. But Eleanor had only made the girl's
acquaintance in London, just after her marriage, when Cecily was
spending a season there with her aunt, Mrs. Lessingham. Mallard's
ward was then little more than fifteen; after several years of weak
health, she had entered upon a vigorous maidenhood, and gave such
promise of free, joyous, aspiring life as could not but strongly
affect the sympathies of a woman like Eleanor. Three years prior to
that, at the time of her father's death, Cecily was living with Mrs.
Elgar, a widow, and her daughter Miriam, the latter on the point of
marrying (at eighteen) one Mr. Baske, a pietistic mill-owner, aged
fifty. It then seemed very doubtful whether Cecily would live to
mature years; she had been motherless from infancy, and the
difficulty with those who brought her up was to repress an activity
of mind which seemed to be one cause of her bodily feebleness. In
those days there was a strong affection between her and Miriam
Elgar, and it showed no sign of diminution in either when, on Mrs.
Elgar's death, a year and a half after Miriam's marriage, Cecily
passed into the care of her father's sister, a lady of moderate
fortune, of parts and attainments, and with a great love of
cosmopolitan life. A few months more and Mrs. Baske was to be a
widow, childless, left in possession of some eight hundred a year,
her house at Bartles, and a local importance to which she was not
indifferent. With the exception of her brother, away in London, she
had no near kin. It would now have been a great solace to her if
Cecily Doran could have been her companion; but the young girl was
in Paris, or Berlin, or St. Petersburg, and, as Miriam was soon to
learn, the material distance between them meant little in comparison
with the spiritual remoteness which resulted from Cecily's education
under Mrs. Lessingham. They corresponded, however, and at first
frequently; but letters grew shorter on both sides, and arrived less
often. The two were now to meet for the first time since Cecily was
a child of fourteen.
The ladies arrived at the villa about eleven o'clock. Miriam had
shown herself indisposed to speak of them, both last evening, when
Mallard was present, and again this morning when alone with her
relatives; at breakfast she was even more taciturn than usual, and
kept her room for an hour after the meal. Then, however, she came to
sit with Eleanor, and remained when the visitors were announced.
Mrs. Lessingham did not answer to the common idea of a strong-minded
woman. At forty-seven she preserved much natural grace of bearing, a
good complexion, pleasantly mobile features. Her dress was in
excellent taste, tending to elaboration, such as becomes a lady who
makes some figure in the world of ease. Little wrinkles at the outer
corners of her eyes assisted her look of placid thought fulness;
when she spoke, these were wont to disappear, and the expression of
her face became an animated intelligence, an eager curiosity, or a
vivacious good-humour, Her lips gave a hint of sarcasm, but this was
reserved for special occasions; as a rule her habit of speech was
suave, much observant of amenities. One might have imagined that she
had enjoyed a calm life, but this was far from being the case. The
daughter of a country solicitor, she married early--for love, and
the issue was disastrous. Above her right temple, just at the roots
of the hair, a scar was discoverable; it was the memento of an
occasion on which her husband aimed a blow at her with a mantelpiece
ornament, and came within an ace of murder. Intimates of the
household said that the provocation was great--that Mrs.
Lessingham's gift of sarcasm had that morning displayed itself much
too brilliantly. Still, the missile was an extreme retort, and on
the whole it could not be wondered at that husband and wife resolved
to live apart in future. Mr. Lessingham was, in fact, an
aristocratic boor, and his wife never puzzled so much over any
intellectual difficulty as she did over the question how, as a girl,
she came to imagine herself enamoured of him. She was not, perhaps,
singular in her concernment with such a personal problem.
"It is six years since I was in Italy," she said, when greetings
were over, and she had seated herself. "Don't you envy me my
companion, Mrs. Spence? If anything could revive one's first
enjoyment, it would be the sight of Cecily's."
Cecily was sitting by Miriam, whose hand she had only just
relinquished. Her anxious and affectionate inquiries moved Miriam to
a smile which seemed rather of indulgence than warm kindness.
"How little we thought where our next meeting would be!" Cecily was
saying, when the eyes of the others turned upon her at her aunt's
remark.
Noble beauty can scarcely be dissociated from harmony of utterance;
voice and visage are the correspondent means whereby spirit
addresses itself to the ear and eye. One who had heard Cecily Doran
speaking where he could not see her, must have turned in that
direction, have listened eagerly for the sounds to repeat
themselves, and then have moved forward to discover the speaker. The
divinest singer may leave one unaffected by the tone of her speech.
Cecily could not sing, but her voice declared her of those who think
in song, whose minds are modulated to the poetry, not to the prose,
of life.
Her enunciation had the peculiar finish which is acquired in
intercourse with the best cosmopolitan society, the best in a worthy
sense. Four years ago, when she left Lancashire, she had a touch of
provincial accent,--Miriam, though she spoke well, was not wholly
free from it,--but now it was impossible to discover by listening
to her from what part of England she came. Mrs. Lessingham, whose
admirable tact and adaptability rendered her unimpeachable in such
details, had devoted herself with artistic zeal to her niece's
training for the world; the pupil's natural aptitude ensured
perfection in the result. Cecily's manner accorded with her
utterance; it had every charm derivable from youth, yet nothing of
immaturity. She was as completely at her ease as Mrs. Lessingham,
and as much more graceful in her self-control as the advantages of
nature made inevitable.
Miriam looked very cold, very severe, very English, by the side of
this brilliant girl. The thinness and pallor of her features became
more noticeable; the provincial faults of her dress were painfully
obvious. Cecily was not robust, but her form lacked no development
appropriate to her years, and its beauty was displayed by Parisian
handiwork. In this respect, too, she had changed remarkably since
Miriam last saw her, when she was such a frail child. Her hair of
dark gold showed itself beneath a hat which Eleanor Spence kept
regarding with frank admiration, so novel it was in style, and so
perfectly suitable to its wearer. Her gloves, her shoes, were no
less perfect; from head to foot nothing was to be found that did not
become her, that was not faultless in its kind.
At the same time, nothing that suggested idle expense or vanity. To
dwell at all upon the subject would be a disproportion, but for the
note of contrast that was struck. In an assembly of well-dressed
people, no one would have remarked Cecily's attire, unless to praise
its quiet distinction. In the Spences' sitting-room it became
another matter; it gave emphasis to differences of character; it
distinguished the atmosphere of Cecily's life from that breathed by
her old friends.
"We are going to read together Goethe's 'Italienische Reise,'"
continued Mrs. Lessingham. "It was of quite infinite value to me
when I first was here. In each town I _tuned_ my thoughts by it, to
use a phrase which sounds like affectation, but has a very real
significance."
"It was much the same with me," observed Spence.
"Yes, but you had the inestimable advantage of knowing the classics.
And Cecily, I am thankful to say, at least has something of Latin;
an ode of Horace, which I look at with fretfulness, yields her its
meaning. Last night, when I was tired and willing to be flattered,
she tried to make me believe it was not yet too late to learn."
"Surely not," said Eleanor, gracefully.
"But Goethe--you remember he says that the desire to see Italy had
become an illness with him. I know so well what that means. Cecily
will never know; the happiness has come before longing for it had
ceased to be a pleasure."
It was not so much affection as pride that her voice expressed when
she referred to her niece; the same in her look, which was less
tender than gratified and admiring. Cecily smiled in return, but was
not wholly attentive; her eyes constantly turned to Miriam,
endeavouring, though vainly, to exchange a glance.
Mrs. Lessingham was well aware of the difficulty of addressing to
Mrs. Baske any remark on natural topics which could engage her
sympathy, yet to ignore her presence was impossible.
"Do you think of seeing Rome and the northern cities when your
health is established?" she inquired, in a voice which skilfully
avoided any presumption of the reply. "Or shall you return by sea?"
"I am not a very good sailor," answered Miriam, with sufficient
suavity, "and I shall probably go back by land. But I don't think I
shall stop anywhere."
"It will be wiser, no doubt," said Mrs. Lessingham, "to leave the
rest of Italy for another visit. To see Naples first, and then go
north, is very much like taking dessert before one's substantial
dinner. I'm a little sorry that Cecily begins here; but it was
better to come and enjoy Naples with her friends this winter. I hope
we shall spend most of our time in Italy for a year or two."
Conversation took its natural course, and presently turned to the
subject--inexhaustible at Naples--of the relative advantages of
this and that situation for an abode. Mrs. Lessingham, turning to
the window, expressed her admiration of the view it afforded.
"I think it is still better from Mrs. Baske's sitting-room," said
Eleanor, who had been watching Cecily, and thought that she might be
glad of an opportunity of private talk with Miriam. And Cecily at
once availed herself of the suggestion.
"Would you let me see it, Miriam?" she asked. "If it is not
troublesome--"
Miriam rose, and they went out together. In silence they passed
along the corridor, and when they had entered her room Miriam walked
at once to the window. Then she half turned, and her eyes fell
before Cecily's earnest gaze.
"I did so wish to be with you in your illness!" said the girl, with
affectionate warmth. "Indeed, I would have come if I could have been
of any use. After all the trouble you used to have with my wretched
headaches and ailments--"
"You never have anything of the kind now," said Miriam, with her
indulgent smile.
"Never. I am in what Mr. Mallard calls aggressive health. But it
shocks me to see how pale you still are Miriam. I thought the voyage
and these ten days at Naples--And you have such a careworn look.
Cannot you throw off your troubles under this sky?"
"You know that the sky matters very little to me, Cecily."
"If I could give you only half my delight! I was awake before dawn
this morning, and it was impossible to lie still I dressed and stood
at the open window. I couldn't see the sun itself as it rose, but I
watched the first beams strike on Capri and the sea; and I tried to
make a drawing of the island as it then looked,--a poor little
daub, but it will be precious in bringing back to my mind all I felt
when I was busy with it. Such feeling I have never known; as if
every nerve in me had received an exquisite new sense. I keep saying
to myself, 'Is this really Naples?' Let us go on to the balcony. Oh,
you _must_ be glad with me!"
Freed from the constraint of formal colloquy, and overcoming the
slight embarrassment caused by what she knew of Miriam's thoughts,
Cecily revealed her nature as it lay beneath the graces with which
education had endowed her. This enthusiasm was no new discovery to
Miriam, but in the early days it had attached itself to far other
things. Cecily seemed to have forgotten that she was ever in
sympathy with the mood which imposed silence on her friend. Her eyes
drank light from the landscape; her beauty was transfigured by
passionate reception of all the influences this scene could exercise
upon heart and mind. She leaned on the railing of the balcony, and
gazed until tears of ecstasy made her sight dim.
"Let us see much of each other whilst we are here," she said
suddenly, turning to Miriam. "I could never have dreamt of our being
together in Italy; it is a happy fate, and gives me all kinds of
hope. We will be often alone together in glorious places. We will
talk it over; that is better than writing. You shall understand me,
Miriam. You shall get as well and strong as I am, and know what I
mean when I speak of the joy of living. We shall be sisters again,
like we used to be."
Miriam smiled and shook her head.
"Tell me about things at home. Is Miss Baske well?"
"Quite well. I have had two letters from her since I was here. She
wished me to give you her love."
"I will write to her. And is old Don still alive?"
"Yes, but very feeble, poor old fellow. He forgets even to be angry
with the baker's boy."
Cecily laughed with a moved playfulness.
"He has forgotten me. I don't like to be forgotten by any one who
ever cared for me."
There was a pause. They came back into the room, and Cecily, with a
look of hesitation, asked quietly,--
"Have you heard of late from Reuben?"
Miriam, with averted eyes, answered simply, "No." Again there was
silence, until Cecily, moving about the room, came to the "St.
Cecilia."
"So my patron saint is always before you. I am glad of that. Where
is the original of this picture, Miriam? I forget."
"I never knew."
"Oh, I wished to speak to you of Mr. Mallard. You met him yesterday.
Had you much conversation?"
"A good deal. He dined with us."
"Did he? I thought it possible. And do you like him?"
"I couldn't say until I knew him better."
"It isn't easy to know him, I think," said Cecily, in a reflective
and perfectly natural tone, smiling thoughtfully. "But he is a very
interesting man, and I wish he would be more friendly with me. I
tried hard to win his confidence on the journey from Genoa, but I
didn't seem to have much success. I fancy"--she laughed--"that
he is still in the habit of regarding me as a little girl, who
wouldn't quite understand him if he spoke of serious things. When I
wished to talk of his painting, he would only joke. That annoyed me
a little, and I tried to let him see that it did, with the result
that he refused to speak of anything for a long time."
"What does Mr. Mallard paint?" Miriam asked, half absently.
"Landscape," was the reply, given with veiled surprise. "Did you
never see anything of his?"
"I remember; the Bradshaws have a picture by him in their
dining-room. They showed it me when I was last in Manchester. I'm
afraid I looked at it very inattentively, for it has never
re-entered my mind from that day to this. But I was ill at the
time."
"His pictures are neglected," said Cecily, "but people who
understand them say they have great value. If he has anything
accepted by the Academy, it is sure to be hung out of sight. I think
he is wrong to exhibit there at all. Academies are foolish things,
and always give most encouragement to the men who are worth least.
When there is talk of such subjects, I never lose an opportunity of
mentioning Mr. Mallard's name, and telling all I can about his work.
Some day I shall, perhaps, be able to help him. I will insist on
every friend of mine who buys pictures at all possessing at least
one of Mr. Mallard's; then, perhaps, he will condescend to talk with
me of serious things."
She added the last sentence merrily, meeting Miriam's look with the
frankest eyes.
"Does Mrs. Lessingham hold the same opinion?" Miriam inquired.
"Oh yes! Aunt, of course, knows far more about art than I do, and
she thinks very highly indeed of Mr. Mallard. Not long ago she met
M. Lambert at a friend's house in Paris--the French critic who has
just been writing about English landscape--and he mentioned Mr.
Mallard with great respect. That was splendid, wasn't it?"
She spoke with joyous spiritedness. However modern, Cecily, it was
clear, had caught nothing of the disease of pococurantism. Into
whatever pleased her or enlisted her sympathies, she threw all the
glad energies of her being. The scornful remark on the Royal Academy
was, one could see, not so much a mere echo of advanced opinion, as
a piece of championship in a friend's cause. The respect with which
she mentioned the name of the French critic, her exultation in his
dictum, were notes of a youthful idealism which interpreted the
world nobly, and took its stand on generous beliefs.
"Mr. Mallard will help you to see Naples, no doubt," said Miriam.
"Indeed, I wish he would. But he distinctly told us that he has no
time. He is going to Amalfi in a few days, to work. I begged him at
least to go to Pompeii with us, but he frowned--as he so often
does--and seemed unwilling to be persuaded; so I said no more.
There again, I feel sure he was afraid of being annoyed by trifling
talk in such places. But one mustn't judge an artist like other men.
To be sure, anything I could say or think would be trivial compared
with what is in _his_ mind."
"But isn't it rather discourteous?" Miriam observed impartially.
"Oh, I could never think of it in that way! An artist is privileged;
he must defend his time and his sensibilities. The common terms of
society have no application to him. Don't you feel that, Miriam?"
"I know so little of art and artists. But such a claim seems to me
very strange."
Cecily laughed.
"This is one of a thousand things we will talk about. Art is the
grandest thing in the world; it means everything that is strong and
beautiful--statues, pictures, poetry, music. How could one live
without art? The artist is born a prince among men. What has he to
do with the rules by which common people must direct their lives?
Before long, you will feel this as deeply as I do, Miriam. We are in
Italy, Italy!"
"Shall we go back to the others?" Miriam suggested, in a voice which
contrasted curiously with that exultant cry.
"Yes; it is time."
Cecily's eyes fell on the plans of the chapel, which were still
lying open.
"What is this?" she asked. "Something in Naples? Oh no!"
"It's nothing," said Miriam, carelessly. "Come, Cecily."
The visitors took their leave just as the midday cannon boomed from
Sant' Elmo. They had promised to come and dine in a day or two.
After their departure, Miriam showed as little disposition to make
comments as she had to indulge in expectation before their arrival.
Eleanor and her husband put less restraint upon themselves.
"Heavens!" cried Spence, when they were alone; "what astounding
capacity of growth was in that child!"
"She is a swift and beautiful creature!" said Eleanor, in a warm
undertone characteristic of her when she expressed admiration.
"I wish I could have overheard the interview in Miriam's room."
"I never felt more curiosity about anything. Pity one is not a
psychological artist. I should have stolen to the keyhole and
committed eavesdropping with a glow of self-approval."
"I half understand our friend Mallard."
"So do I, Ned."
They looked at each other and smiled significantly.
That evening Spence again had a walk with the artist. He returned to
the villa alone, and only just in time to dress for dinner. Guests
were expected, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw of Manchester, old
acquaintances of the Spences and of Miriam. When it had become known
that Mrs. Baske, advised to pass the winter in a mild climate, was
about to accept an invitation from her cousin and go by sea to
Naples, the Bradshaws, to the astonishment of all their friends,
offered to accompany her. It was the first time that either of them
had left England, and they seemed most unlikely people to be
suddenly affected with a zeal for foreign travel. Miriam gladly
welcomed their proposal, and. it was put into execution.
When Spence entered the room his friends had already arrived. Mr.
Bradshaw stood in the attitude familiar to him when on his own
hearthrug, his back turned to that part of the wall where in England
would have been a fireplace, and one hand thrust into the pocket of
his evening coat.
"I tell you what it is, Spence!" he exclaimed, "I'm very much afraid
I shall be committing an assault. Certainly I shall if I don't soon
learn some good racy Italian. I must make out a little list of
sentences, and get you or Mrs. Spence to translate them. Such as 'Do
you take me for a fool?' or 'Be off, you scoundrel!' or 'I'll break
every bone in your body!' That's the kind of thing practically
needed in Naples, I find."
"Been in conflict with coachmen again?" asked Spence, laughing.
"Slightly! Never got into such a helpless rage in my life. Two
fellows kept up with me this afternoon for a couple of miles or so.
Now, what makes me so mad is the assumption of these blackguards
that I don't know my own mind. I go out for a stroll, and the first
cabby I pass wants to take me to Pozzuoli or Vesuvius--or Jericho,
for aught I know. It's no use showing him that I haven't the
slightest intention of going to any such place. What the deuce! does
the fellow suppose he can persuade me or badger me into doing what
I've no mind to do? Does he take me for an ass? It's the insult of
the thing that riles me! The same if I look in at a shop window; out
rushes a gabbling swindler, and wants to drag me in--"
"Only to _take_ you in, Mr. Bradshaw," interjected Eleanor.
"Good! To take me in, with a vengeance. Why, if I've a mind to buy,
shan't I go in of my own accord? And isn't it a sure and certain
thing that I shall never spend a halfpenny with a scoundrel who
attacks me like that?"
"How can you expect foreigners to reason, Jacob?" exclaimed Mrs.
Bradshaw.
"You should take these things as compliments," remarked Spence.
"They see an Englishman coming along, and as a matter of course they
consider him a person of wealth and leisure, who will be grateful to
any one for suggesting how he can kill time. Having nothing in the
world to do but enjoy himself, why shouldn't the English lord drive
to Baiae and back, just to get an appetite?"
"Lord, eh?" growled Mr. Bradshaw, rising on his toes, and smiling
with a certain satisfaction.
Threescore years all but two sat lightly on Jacob Bush Bradshaw. His
cheek was ruddy, his eyes had the lustre of health; in the wrinkled
forehead you saw activity of brain, and on his lips the stubborn
independence of a Lancashire employer of labour. Prosperity had set
its mark upon him, that peculiarly English prosperity which is so
intimately associated with spotless linen, with a good cut of
clothes, with scant but valuable jewellery, with the absence of any
perfume save that which suggests the morning tub. He was a
manufacturer of silk. The provincial accent notwithstanding, his
conversation on general subjects soon declared him a man of logical
mind and of much homely information. A sufficient self-esteem allied
itself with his force of character, but robust amiability prevented
this from becoming offensive; he had the sense of humour, and
enjoyed a laugh at himself as well as at other people. Though his
life had been absorbed in the pursuit of solid gain, he was no
scorner of the attainments which lay beyond his own scope, and in
these latter years, now that the fierce struggle was decided in his
favour, he often gave proof of a liberal curiosity. With regard to
art and learning, he had the intelligence to be aware of his own
defects; where he did not enjoy, he at least knew that he ought to
have done so, and he had a suspicion that herein also progress could
be made by stubborn effort, as in the material world. Finding
himself abroad, he had set himself to observe and learn, with
results now and then not a little amusing. The consciousness of
wealth disposed him to intellectual generosity; standing on so firm
a pedestal, he did not mind admitting that others might have a wider
outlook. Italy was an impecunious country; personally and
patriotically he had a pleasure in recognizing the fact, and this
made it easier for him to concede the points of superiority which he
had heard attributed to her. Jacob was rigidly sincere; he had no
touch of the snobbery which shows itself in sham admiration. If he
liked a thing he said so, and strongly; if he felt no liking where
his guide-book directed him to be enthusiastic, he kept silence and
cudgelled his brains.
Equally ingenuous was his wife, but with results that argued a
shallower nature. Mrs. Bradshaw had the heartiest and frankest
contempt for all things foreign; in Italy she deemed herself among a
people so inferior to the English that even to discuss the relative
merits of the two nations would have been ludicrous. Life "abroad"
she could not take as a serious thing; it amused or disgusted her,
as the case might be--never occasioned her a grave thought. The
proposal of this excursion, when first made to her, she received
with mockery; when she saw that her husband meant something more
than a joke, she took time to consider, and at length accepted the
notion as a freak which possibly would be entertaining, and might at
all events be indulged after a lifetime of sobriety. Entertainment
she found in abundance. Though natural beauty made little if any
appeal to her, she interested herself greatly in Vesuvius, regarding
it as a serio-comic phenomenon which could only exist in a country
inhabited by childish triflers. Her memory was storing all manner of
Italian absurdities--everything being an absurdity which differed
from English habit and custom--to furnish her with matter for
mirthful talk when she got safely back to Manchester and
civilization. With respect to the things which Jacob was
constraining himself to study--antiquities, sculptures, paintings,
stored in the Naples museum--her attitude was one of jocose
indifference or of half-tolerant contempt. Puritanism diluted with
worldliness and a measure of common sense directed her views of art
in general. Works such as the Farnese Hercules and the group about
the Bull she looked upon much as she regarded the wall-scribbling of
some dirty-minded urchin; the robust matron is not horrified by such
indecencies, but to be sure will not stand and examine them. "Oh,
come along, Jacob!" she exclaimed to her husband, when, at their
first visit to the Museum, he went to work at the antiques with his
Murray. "I've no patience you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
The Bradshaws were staying at the _pension_ selected by Mrs.
Lessingham. Naturally the conversation at dinner turned much on that
lady and her niece. With Cecily's father Mr. Bradshaw had been well
acquainted, but Cecily herself he had not seen since her childhood,
and his astonishment at meeting her as Miss Doran was great.
"What kind of society do they live among?" he asked of Spence.
"Tip-top people, I suppose?"
"Not exactly what we understand by tip-top in England. Mrs.
Lessingham's family connections are aristocratic, but she prefers
the society of authors, artists--that kind of thing."
"Queer people for a young girl to make friends of, eh?"
"Well, there's Mallard, for instance."
"Ah, Mallard, to be sure."
Mrs. Bradshaw looked at her hostess and smiled knowingly.
"Miss Doran is rather fond of talking about Mr. Mallard," she
remarked. "Did you notice that, Miriam?"
"Yes, I did."
Jacob broke the silence.
"How does he get on with his painting?" he asked--and it sounded
very much as though the reference were to a man busy on the front
door.
"He's never likely to be very popular," replied Spence, adapting his
remarks to the level of his guests' understanding. "There was
something of his in this year's Academy, and it sold at a tolerable
price."
"That thing of his that I bought, you remember--I find people
don't see much in it. They complain that the colour's so dull. But
then, as I always say, what else could you expect on a bit of
Yorkshire moor in winter? Is he going to paint anything here? Now,
if he'd do me a bit of the bay, with Vesuvius smoking."
"That would be something like!" assented Mrs. Bradshaw.
When the ladies had left the dining-room, Mr. Bradshaw, over his
cigarette, reverted to the subject of Cecily.
"I suppose the lass has had a first-rate education?"
"Of the very newest fashion for girls. I am told she reads Latin."
"By Jove!" cried the other, with sudden animation. "That reminds me
of something I wanted to talk about. When I was leaving Manchester,
I got together a few hooks, you know, that were likely to be useful
over here. My friend Lomax, the bookseller, suggested them. 'Got a
classical dictionary?' says he. 'Not I!' As you know, my schooling
never went much beyond the three R's, and hanged if I knew what a
classical dictionary was. 'Better take one,' says Lomax. 'You'll
want to look up your gods and goddesses.' So I took it, and I've
been looking into it these last few days."
"Well?"
Jacob had a comical look of perplexity and indignation. He thumped
the table.
"Do you mean to tell me that's the kind of stuff boys are set to
learn at school?"
"A good deal of it comes in."
"Then all I can say is, no wonder the colleges turn out such a lot
of young blackguards. Why, man, I could scarcely believe my eyes!
You mean to say that, if I'd had a son, he'd have been brought up on
that kind of literature, and without me knowing anything about it?
Why, I've locked the book up; I was ashamed to let it lay on the
table."
"It's the old Lempriere, I suppose," said Spence, vastly amused.
"The new dictionaries are toned down a good deal; they weren't so
squeamish in the old days."
"But the lads still read the books these things come out of, eh?"
"Oh yes. It has always been one of the most laughable
inconsistencies in English morality. Anything you could find in the
dictionary is milk for babes compared with several Greek plays that
have to be read for examinations."
"It fair caps me, Spence! Classical education that is, eh? That's
what parsons are bred on? And, by the Lord, you say they're
beginning it with girls?"
"Very zealously."
"Nay--!"
Jacob threw up his arms, and abandoned the effort to express
himself.
Later, when the guests were gone, Spence remembered this, and, to
Eleanor's surprise, he broke into uproarious laughter.
"One of the best jokes I ever heard! A fresh, first-hand judgment on
the morality of the Classics by a plain-minded English man of
business." He told the story. "And Bradshaw's perfectly right;
that's the best of it."
CHAPTER III
THE BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA
The year was 1878. A tourist searching his Baedeker for a genteel
but not oppressively aristocratic _pension_ in the open parts of
Naples would have found himself directed by an asterisk to the
establishment kept by Mrs. Gluck on the Mergellina;--frequented by
English and Germans, and very comfortable. The recommendation was a
just one. Mrs. Gluck enjoyed the advantage of having lived as many
years in England as she had in Germany; her predilections leaned, if
anything, to the English side, and the arrival of a "nice" English
family always put her in excellent spirits. She then exhibited
herself as an Anglicized matron, perfectly familiar with all the
requirements, great and little, of her guests, and, when minutiae
were once settled, capable of meeting ladies and gentlemen on terms
of equality in her drawing-room or at her table, where she always
presided. Indeed, there was much true refinement in Mrs. Gluck. You
had not been long in her house before she found an opportunity of
letting you know that she prided herself on connection with the
family of the great musician, and under her roof there was generally
some one who played or sang well. It was her dire that all who sat
at her dinner-table--the English people, at all events--should
be in evening dress. She herself had no little art in adorning
herself so as to appear, what she was, a lady, and yet not to
conflict with the ladies whose presence honoured her.
In the drawing-room, a few days after the arrival of Mrs. Lessingham
and her niece, several members of the house hold were assembled in
readiness for the second dinner-bell. There was Frau Wohlgemuth, a
middle-aged lady with severe brows, utilizing spare moments over a
German work on Greek sculpture. Certain plates in the book had
caught the eye of Mrs. Bradshaw, with the result that she regarded
this innocent student as a person of most doubtful character, who,
if in ignorance admitted to a respectable boardinghouse, should
certainly have been got rid of as soon as the nature of her reading
had been discovered. Frau Wohlgemuth had once or twice been
astonished at the severe look fixed upon her by the buxom English
lady, but happily would never receive an explanation of this silent
animus. Then there was Fraulein Kriel, who had unwillingly incurred
even more of Mrs. Bradshaw's displeasure, in that she, an unmarried
person, had actually looked over the volume together with its
possessor, not so much as blushing when she found herself observed
by strangers. The remaining persons were an English family, a mother
and three daughters, their name Denyer.
Mrs. Denyer was florid, vivacious, and of a certain size. She had
seen much of the world, and prided herself on cosmopolitanism; the
one thing with which she could not dispense was intellectual
society. This would be her second winter at Naples, but she gave her
acquaintances to understand that Italy was by no means the country
of her choice; she preferred the northern latitudes, because there
the intellectual atmosphere was more bracing. But for her daughters'
sake she abode here: "You know, my gills _adore_ Italy."
Of these young ladies, the two elder--Barbara and Made line were
their seductive names--had good looks. Barbara, perhaps twenty-two
years old, was rather colourless, somewhat too slim, altogether a
trifle limp; but she had a commendable taste in dress. Madeline, a
couple of years younger, presented a more healthy physique and a
less common comeliness, but in the matter of costume she lacked her
sister's discretion. Her colours were ill-matched, her ornaments
awkwardly worn; even her hair sought more freedom than was
consistent with grace. The youngest girl, Zillah, who was about
nineteen, had been less kindly dealt with by nature; like Barbara,
she was of very light complexion, and this accentuated her
plainness. She aimed at no compensation in attire, unless it were
that her sober garments exhibited perfect neatness and complete
inoffensiveness. Zillah's was a good face, in spite of its
unattractive features; she had a peculiarly earnest look, a
reflective manner, and much conscientiousness of speech.
Common to the three was a resolve to be modern, advanced, and
emancipated, or perish in the attempt. Every one who spoke with them
must understand that they were no every-day young ladies, imbued
with notions and prejudices recognized as feminine, frittering away
their lives amid the follies of the drawing-room and of the
circulating library. Culture was their pursuit, heterodoxy their
pride. If indeed it were true, as Mrs. Bradshaw somewhat
acrimoniously declared, that they were all desperately bent on
capturing husbands, then assuredly the poor girls went about their
enterprise with singular lack of prudence.
Each had her _role_. Barbara's was to pose as the adorer of Italy,
the enthusiastic glorifier of Italian unity. She spoke Italian
feebly, but, with English people, never lost an opportunity of
babbling its phrases. Speak to her of Rome, and before long she was
sure to murmur rapturously, "Roma capitale d'Italia!"--the
watch-word of antipapal victory. Of English writers she loved, or
affected to love, those only who had found inspiration south of the
Alps. The proud mother repeated a story of Barbara's going up to the
wall of Casa Guidi and kissing it. In her view, the modern Italians
could do no wrong; they were divinely regenerate. She praised their
architecture.
Madeline--whom her sisters addressed affectionately as "Mad"--
professed a wider intellectual scope; less given to the melting mood
than Barbara, less naive in her enthusiasms, she took for her
province aesthetic criticism in its totality, and shone rather in
censure than in laudation. French she read passably; German she had
talked so much of studying that it was her belief she had acquired
it; Greek and Latin were beyond her scope, but from modern essayists
who wrote in the flamboyant style she had gathered enough knowledge
of these literatures to be able to discourse of them with a very
fluent inaccuracy. With all schools of painting she was, of course,
quite familiar; the great masters--vulgarly so known--interested
her but moderately, and to praise them was, in her eyes, to incur a
suspicion of philistinism. From her preceptors in this sphere, she
had learnt certain names, old and new, which stood for more
exquisite virtues, and the frequent mention of them with a happy
vagueness made her conversation very impressive to the generality of
people. The same in music. It goes without saying that Madeline was
an indifferentist in politics and on social questions; at the
introduction of such topics, she smiled.
Zillah's position was one of more difficulty. With nothing of her
sisters' superficial cleverness, with a mind that worked slowly, and
a memory irretentive, she had a genuine desire to instruct herself,
and that in a solid way. She alone studied with real persistence,
and, by the irony of fate, she alone continually exposed her
ignorance, committed gross blunders, was guilty of deplorable lapses
of memory. Her unhappy lot kept her in a constant state of
nervousness and shame. She had no worldly tact, no command of her
modest resources, yet her zeal to support the credit of the family
was always driving her into hurried speech, sure to end in some
disastrous pitfall. Conscious of aesthetic defects, Zillah had
chosen for her speciality the study of the history of civilization.
But for being a Denyer, she might have been content to say that she
studied history, and in that case her life might also have been
solaced by the companionship of readable books; but, as modernism
would have it, she could not be content to base her historical
inquiries on anything less than strata of geology and biological
elements, with the result that she toiled day by day at perky little
primers and compendia, and only learnt one chapter that it might be
driven out of her head by the next. Equally out of deference to her
sisters, she smothered her impulses to conventional piety, and made
believe that her spiritual life supported itself on the postulates
of science. As a result of all which, the poor girl was not very
happy, but in that again did she not give proof of belonging to her
time?
There existed a Mr. Denyer, but this gentleman was very seldom
indeed in the bosom of his family. Letters--and remittances--
came from him from the most surprising quarters of the globe. His
profession was that of speculator at large, and, with small
encouragement of any kind, he toiled unceasingly to support his wife
and daughters in their elegant leisure. At one time he was eagerly
engaged in a project for making starch from potatoes in the south of
Ireland. When this failed, he utilized a knowledge of Spanish--
casually picked up, like all his acquirements--and was next heard
of at Veer Cruz, where he dealt in cochineal, indigo, sarsaparilla,
and logwood. Yellow fever interfered with his activity, and after a
brief sojourn with his family in the United States, where they had
joined him with the idea of making a definite settlement, he heard
of something promising in Egypt, and thither repaired. A spare,
vivacious, pathetically sanguine man, always speaking of the day
when he would "settle down" in enjoyment of a moderate fortune, and
most obviously doomed never to settle at all, save in the final home
of mortality.
Mrs. Lessingham and her niece entered the room. On Cecily, as usual,
all eyes were more or less openly directed. Her evening dress was
simple--though with the simplicity not to be commanded by every
one who wills--and her demeanour very far from exacting general
homage; but her birthright of distinction could not be laid aside,
and the suave Mrs. Gluck was not singular in recognizing that here
was such a guest as did not every day grace her _pension_. Barbara
and Madeline Denyer never looked at her without secret pangs. In
appearance, however, they were very friendly, and Cecily had met
their overtures from the first with the simple goodwill natural to
her. She went and seated herself by Madeline, who had on her lap a
little portfolio.
"These are the drawings of which I spoke," said Madeline, half
opening the portfolio.
"Mr. Marsh's? Oh, I shall be glad to see them!"
"Of course, we ought to have daylight, but we'll look at them again
to-morrow. You can form an idea of their character."
They were small water-colours, the work--as each declared in
fantastic signature--of one Clifford Marsh, spoken of by the
Denyers, and by Madeline in particular, as a personal friend. He was
expected to arrive any day in Naples. The subjects, Cecily had been
informed, were natural scenery; the style, impressionist.
Impressionism was no novel term to Cecily, and in Paris she had had
her attention intelligently directed to good work in that kind; she
knew, of course, that, like every other style, it must be judged
with reference to its success in achieving the end proposed. But the
first glance at the first of Mr. Marsh's productions perplexed her.
A study on the Roman Campagna, said Madeline. It might just as well,
for all Cecily could determine, have been a study of cloud-forms, or
of a storm at sea, or of anything. or of nothing; nor did there seem
to be any cogent reason why it should be looked at one way up rather
than the other. Was this genius, or impudence?
"You don't know the Campagna, yet," remarked Madeline, finding that
the other kept silence. "Of course, you can't appreciate the
marvellous truthfulness of this impression; but it gives you new
emotions, doesn't it?"
Mrs. Lessingham would have permitted herself to reply with a pointed
affirmative. Cecily was too considerate of others' feelings for
that, yet had not the habit of smooth falsehood.
"I am not very familiar with this kind of work," she said. "Please
let me just look and think, and tell me your own thoughts about
each."
Madeline was not displeased. Already she had discovered that in most
directions Miss Doran altogether exceeded her own reach, and that it
was not safe to talk conscious nonsense to her. The tone of modesty
seemed unaffected, and, as Madeline had reasons for trying to
believe in Clifford Marsh, it gratified her to feel that here at
length she might tread firmly and hold her own. The examination of
the drawings proceeded, with the result that Cecily's original
misgiving was strongly confirmed. What would Ross Mallard say?
Mallard's own work was not of the impressionist school, and he might
suffer prejudice to direct him; but she had a conviction of how his
remarks would sound were this portfolio submitted to him. Genius--
scarcely. And if not, then assuredly the other thing, and that in
flagrant degree.
Most happily, the dinner-bell came with its peremptory interruption.
"I must see them again to-morrow," said Cecily, in her pleasantest
voice.
At table, the ladies were in a majority. Mr. Bradshaw was the only
man past middle life. Next in age to him came Mr. Musselwhite, who
looked about forty, and whose aquiline nose, high forehead, light
bushy whiskers, and air of vacant satisfaction, marked him as the
aristocrat of the assembly. This gentleman suffered under a truly
aristocratic affliction--the ever-reviving difficulty of passing
his day. Mild in demeanour, easy in the discharge of petty social
obligations, perfectly inoffensive, he came and went like a vivified
statue of gentlemanly _ennui_. Every morning there arrived for him a
consignment of English newspapers; these were taken to his bedroom
at nine o'clock, together with a cup of chocolate. They presumably
occupied him until he appeared in the drawing-room, just before the
hour of luncheon, when, in spite of the freshness of his morning
attire, he seemed already burdened by the blank of time, always
sitting down to the meal with an audible sigh of gratitude.
Invariably he addressed to his neighbour a remark on the direction
of the smoke from Vesuvius. If the neighbour happened to be
uninformed in things Neapolitan, Mr. Musselwhite seized the occasion
to explain at length the meteorologic significance of these varying
fumes. Luncheon over, he rose like one who is summoned to a painful
duty; in fact, the great task of the day was before him--the
struggle with time until the hour of dinner. You would meet him
sauntering sadly about the gardens of the Villa Nazionale, often
looking at his watch, which he always regulated by the cannon of
Sant' Elmo: or gazing with lack-lustre eye at a shop-window in the
Toledo; or sitting with a little glass of Marsala before him in one
of the fashionable _cafes_, sunk in despondency. But when at length
he appeared at the dinner-table, once more fresh from his toilet,
then did a gleam of animation transform his countenance; for the
victory was won; yet again was old time defeated. Then he would
discourse his best. Two topics were his: the weather, and "my
brother the baronet's place in Lincolnshire." The manner of his
monologue on this second and more fruitful subject was really
touching. When so fortunate as to have a new listener, he began by
telling him or her that he was his father's fourth son, and
consequently third brother to Sir Grant Musselwhite--"who goes in
so much for model-farming, you know." At the hereditary "place in
Lincolnshire" he had spent the bloom of his life, which he now
looked back upon with tender regrets. He did not mention the fact
that, at the age of five-and-twenty, he had been beguiled from that
Arcadia by wily persons who took advantage of his innocent youth,
who initiated him into the metropolitan mysteries which sadden the
soul and deplete the pocket, who finally abandoned him upon the
shoal of a youngest brother's allowance when his father passed away
from the place in Lincolnshire, and young Sir Grant, reigning in the
old baronet's stead, deemed himself generous in making the family
scapegrace any provision at all. Yet such were the outlines of Mr.
Musselwhite's history. Had he been the commonplace spendthrift, one
knows pretty well on what lines his subsequent life would have run;
but poor Mr. Musselwhite was at heart a domestic creature. Exiled
from his home, he wandered in melancholy, year after year, round a
circle of continental resorts, never seeking relief in dissipation,
never discovering a rational pursuit, imagining to himself that he
atoned for the disreputable past in keeping far from the track of
his distinguished relatives.
Ah, that place in Lincolnshire! To the listener's mind it became one
of the most imposing of English ancestral abodes. The house was of
indescribable magnitude and splendour. It had a remarkable "turret,"
whence, across many miles of plain, Lincoln Cathedral could be
discovered by the naked eye; it had an interminable drive from the
lodge to the stately portico; it had gardens of fabulous fertility;
it had stables which would have served a cavalry regiment In what
region were the kine of Sir Grant Musselwhite unknown to fame? Who
had not heard of his dairy-produce? Three stories was Mr.
Musselwhite in the habit or telling, scintillating fragments of his
blissful youth; one was of a fox-cub and a terrier; another of a
heifer that went mad; the third, and the most thrilling, of a
dismissed coachman who turned burglar, and in the dead of night
fired shots at old Sir Grant and his sons. In relating these
anecdotes, his eye grew moist and his throat swelled.
Mr. Musselwhite's place at table was next to Barbara Denyer. So long
as Miss Denyer was new, or comparatively new, to her neighbour's
reminiscences, all went well between them. Barbara condescended to
show interest in the place in Lincolnshire; she put pertinent
questions; she smiled or looked appropriately serious in listening
to the three stories. But this could not go on indefinitely, and for
more than a week now conversation between the two had been a trying
matter. For Mr. Musselwhite to sustain a dialogue on such topics as
Barbara had made her own was impossible, and he had no faculty even
for the commonest kind of impersonal talk. He devoted himself to his
dinner in amiable silence, enjoying the consciousness that nearly an
hour of occupation was before him, and that bed-time lay at no
hopeless distance.
Moreover, there was a boy--yet it is doubtful whether he should be
so described; for, though he numbered rather less than sixteen
years, experience had already made him _blase_. He sat beside his
mother, a Mrs. Strangwich. For Master Strangwich the ordinary
sources of youthful satisfaction did not exist; he talked with the
mature on terms of something more than equality, and always gave
them the impression that they had still much to learn. This
objectionable youth had long since been everywhere and seen
everything. The _naivete_ of finding pleasure in novel circumstances
moved him to a pitying surprise. Speak of the glories of the Bay of
Naples, and he would remark, with hands in pockets and head thrown
back, that he thought a good deal more of the Golden Horn. If
climate came up for discussion, he gave an impartial vote, based on
much personal observation, in favour of Southern California. His
parents belonged to the race of modern nomads, those curious beings
who are reviving an early stage of civilization as an ingenious
expedient for employing money and time which they have not
intelligence enough to spend in a settled habitat. It was already
noticed in the _pension_ that Master Strangwich paid somewhat marked
attentions to Madeline Denyer; there was no knowing what might come
about if their acquaintance should be prolonged for a few weeks.
But Madeline had at present something else to think about than the
condescending favour of Master Strangwich. As the guests entered the
dining-room, Mrs. Gluck informed Mrs. Denyer that the English artist
who was looked for had just arrived, and would in a few minutes join
the company. "Mr. Marsh is here," said Mrs. Denyer aloud to her
daughters, in a tone of no particular satisfaction. Madeline glanced
at Miss Doran, who, however, did not seem to have heard the remark.
And, whilst the guests were still busy with their soup, Mr. Clifford
Marsh presented himself. Within the doorway he stood for a moment
surveying the room; with placid eye he selected Mrs. Denyer, and
approached her just to shake hands; her three daughters received
from him the same attention. Words Mr. Marsh had none, but he smiled
as smiles the man conscious of attracting merited observation.
Indeed, it was impossible not to regard Mr. Marsh with curiosity.
His attire was very conventional in itself, but somehow did not look
like the evening uniform of common men: it sat upon him with an
artistic freedom, and seemed the garb of a man superior to his
surroundings. The artist was slight, pale, rather feminine of
feature; he had delicate hands, which he managed to display to
advantage; his auburn hair was not long behind, as might have been
expected, but rolled in a magnificent mass upon his brows. Many were
the affectations whereby his countenance rendered itself unceasingly
interesting. At times he wrinkled his forehead down the middle, and
then smiled at vacancy--a humorous sadness; or his eyes became
very wide as he regarded, yet appeared not to see, some particular
person; or his lips drew themselves in, a symbol of meaning
reticence. All this, moreover, not in such degrees as to make him
patently ridiculous; by no means. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw might
exchange frequent glances, and have a difficulty in preserving
decorum; but they were unsophisticated. Mrs. Lessingham smiled,
indeed, when there came a reasonable pretext, but not
contemptuously. Mr. Marsh's aspect, if anything, pleased her; she
liked these avoidances of the commonplace. Cecily did not fail to
inspect the new arrival. She too was well aware that hatred of
vulgarity constrains many persons who are anything but fools to
emphasize their being in odd ways, and it might still--in spite of
the impressionist water-colours--be proved that Mr. Marsh had a
right to vary from the kindly race of men. She hoped he was really a
person of some account; it delighted her to be with such. And then
she suspected that Madeline Denyer had something more than
friendship for Mr. Marsh, and her sympathies were moved.
"What sort of weather did you leave in England?" Mrs. Denyer
inquired, when the artist was seated next to her.
"I came away from London on the third day of absolute darkness,"
replied Mr. Marsh, genially.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Gluck; and at once translated this news
for the benefit of Frau Wohlgemuth, who murmured, "Ach!" and shook
her head.
"The fog is even yet in my throat," proceeded the artist, to whom
most of the guests were listening. "I can still see nothing but
lurid patches of gaslight on a background of solid mephitic fume.
There are fine effects to be caught, there's no denying it; but not
every man has the requisite physique for such studies. As I came
along here from the railway-station, it occurred to me that the
Dante story might have been repeated in my case; the Neapolitans
should have pointed at me and whispered, 'Behold the man who has
been in hell!'"
Cecily was amused; she looked at Madeline and exchanged a friendly
glance with her. At the same time she was becoming aware that Mr.
Marsh, who sat opposite, vouchsafed her the homage of his gaze
rather too frequently and persistently. It was soon manifest to her,
moreover, that Madeline had noted the same thing, and not with
entire equanimity. So Cecily began to converse with Mrs. Lessingham,
and no longer gave heed to the artist's utterances.
She was going to spend an hour with Miriam this evening, without
express invitation. Mr. Bradshaw would drive up the hill with her,
and doubtless Mr. Spence would see her safely home. Thus she saw no
more for the present of the Denyers' friend.
Those ladies had a private sitting-room, and thither, in the course
of the evening, Clifford Marsh repaired. Barbara and Zillah, with
their mother, remained in the drawing room. On opening the door to
which he had been directed, Marsh found Madeline bent over a book.
She raised her eyes carelessly, and said:
"Oh, I hoped it was Barbara."
"I will tell her at once that you wish to speak to her."
"Don't trouble."
"No trouble at all."
He turned away, and at once Madeline rose impatiently from her
chair, speaking with peremptory accent.
"Please do as I request you! Come and sit down."
Marsh obeyed, and more than obeyed. He kicked a stool close to her,
dropped upon it with one leg curled underneath him, and leaned his
head against her shoulder. Madeline remained passive, her features
still showing the resentment his manner had provoked.
"I've come all this way just to see you, Mad, when I've no right to
be here at all."
"Why no right?"
"I told you to prepare yourself for bad news."
"That's a very annoying habit of yours. I hate to be kept in
suspense in that way. Why can't you always say at once what you
mean? Father does the same thing constantly in his letters. I'm sure
we've quite enough anxiety from him; I don't see why you should
increase it."
Without otherwise moving, he put his arm about her.
"What is it, Clifford? Tell me, and be quick."
"It's soon told, Mad. My step-father informs me that he will
continue the usual allowance until my twenty-sixth birthday--
eighteenth of February next, you know--and no longer than that.
After then, I must look out for myself."
Madeline wrinkled her brows.
"What's the reason?" she asked, after a pause.
"The old trouble. He says I've had quite long enough to make my way
as an artist, if I'm going to make it at all. In his opinion, I am
simply wasting my time and his money. No cash results; that is to
say, no success. Of course, his view."
The girl kept silence. Marsh shifted his position slightly, so as to
get a view of her face.
"Somebody else's too, I'm half afraid," he murmured dubiously.
Madeline was thinking of a look she had caught on Miss Doran's face
when the portfolio disclosed its contents; of Miss Doran's silence;
of certain other person' looks and silence--or worse than silence.
The knitting of her brows became deeper; Marsh felt an uneasy
movement in her frame.
"Speak plainly," he said. "It's far better."
"It's very hot, Clifford. Sit on a chair; we can talk better."
"I understand."
He moved a little away from her, and looked round the room with a
smile of disillusion.
"You needn't insult me," said Madeline, but not with the former
petulance; "Often enough you have done that, and yet I don't think I
have given you cause."
Still crouching upon the stool, he clasped his hands over his knee,
jerked his head back--a frequent movement, to settle his hair--
and smiled with increase of bitterness.
"I meant no insult," he said, "either now or at other times, though
you are always ready to interpret me in that way. I merely hint at
the truth, which would sound disagreeable in plain terms."
"You mean, of course, that I think of nothing--have never thought
of anything--but your material prospects?"
"Why didn't you marry me a year ago, Mad?"
"Because I should have been mad indeed to have done so. You admit it
would have caused your step-father at once to stop his allowance.
And pray what would have become of us?"
"Exactly. See your faith in me, brought to the touchstone!"
"I suppose the present day would have seen you as it now does?"
"Yes, if you had embarrassed me with lack of confidence. Decidedly
not, if you had been to me the wife an artist needs. My future has
lain in your power to make or mar. You have chosen to keep me in
perpetual anxiety, and now you take a suitable opportunity to
overthrow me altogether; or rather, you try to. We will see how
things go when I am free to pursue my course untroubled."
"Do so, by all manner of means!" exclaimed Madeline, her voice
trembling. "Perhaps I shall prove to have been your friend in this
way, at all events. As your wife in London lodgings on the third
floor, I confess it is very unlikely I should have aided you. I
haven't the least belief in projects of that kind. At best, you
would have been forced into some kind of paltry work just to support
me--and where would be the good of our marriage? You know
perfectly well that lots of men have been degraded in this way. They
take a wife to be their Muse, and she becomes the millstone about
their neck; then they hate her--and I don't blame them. What's the
good of saying one moment that you know your work can never appeal
to the multitude, and the next, affecting to believe that our
marriage would make you miraculously successful?"
"Then it would have been better to part before this."
"No doubt--as it turns out."
"Why do you speak bitterly? I am stating an obvious fact."
"If I remember rightly, you had some sort of idea that the fact of
our engagement might help you. That didn't seem to me impossible. It
is a very different thing from marriage on nothing a year."
"You have no faith in me; you never had. And how _could_ you believe
in what you don't understand? I see now what I have been forced to
suspect--that your character is just as practical as that of other
women. Your talk of art is nothing more than talk. You think, in
truth, of pounds, shillings and pence."
"I think of them a good deal," said Madeline, "and I should be an
idiot if I didn't. What is art if the artist has nothing to live on?
Pray, what are _you_ going to do henceforth? Shall you scorn the
mention of pounds, shillings and pence? Come to see me when you have
had no dinner to-day, and are feeling very uncertain about breakfast
in the morning, and I will say, 'Pooh! your talk about art was after
all nothing but talk; you are a sham!'"
Marsh's leg began to ache. He rose and moved about the room.
Madeline at length turned her eyes to him; he was brooding
genuinely, and not for effect. Her glance discerned this.
"Well, and what _are_ you going to do, ill fact?" she asked.
"I'm hanged if I know, Mad; and there's the truth."
He turned and regarded her with wide eyes, seriously perceptive of a
blank horizon.
"I've asked him to let me have half the money, but he refuses even
that. His object is, of course, to compel me into the life of a
Philistine. I believe the fellow thinks it's kindness; I know my
mother does. She, of course, has as little faith in me as you have."
Madeline did not resent this. She regarded the floor for a minute,
and, without raising her eyes, said:
"Come here, Clifford."
He approached. Still without raising her eyes, she again spoke.
"Do you believe in yourself?"
The words were impressive. Marsh gave a start, uttered an impatient
sound, and half turned away.
"Do you believe in yourself, Clifford?"
"Of course I do!" came from him blusterously.
"Very well. In that case, struggle on. If you care for the kind of
help you once said I could give you. I will try to give it still.
Paint something that will sell, and go on with the other work at the
same time."
"Something that will sell!" he exclaimed, with disgust. "I can't, so
there's an end of it."
"And an end of your artist life, it seems to me. Unless you have any
other plan?"
"I wondered whether you could suggest any."
Madeline shook her head slowly. They both brooded in a cheerless
way. When the girl again spoke, it was in an undertone, as if not
quite sure that she wished to be heard.
"I had rather you were an artist than anything else, Clifford."
Marsh decided not to hear. He thrust his hands deeper into his
pockets, and trod about the floor heavily. Madeline made another
remark.
"I suppose the kind of work that is proposed for you would leave you
no time for art?"
"Pooh! of course not. Who was ever Philistine and artist at the same
time?"
"Well, it's a bad job. I wish I could help you. I wish I had money.
"If you had, _I_ shouldn't benefit by it," was the exasperated
reply.
"Will you please to do what you were going to do at first, and tell
Barbara I wish to speak to her?"
"Yes, I will."
His temper grew worse. In his weakness he really had thought it
likely that Madeline would suggest something hopeful. Men of his
stamp constantly entertain unreasonable expectations, and are angry
when the unreason is forced upon their consciousness.
"One word before you go, please," said Madeline, standing up and
speaking with emphasis. "After what you said just now, this is, of
course, our last interview of this kind. When we meet again--and I
think it would be gentlemanly in you to go and live somewhere
else--you are Mr. Marsh, and I, if you please, am Miss Denyer."
"I will bear it in mind."
"Thank you." He still lingered near the door. "Be good enough to
leave me."
He made an effort and left the room. When the door had closed,
Madeline heaved a deep sigh, and was for some minutes in a brown, if
not a black, study. Then she shivered a little, sighed again, and
again took up the volume she had been reading. It was Daudet's "Les
Femmes d'Artistes."
Not long after, all the Denyers were reunited in their sitting-room.
Mrs. Denyer had brought up an open letter.
"From your father again," she said, addressing the girls conjointly.
"I am sure he wears me out. This is worse than the last. 'The fact
of the matter is, I must warn you very seriously that I can't supply
you with as much as I have been doing. I repeat that I am serious
this time. It's a horrible bore, and a good deal worse than a bore.
If I could keep your remittances the same by doing on less myself, I
would, but there's no possibility of that. I shall be in Alexandria
in ten days, and perhaps Colossi will have some money for me, but I
can't count on it. Things have gone deuced badly, and are likely to
go even worse, as far as I can see. Do think about getting less
expensive quarters. I wish to heaven poor little Mad could get
married! Hasn't Marsh any prospects yet?'"
"That's all at an end," remarked Madeline, interrupting. "We've just
come to an understanding."
Mrs. Denyer stared.
"You've broken off?"
"Mr. Marsh's allowance is to be stopped. His prospects are worse
than ever. What's the good of keeping up our engagement?"
There was a confused colloquy between all four. Barbara shrugged her
fair shoulders; Zillah looked very gravely and pitifully at
Madeline. Madeline herself seemed the least concerned.
"I won't have this!" cried Mrs. Denyer, finally. "His step-father is
willing to give him a position in business, and he must accept it;
then the marriage can be soon."
"The marriage will decidedly _not_ be soon, mother!" replied
Madeline, haughtily. "I shall judge for myself in this, at all
events."
"You are a silly, empty-headed girl!" retorted her mother, with
swelling bosom and reddening face. "You have quarrelled on some
simpleton's question, no doubt. He will accept his step-father's
offer; we know that well enough. He ought to have done so a year
ago, and our difficulties would have been lightened. Your father
means what he says?"
"Wolf!" cried Barbara, petulantly.
"Well, I can see that the wolf has come at last, in good earnest. My
girl, you'll have to become more serious Barbara, _you_ at all
events, cannot afford to trifle."
"I am no trifler!" cried the enthusiast for Italian unity and
regeneracy.
"Let us have proof of that, then." Mrs. Denyer looked at her
meaningly.
"Mother," said Zillah, earnestly, "do let me write to Mrs.
Stonehouse, and beg her to find me a place as nursery governess. I
can manage that, I feel sure."
"I'll think about it, dear. But, Madeline, I insist on your putting
an end to this ridiculous state of things. You will _order_ him to
take the position offered."
"Mother, I can do nothing of the kind. if necessary, I'll go for a
governess as well."
Thereupon Zillah wept, protesting that such desecration was
impossible. The scene prolonged itself to midnight. On the morrow,
with the exception of Mrs. Denyer's resolve to subdue Marsh, all was
forgotten, and the Denyer family pursued their old course, putting
off decided action until there should come another cry of "Wolf!"
CHAPTER IV
MIRIAM'S BROTHER
But for the aid of his wife's more sympathetic insight, Edward
Spence would have continued to interpret Miriam's cheerless frame of
mind as a mere result of impatience at being removed from the
familiar scenes of her religious activity, and of disquietude amid
uncongenial surroundings. "A Puritan at Naples"--that was the
phrase which represented her to his imagination; his liking for the
picturesque and suggestive led him to regard her solely in that
light. No strain of modern humanitarianism complicated Miriam's
character. One had not to take into account a possible melancholy
produced by the contrast between her life of ease in the South, and
the squalor of laborious multitudes under a sky of mill-smoke and
English fog. Of the new philanthropy she spoke, if at all, with
angry scorn, holding it to be based on rationalism, radicalism,
positivism, or whatsoever name embodied the conflict between the
children of this world and the children of light. Far from Miriam
any desire to abolish the misery which was among the divinely
appointed conditions of this preliminary existence. No; she was
uncomfortable, and content that others should be so, for
discomfort's sake. It fretted her that the Sunday in Naples could
not be as universally dolorous as it was at Bartles. It revolted her
to hear happy voices in a country abandoned to heathendom.
"Whenever I see her looking at old Vesuvius," said Spence to
Eleanor, his eye twinkling, "I feel sure that she muses on the
possibility of another tremendous outbreak. She regards him in a
friendly way; he is the minister of vengeance."
Eleanor's discernment was not long in bringing her to a modification
of this estimate.
"I am convinced, Ned, that her thoughts are not so constantly at
Bartles as we imagine. In any case, I begin to understand what she
suffers from most. It is want of occupation for her mind. She is
crushed with _ennui_."
"This is irreverence. As well attribute _ennui_ to the Prophet
Jeremiah meditating woes to come."
"I allow you your joke, but I am right for all that. She has nothing
to think about that profoundly interests her; her books are all but
as sapless to her as to you or me. She is sinking into melancholia."
"But, my dear girl, the chapel!"
"She only pretends to think of it. Miriam is becoming a hypocrite I
have noted several little signs of it since Cecily came. She
poses--and in wretchedness. Please to recollect that her age is
four-and-twenty."
"I do so frequently, and marvel at human nature."
"I do so, and without marvelling at all, for I see human nature
justifying itself. I'll tell you what I am going to do, I shall
propose to her to begin and read Dante."
"The 'Inferno.' Why, yes."
"And I shall craftily introduce to her attention one or two wicked
and worldly little books, such as, 'The Improvisatore,' and the
'Golden Treasury,' and so on. Any such attempts at first would have
been premature; but I think the time has come."
Miriam knew no language but her own, and Eleanor by no means
purposed inviting her to a course of grammar and exercise. She
herself, with her husband's assistance, had learned to read Italian
in the only rational way for mature-minded persons--simply taking
the text and a close translation, and glancing from time to time at
a skeleton accidence. This, of course, will not do in the case of
fools, but Miriam Baske, all appearances notwithstanding, did not
belong to that category. On hearing her cousin's proposition, she at
first smiled coldly; but she did not reject it, and in a day or two
they had made a fair beginning of the 'Inferno.' Such a beginning,
indeed, as surprised Eleanor, who was not yet made aware that Miriam
worked at the book in private with feverish energy--drank at the
fountain like one perishing of thirst. Andersen's exquisite story
was not so readily accepted, yet this too before long showed a
book-marker. And Miriam's countenance brightened; she could not
conceal this effect. Her step was a little lighter, and her speech
became more natural.
A relapse was to be expected; it came at the bidding of sirocco. One
morning the heavens lowered, grey, rolling; it might have been
England. Vesuvius, heavily laden at first with a cloud like that on
Olympus when the gods are wrathful, by degrees passed from vision,
withdrew its form into recesses of dun mists. The angry blue of
Capri faded upon a troubled blending of sea and sky; everywhere the
horizon contracted and grew mournful; rain began to fall.
Miriam sank as the heavens darkened. The strength of which she had
lately been conscious forsook her; all her body was oppressed with
languor, her mind miserably void. No book made appeal to her, and
the sight of those which she had bought from home was intolerable.
She lay upon a couch, her limbs torpid, burdensome. Eleanor's
company was worse than useless.
"Please leave me alone," she said at length. "The sound of your
voice irritates inc."
An hour went by, and no one disturbed her mood. Her languor was on
the confines of sleep, when a knock at the door caused her to stir
impatiently and half raise herself. It was her maid who entered,
holding a note.
"A gentleman has called, ma'am. He wished me to give you this."
Miriam glanced at the address, and at once stood up, only her pale
face witnessing the lack of energy of a moment ago.
"Is he waiting?"
"Yes, ma'am."
The note was of two or three lines:--"Will you let me see you? Of
course I mean alone. It's a long time since we saw each other.--R.
E."
"I will see him in this room."
The footstep of the maid as she came back along the tiled corridor
was accompanied by one much heavier. Miriam kept her eyes turned to
the door; her look was of pained expectancy and of sternness. She
stood close by the window, as if purposely drawing as far away as
possible. The visitor was introduced, and the door closed behind
him.
He too, stood still, as far from Miriam as might be. His age seemed
to be seven- or eight-and-twenty, and the cast of his features so
strongly resembled Miriam's that there was no doubt of his being her
brother. Yet he had more beauty as a man than she as a woman. Her
traits were in him developed so as to lose severity and attain a
kind of vigour, which at first sight promised a rich and generous
nature; his excellent forehead and dark imaginative eyes indicated a
mind anything but likely to bear the trammels in which Miriam had
grown up. In the attitude with which he waited for his sister to
speak there was both pride and shame; his look fell before hers, but
the constrained smile on his lips was one of self-esteem at issue
with adversity. He wore the dress of a gentleman, but it was
disorderly. His light overcoat hung unbuttoned, and in his hand he
crushed together a bat of soft felt.
"Why have you come to see me, Reuben?" Miriam asked at length,
speaking with difficulty and in an offended Lone.
"Why shouldn't I, Miriam?" he returned quietly, stepping nearer to
her. "Till a few days ago I knew nothing of the illness you have
had, or I should, at all events, have written. When I heard you had
come to Naples, I--well, I followed. I might as well be here as
anywhere else, and I felt a wish to see you."
"Why should you wish to see me? What does it matter to you whether I
am well or ill?"
"Yes, it matters, though of course you find it hard to believe."
"Very, when I remember the words with which you last parted from me.
If I was hateful to you then, how am I less so now?"
"A man in anger, and especially one of my nature, often says more
than he means. It was never _you_ that were hateful to me, though
your beliefs and your circumstances might madden me into saying such
a thing."
"My beliefs, as I told you then, are a part of myself--_are_
myself."
She said it with irritable insistence--an accent which would
doubtless have been significant in the ears of Eleanor Spence.
"I don't wish to speak of that. Have you recovered your health,
Miriam?"
"I am better."
He came nearer again, throwing his hat aside.
"Will you let me sit down? I've had a long journey in third-class,
and I feel tired. Such weather as this doesn't help to make me
cheerful. I imagined Naples with a rather different sky."
Miriam motioned towards a chair, and looked drearily from the window
at the dreary sea. Neither spoke again for two or three minutes.
Reuben Elgar surveyed the room, but inattentively.
"What is it you want of me?" Miriam asked, facing him abruptly.
"Want? You hint that I have come to ask you for money?"
"I shouldn't have thought it impossible. If you were in need--you
spoke of a third-class journey--I am, at all events, the natural
person for your thoughts to turn to."
Reuben laughed dispiritedly.
"No, no, Miriam; I haven't quite got to that. You are the very last
person I should think of in such a case."
"Why?"
"Simply because I am not quite so contemptible as you think me. I
don't quarrel with my sister, and come back after some years to make
it up just because I want to make a demand on her purse."
"You haven't accustomed me to credit you with high motives, Reuben."
"No. And I have never succeeded in making you understand me. I
suppose it's hopeless that you ever will. We are too different. You
regard me as a vulgar reprobate, who by some odd freak of nature
happens to be akin to you. I can picture so well what your
imagination makes of me. All the instances of debauchery and general
blackguardism that the commerce of life has forced upon your
knowledge go towards completing the ideal. It's a pity. I have
always felt that you and I might have been a great deal to each
other if you had had a reasonable education. I remember you as a
child rebelling against the idiocies of your training, before your
brain and soul had utterly yielded; then you were my sister, and
even then, if it had been possible, I would have dragged you away
and saved you."
"I thank Heaven," said Miriam, "that my childhood was in other hands
than yours!"
"Yes; and it is very bitter to me to hear you say so."
Miriam kept silence, but looked at him less disdain fully.
"I suppose," he said, "the people you are staying with have much the
same horror of my name as you have."
"You speak as loosely as you think. The Spences can scarcely respect
you."
"You purpose remaining with them all the winter?"
"It is quite uncertain. With what intentions have you come here? Do
you wish me to speak of you to the Spences or not?"
He still kept looking about the room. Perhaps upon him too the
baleful southern wind was exercising its influence, for he sat
listlessly when he was not speaking, and had a weary look.
"You may speak of me or not, as you like. I don't see that
anything's to be gained by my meeting them; but I'll do just as you
please."
"You mean to stay in Naples?"
"A short time. I've never been here before, and, as I said, I may as
well be here as anywhere else."
"When did you last see Mr. Mallard?"
"Mallard? Why, what makes you speak of him?"
"You made his acquaintance, I think, not long after you last saw
me."
"Ha! I understand. That was why he sought me out. You and your
friends sent him to me as a companion likely to 'do me good.'"
"I knew nothing of Mr. Mallard then--nothing personally. But be
doesn't seem to be the kind of man whose interest you would resent."
"Then you know him?" Reuben asked, in a tone of some pleasure.
"He is in Naples at present."
"I'm delighted to hear it. Mallard is an excellent fellow, in his
own way, Somehow I've lost sight of him for a long time. He's
painting here, I suppose? Where can I find him?"
"I don't know his address, but I can at once get it for you. You are
sure that he will welcome you?"
"Why not? Have you spoken to him about me?"
"No," Miriam replied distantly.
"Why shouldn't he welcome me, then? We were very good friends. Do
you attribute to him such judgments as your own?"
His way of speaking was subject to abrupt changes. When, as in this
instance, he broke forth impulsively, there was a corresponding
gleam in his fine eyes and a nervous tension in all his frame. His
voice had an extraordinary power of conveying scornful passion; at
such moments he seemed to reveal a profound and strong nature.
"I am very slightly acquainted with Mr. Mallard," Miriam answered,
with the cold austerity which was the counterpart in her of Reuben's
fiery impulsiveness, "but I understand that he is considered
trustworthy and honourable by people of like character."
Elgar rose from his chair, and in doing so all but flung it down.
"Trustworthy and honourable! Why, so is many a greengrocer. How the
artist would be flattered to hear this estimate of his personality!
The honourable Mallard! I must tell him that."
"You will not dare to repeat words from my lips!" exclaimed Miriam,
sternly. "You have sunk lower even than I thought."
"What limit, then, did you put to my debasement? In what direction
had I still a scrap of trustworthiness and honour left?"
"Tell me that yourself, instead of talking to no purpose in this
frenzied way. Why do you come here, if you only wish to renew our
old differences?"
"You were the first to do so."
"Can I pretend to be friendly with you, Reuben? What word of
penitence have you spoken? In what have you amended yourself? Is not
every other sentence you speak a defence of yourself and scorn upon
me?"
"And what right have you to judge me? Of course I defend myself, and
as scornfully as you like, when I am despised and condemned by one
who knows as little of me as the first stranger I pass on the road.
Cannot you come forward with a face like a sister's, and leave my
faults for my own conscience? _You_ judge me! What do you, with your
nun's experiences, your heart chilled, your paltry view of the world
through a chapel window, know of a man whose passions boil in him
like the fire in yonder mountain? I should subdue my passions.
Excellent text for a copy book in a girls' school! I should be
another man than I am; I should remould myself; I should cool my
brain with doctrine. With a bullet, if you like; say that, and you
will tell the truth. But with the truth you have nothing to do; too
long ago you were taught that you must never face that. Do you deal
as truthfully with yourself as I with my own heart? I wonder, I
wonder."
Miriam's eyes had fallen. She stood quite motionless, with a face of
suffering.
"You want me to confess my sins?" Reuben continued, walking about in
uncontrollable excitement. "What is your chapel formula? Find one
comprehensive enough, and let me repeat it after you; only mind that
it includes hypocrisy, for the sake of the confession. I tell you I
am conscious of no sins. Of follies, of ignorances, of miseries--
as many as you please. And to what account should they all go? Was I
so admirably guided in childhood and boyhood that my subsequent life
is not to be explained? It succeeded in your case, my poor sister.
Oh, nobly! Don't be afraid that I shall outrage you by saying all I
think. But just think of _me_ as a result of Jewish education
applied to an English lad, and one whose temperament was plain
enough to eyes of ordinary penetration. My very name! Your name,
too! You it has made a Jew in soul; upon me it weighs like a curse
as often as I think of it. It symbolizes all that is making my life
a brutal failure--a failure--a failure!"
He threw himself upon the couch and became silent, his strength at
an end, even his countenance exhausted of vitality, looking haggard
and almost ignoble. Miriam stirred at length, for the first time,
and gazed steadily at him.
"Reuben, let us have an end of this," she said, in a voice half
choked. "Stay or go as you will; but I shall utter no more
reproaches. You must make of your life what you can. As you say, I
don't understand you. Perhaps the mere fact of my being a woman is
enough to make that impossible. Only don't throw your scorn at me
for believing what you can't believe. Talk quietly; avoid those
subjects; tell me, if you wish to, what you are doing or think of
doing."
"You should have spoken like this earlier, Miriam. It would have
spared my memory its most wretched burden."
"How?"
"You know quite well that I valued your affection, and that it had
no little importance in my life. Instead of still having my sister,
I had only the memory of her anger and injustice, and of my own
cursed temper."
"I had no influence for good."
"Perhaps not in the common sense of the words. I am not going to
talk humbug about a woman's power to make a man angelic; that will
do for third-rate novels and plays. But I shouldn't have thrown
myself away as I have done if you had cared to know what I was
doing."
"Did I not care, Reuben?"
"If so, you thought it was your duty not to show it. You thought
harshness was the only proper treatment for a case such as mine. I
had had too much of that."
"What did you mean just now by speaking as though you were poor?"
"I have been poor for a long time--poor compared with what I was.
Most of my money has gone--on the fool's way. I haven't come here
to lament over it. It's one of my rules never, if I can help it, to
think of the past. What has been, has been; and what will be, will
be. When I fume and rage like an idiot, that's only the blood in me
getting the better of the brain; an example of the fault that always
wrecks me. Do you think I cannot see myself? Just now, I couldn't
keep back the insensate words--insensate because useless--but I
judged myself all the time as distinctly as I do now it's over."
"Your money gone, Reuben?" murmured his sister, in consternation.
"You might have foreseen that. Come and sit down by me, Miriam. I am
tired and wretched. Where is the sun? Surely one may have sunshine
at Naples!"
He was now idly fretful. Miriam seated herself at his side, and he
took her hand.
"I thought you might perhaps receive me like this at first. I came
only with that hope. I wish you looked better, Miriam. How do you
employ yourself here?"
"I am much out of doors. I get stronger."
"You spoke of old Mallard. I'm glad he is here, really glad. You
know, Mallard's a fellow of no slight account; I should think you
might even like him."
"But yourself, Reuben?"
"No, no; let me rest a little. I'm sick and tired of myself. Let's
talk of old Mallard. And what's become of little Cecily Doran?"
"She is here--with her aunt."
"She here too! By Jove! Well, of course, I shall have nothing to do
with them. Mallard still acting as her guardian, I suppose. Rather a
joke, that. I never could get him to speak on the subject. But I
feel glad you know him. He's a solid fellow, tremendously
conscientious; just the things you would like in a man, no doubt.
Have you seen any of his paintings?"
Miriam shook her head absently, unable to find voice for the topic,
which was remote from her thoughts.
"He's done fine things, great things. I shall look him up, and we'll
drink a bottle of wine together."
He kept stroking Miriam's hand, a white hand with blue veins--a
strong hand, though so delicately fashioned. The touch of the
wedding-ring again gave a new direction to his discursive thoughts.
"After this, shall you go back to that horrible hole in Lancashire?"
"I hope to go back home, certainly."
"Home, home!" he muttered, impatiently. "It has made you ill, poor
girl. Stay in Italy a long time, now you are once here. For you to
he here at all seems a miracle; it gives me hopes."
Miriam did not resent this, in word at all events. She was
submitting again to physical oppression; her head drooped, and her
abstracted gaze was veiled with despondent lassitude. Reuben talked
idly, in loose sentences.
"Do you think of me as old or young, Miriam?" he asked, when both
had kept silence for a while.
"I no longer think of you as older than myself."
"That is natural. I imagined that. In one way I am old enough, but
in another I am only just beginning my life, and have all my
energies fresh. I shall do something yet; can you believe it?"
"Do what?" she asked, wearily.
"Oh, I have plans; all sorts of plans."
He joined his hands together behind his head, and began to stir with
a revival of mental energy.
"But plans of what sort?"
"There is only one direction open to me. My law has of course gone
to--to limbo; it was always an absurdity. Most of my money has
gone the same way, and I'm not sorry for it. If I had never had
anything, I should have set desperately to work long ago. Now I am
bound to work, and you will see the results. Of course, in our days,
there's only one road for a man like me. I shall go in for
literature."
Miriam listened, but made no comment.
"My life hitherto has not been wasted," Elgar pursued, leaning
forward with a new light on his countenance. "I have been gaining
experience. Do you understand? Few men at my age have seen more of
life--the kind of life that is useful as literary material. It's
only quite of late that I have begun to appreciate this, to see all
the possibilities that are in myself. It has taken all this time to
outgrow the miserable misdirection of my boyhood, and to become a
man of my time. Thank the fates, I no longer live in the Pentateuch,
but at the latter end of the nineteenth century. Many a lad has to
work this deliverance for himself nowadays. I don't wish to speak
unkindly any more, Miriam, but I must tell you plain facts. Some
fellows free themselves by dint of hard study. In my case that was
made impossible by all sorts of reasons--temperament mainly, as
you know. I was always a rebel against my fetters; I had not to
learn that liberty was desirable, but how to obtain it, and what use
to make of it. All the disorder through which I have gone was a
struggle towards self-knowledge and understanding of my time. You
and others are wildly in error in calling it dissipation,
profligacy, recklessness, and so on. You at least, Miriam, ought to
have judged me more truly; you, at all events, should not have
classed me with common men."
His eyes were now agleam, and the beauty of his countenance fully
manifest. He held his head in a pose of superb confidence. There was
too much real force in his features to make this seem a
demonstration of idle vanity. Miriam regarded him, and continued to
do so.
"To be sure, my powers are in your eyes valueless," he pursued; "or
rather, your eyes have never been opened to anything of the kind.
The nineteenth century is nothing to you; its special opportunities
and demands and characteristics would revolt you if they were made
clear to your intelligence. If I tell you I am before everything a
man of my time, I suppose this seems only a cynical confession of
all the weaknesses and crimes you have already attributed to me? It
shall not always be so! Why, what are you, after all, Miriam?
Twenty-three, twenty-four--which is it? Why, you are a child
still; your time of education is before you. You are a child come to
Italy to learn what can be made of life!"
She averted her face, but smiled, and not quite so coldly as of
wont. She could not but think of Cecily, whose words a few days ago
had been in spirit so like these, so like them in the ring of
enthusiasm.
"Some day," Elgar went on, exalting himself more and more, "you
shall wonder in looking back on this scene between us--wonder how
you could have been so harsh to me. It is impossible that you and I,
sole brother and sister, should move on constantly diverging paths.
Tell me--you are not really without some kind of faith in my
abilities?"
"You know it has always been my grief that you put the in to no
use."
"Very well. But it remains for you to learn what my powers really
are, and to bring yourself to sympathize with my direction. You are
a child--there is my hope. You shall be taught--yes, yes! Your
obstinacy shall be overcome; you shall be made to see your own
good!"
"And who is to be so kind as to take charge of my education?" Miriam
asked, without looking at him, in an idly contemptuous tone.
"Why not old Mallard?" cried Reuben, breaking suddenly into jest.
"The tutorship of children is in his line."
Miriam showed herself offended.
"Please don't speak of me. I am willing to hear what you purpose for
yourself, but don't mix my name with it."
Elgar resumed the tone of ambition. Whether he had in truth definite
literary schemes could not be gathered from the rhetoric on which he
was borne. His main conviction seemed to be that he embodied the
spirit of his time, and would ere long achieve a work of notable
significance, the fruit of all his experiences. Miriam, though with
no sign of strong interest, gave him her full attention.
"Do you intend to work here?" she asked at length.
"I can't say. At present I am anything but well, and I shall get
what benefit I can from Naples first of all. I suppose the sun will
shine again before long? This sky is depressing."
He stood up, and went to the windows; then came back with uncertain
step.
"You'll tell the Spences I've been?"
"I think I had better. They will know, of course, that I have had a
visitor."
"Should I see them?" he asked, with hesitation.
"Just as you please."
"I shall have to, sooner or later. Why not now?"
Miriam pondered.
"I'll go and see if they are at leisure."
During her absence, Elgar examined the books on the table. He turned
over each one with angry mutterings. The chapel plans were no longer
lying about; only yesterday Miriam had rolled them up and put them
away--temporarily. Before the "St. Cecilia" he stood in thoughtful
observation, and was still there when Miriam returned. She had a
look of uneasiness.
"Miss Doran and her aunt are with Mrs. Spence, Reuben."
"Oh, in that case--" he began carelessly, with a wave of the arm.
"But they will be glad to see you."
"Indeed? I look rather seedy, I'm afraid."
"Take off your overcoat."
"I'm all grimy. I came here straight from the railway."
"Then go into my bedroom and make yourself presentable."
A few moments sufficed for this. As she waited for his return,
Miriam stood with knitted brows, her eyes fixed on the floor. Reuben
reappeared, and she examined him.
"You're bitterly ashamed of me, Miriam."
She made no reply, and at once led the way along the corridor.
Mrs. Spence had met Reuben in London, since her marriage; by
invitation he came to her house, but neglected to repeat the visit.
To Mrs. Lessingham he was personally a stranger. But neither of
these ladies received the honour of much attention from him for the
first few moments after he had entered the room; his eyes and
thoughts were occupied with the wholly unexpected figure of Cecily
Doran. In his recollection, she was a slight, pale, shy little girl,
fond of keeping in corners with a book, and seemingly marked out for
a life of dissenting piety and provincial surroundings. She had
interested him little in those days, and seldom did anything to
bring herself under his notice. He last saw her when she was about
twelve. Now he found himself in the presence of a beautiful woman,
every line of whose countenance told of instruction, thought,
spirit; whose bearing was refined beyond anything he had yet
understood by that word; whose modest revival of old acquaintance
made his hand thrill at her touch, and his heart beat confusedly as
he looked into her eyes. With difficulty he constrained himself to
common social necessities, and made show of conversing with the
elder ladies. He wished to gaze steadily at the girl's face, and
connect past with present; to revive his memory of six years ago,
and convince himself that such development was possible. At the same
time he became aware of a reciprocal curiosity in Cecily. When he
turned towards her she met his glance, and when he spoke she gave
him a smile of pleased attentiveness. The consequence was that he
soon began to speak freely, to pick his words, no balance his
sentences and shun the commonplace.
"I saw Florence and Rome in '76," he replied to a question from Mrs.
Lessingham. "In Rome my travelling companion fell ill, and we
returned without coming further south. It is wrong, however, to say
that I _saw_ anything; my mind was in far too crude a state to
direct my eyes to any purpose. I stared about me a good deal, and
got some notions of topography, and there the matter ended for the
time."
"The benefit came with subsequent reflection, no doubt," said Mrs.
Lessingham, who found one of her greatest pleasures in listening to
the talk of young men with brains. Whenever it was possible, she
gathered such individuals about her and encouraged them to discourse
of themselves, generally quite as much to their satisfaction as to
her own. Already she had invited with some success the confidence of
Mr. Clifford Marsh, who proved interesting, but not unfathomable; he
belonged to a class with which she was tolerably familiar. Reuben
Elgar, she perceived at once, was not without characteristics
linking him to that same group of the new generation, but it seemed
probable that its confines were too narrow for him. There was
comparatively little affectation in his manner, and none in his
aspect; his voice rang with a sincerity which claimed serious
audience, and his eyes had something more than surface gleamings.
Possibly he belonged to the unclassed and the unclassable, in which
case the interest attaching to him was of the highest kind.
"Subsequent reflection," returned Elgar, "has, at all events,
enabled me to see myself as I then was; and I suppose self-knowledge
is the best result of travel."
"If one agrees that self-knowledge is ever a good at all," said the
speculative lady, with her impartial smile.
"To be sure." Elgar looked keenly at her, probing the significance
of the remark. "The happy human being will make each stage of his
journey a phase of more or less sensual enjoyment, delightful at the
time and valuable in memory. The excursion will be his life in
little. I envy him, but I can't imitate him."
"Why envy him?" asked Eleanor.
"Because he is happy; surely a sufficient ground."
"Yet you give the preference to self-knowledge."
"Yes, I do. Because in that direction my own nature tends to develop
itself. But I envy every lower thing in creation. I won't pretend to
say how it is with other people who are forced along an upward path;
in my own case every step is made with a groan, and why shouldn't I
confess it?"
"To do so enhances the merit of progress," observed Mrs. Lessingham,
mischievously.
"Merit? I know nothing of merit. I spoke of myself being _forced_
upwards. If ever I feel that I am slipping back, I shall state it
with just as little admission of shame."
Miriam heard this modern dialogue with grave features. At Bartles,
such talk would have qualified the talker for social
excommunication, and every other pain and penalty Bartles had in its
power to inflict. She observed that Cecily's interest increased. The
girl listened frankly; no sense of anything improper appeared in her
visage. Nay, she was about to interpose a remark.
"Isn't there a hope, Mr. Elgar, that this envy of which you speak
will be one of the things that the upward path leaves behind?"
"I should like to believe it, Miss Doran," he answered, his eyes
kindling at hers. "It's true that I haven't yet gone very far."
"I like so much to believe it that I _do_ believe it," the girl
continued impulsively.
"Your progress in that direction exceeds mine."
"Don't be troubled by the compliment," interjected Eleanor, before
Cecily could speak. "There is no question of merit."
Mrs. Lessingham laughed.
The rain still fell, and the grey heavens showed no breaking.
Shortly after this, Elgar would have risen to take his leave, but
Mrs. Spence begged him to remain and lunch with them. The visitors
from the Mergellina declined a similar invitation.
Edward Spence was passing his morning at the Museum. On his return
at luncheon-time, Eleanor met him with the intelligence that Reuben
Elgar had presented himself, and was now in his sister's room.
"_In forma pauperis_, presumably," said Spence, raising his
eyebrows.
"I can't say, but I fear it isn't impossible. Cecily and her aunt
happened to call this morning, and he had some talk with them."
"Is he very much of a blackguard?" inquired her husband,
disinterestedly.
"Indeed, no. That is to say, externally and in his conversation.
It's a decided improvement on our old impressions of him."
"I'm glad to hear it," was the dry response.
"He has formed himself in some degree. Hints that he is going to
produce literature."
"Of course." Spence laughed merrily. "The last refuge of a
scoundrel."
"I don't like to judge him so harshly, Ned. He has a fine face."
"And is Miriam killing the fatted calf?"
"His arrival seems to embarrass rather than delight her."
"Depend upon it, the fellow has come to propose a convenient
division of her personal property."
When he again appeared, Elgar was in excellent spirits. He met
Spence with irresistible frankness and courtesy; his talk made the
luncheon cheery, and dismissed thought of sirocco. It appeared that
he had as yet no abode; his luggage was at the station. A suggestion
that he should seek quarters under the same roof with Mallard
recommended itself to him.
"I feel like a giant refreshed," he declared, in privately taking
leave of Miriam. "Coming to Naples was an inspiration."
She raised her lips to his for the first time, but said nothing.
CHAPTER V
THE ARTIST ASTRAY
From the Strada di Chiaia, the narrow street winding between immense
houses, all day long congested with the merry tumult of Neapolitan
traffic, where herds of goats and much cows placidly make their way
among vehicles of every possible and impossible description; where
_cocchieri_ crack their whips and belabour their hapless cattle, and
yell their "Ah--h--h! Ah--h--h!"--where teams of horse,
ox, and ass, the three abreast, drag piles of country produce,
jingling their fantastic harness, and primitive carts laden with
red-soaked wine-casks rattle recklessly along; where bare-footed,
girdled, and tonsured monks plod on their no-business, and every
third man one passes is a rotund ecclesiastic, who never in his life
walked at more than a mile an hour; where, at evening, carriages
returning from the Villa Nazionale cram the thoroughfare from side
to side, and make one aware, if one did not previously know it, that
parts of the street have no pedestrians' pavement;--from the
Strada di Chiaia (now doomed, alas! by the exigencies of _lo
sventramento_ and _il risanamento_) turn into the public staircase
and climb through the dusk, with all possible attention to where you
set your foot, past the unmelodious beggars, to the Ponte di Chiaia,
bridge which spans the roadway and looks down upon its crowd and
clamour as into a profound valley; thence proceed uphill on the lava
paving, between fruit-shops and sausage-shops and wine-shops, always
in an atmosphere of fried oil and roasted chestnuts and baked
pine-cones; and presently turn left into a still narrower street,
with tailors and boot-makers and smiths all at work in the open air;
and pass through the Piazzetta Mondragone, and turn again to the
left, but this time downhill; then lose yourself amid filthy little
alleys, where the scent of oil and chestnuts and pine-cones is
stronger than ever; then emerge on a little terrace where there is a
noble view of the bay and of Capri; then turn abruptly between walls
overhung with fig-trees and orange-trees and lemon-trees,--and you
will reach Casa Rolandi.
It is an enormous house, with a great arched entrance admitting to
the inner court, where on the wall is a Madonna's shrine,
lamp-illumined of evenings. A great staircase leads up from floor to
floor. On each story are two tenements, the doors facing each other.
In 1878, one of the apartments at the very top--an ascent equal to
that of a moderate mountain--was in the possession of a certain
Signora Bassano, whose name might be read on a brass plate. This
lady had furnished rooms to let, and here it was that Ross Mallard
established himself for the few days that he proposed to spend at
Naples.
Already he had lingered till the few days were become more than a
fortnight, and still the day of his departure was undetermined. This
was most unwonted waste of time, not easily accounted for by Mallard
himself. A morning of sunny splendour, coming after much cloudiness
and a good deal of rain, plucked him early out of bed, strong in the
resolve that to-morrow should see him on the road to Amalfi. He had
slept well--an exception in the past week--and his mind was open
to the influences of sunlight and reason. Before going forth for
breakfast he had a letter to write, a brief account of himself
addressed to the murky little town of Sowerby Bridge, in Yorkshire.
This finished, he threw open the big windows, stepped out on to the
balcony, and drank deep draughts of air from the sea. In the street
below was passing a flock of she-goats, all ready to be milked, each
with a bell tinkling about her neck. The goat-herd kept summoning
his customers with a long musical whistle. Mallard leaned over and
watched the clean-fleeced, slender, graceful animals with a smile of
pleasure. Then he amused himself with something that was going on in
the house opposite. A woman came out on to a balcony high up, bent
over it, and called, "Annina! Annina!" until the call brought
another woman on to the balcony immediately below; whereupon the
former let down a cord, and her friend, catching the end of it, made
it fast to a basket which contained food covered with a cloth. The
basket was drawn up, the women gossiped and laughed for a while in
pleasant voices, then they disappeared. All around, the familiar
Neapolitan clamour was beginning. Church bells were ringing as they
ring at Naples--a great crash, followed by a rapid succession of
quivering little shakes, then the crash again. Hawkers were crying
fruit and vegetables and fish in rhythmic cadence; a donkey was
braying obstreperously.
Mallard had just taken a light overcoat on his arm, and was ready to
set out, when some one knocked. He turned the key in the door, and
admitted Reuben Elgar.
"I'm off to Pompeii," said Elgar, vivaciously.
"All right. You'll go to the 'Sole'? I shall be there myself
to-morrow evening."
"I'm right to stay several days, so we shall have more talk."
They left the house together, and presently parted with renewed
assurance of meeting again on the morrow.
Mallard went his way thoughtfully, the smile quickly passing from
his face. At a little _caffe_, known to him of old, he made a simple
breakfast, glancing the while over a morning newspaper, and watching
the children who came to fetch their _due soldi_ of coffee in tiny
tins. Then he strolled away and supplemented his meal with a fine
bunch of grapes, bought for a penny at a stall that glowed and was
fragrant with piles of fruit. Heedless of the carriage-drivers who
shouted at him and even dogged him along street after street, he
sauntered in the broad sunshine, plucking his grapes and relishing
them. Coming out by the sea-shore, he stood for a while to watch the
fishermen dragging in their nets--picturesque fellows with swarthy
faces and suntanned legs of admirable outline, hauling slowly in
files at interminable rope, which boys coiled lazily as it came in;
or the oyster-dredgers, poised on the side of their boats over the
blue water. At the foot of the sea-wall tumbled the tideless
breakers; their drowsy music counselled enjoyment of the hour and
carelessness of what might come hereafter.
With no definite purpose, he walked on and on, for the most part
absorbed in thought. He passed through the long _grotta_ of
Posillipo, gloomy, chilly, and dank; then out again into the
sunshine, and along the road to Bagnoli. On walls and stone-heaps
the little lizards darted about, innumerable; in vineyards men were
at work dismantling the vine-props, often singing at their task.
From Bagnoli, still walking merely that a movement of his limbs
might accompany his busy thoughts, he went along by the seashore,
and so at length, still long before midday, had come to Pozzuoli. A
sharp conflict with the swarm of guides who beset the entrance to
the town, and again he escaped into quietness, wandered among narrow
streets, between blue, red, and yellow houses, stopping at times to
look at some sunny upper window hung about with clusters of _sorbe_
and _pomidori_. By this time he had won appetite for a more
substantial meal. In the kind of eating-house that suited his mood,
an obscure _bettola_ probably never yet patronized by Englishman, he
sat down to a dish of maccheroni and a bottle of red wine. At
another table were some boatmen, who, after greeting him, went on
with their lively talk in a dialect of which he could understand but
few words.
Having eaten well and drunk still better, he lit a cigar and
sauntered forth to find a place for dreaming. Chance led him to the
patch of public garden, with its shrubs and young palm-trees, which
looks over the little port. Here, when once he had made it clear to
a succession of rhetorical boatmen that he was not to be tempted on
to the sea, he could sit as idly and as long as he liked, looking
across the sapphire bay and watching the bright sails glide hither
and thither With the help of sunlight and red wine, he could imagine
that time had gone back twenty centuries--that this was not
Pozzuoli, but Puteoli; that over yonder was not Baia, but Baiae;
that the men among the shipping talked to each other in Latin, and
perchance of the perishing Republic.
But Mallard's fancy would not dwell long in remote ages As he
watched the smoke curling up from his cigar, he slipped back into
the world of his active being, and made no effort to obscure the
faces that looked upon him. They were those of his mother and
sisters, thought of whom carried him to the northern island, now
grim, cold, and sunless beneath its lowering sky. These relatives
still lived where his boyhood had been passed, a life strangely
unlike his own, and even alien to his sympathies, but their house
was still all that he could call home. Was it to be always the same?
Fifteen years now, since, at the age of twenty, he painted his first
considerable landscape, a tract of moorland on the borders of
Lancashire and Yorkshire. This was his native ground. At Sowerby
Bridge, a manufacturing town, which, like many others in the same
part of England, makes a blot of ugliness on country in itself
sternly beautiful, his father had settled as the manager of certain
rope-works. Mr. Mallard's state was not unprosperous, for he had
invented a process put in use by his employers, and derived benefit
from it. He was a man of habitual gravity, occasionally severe in
the rule of his household, very seldom unbending to mirth. Though
not particularly robust, he employed his leisure in long walks about
the moors, walks sometimes prolonged till after midnight, sometimes
begun long before dawn. His acquaintances called him unsociable, and
doubt less he was so in the sense that he could not find at Sowerby
Bridge any one for whose society be greatly cared. It was even a
rare thing for him to sit down with his wife and children for more
than a few minutes; if he remained in the house, he kept apart in a
room of his own, musing over, rather than reading, a little
collection of books--one of his favourites being Defoe's "History
of the Devil." He often made ironical remarks, and seemed to have a
grim satisfaction when his hearers missed the point. Then he would
chuckle, and shake his head, and go away muttering.
Young Ross, who made no brilliant figure at school, and showed a
turn for drawing, was sent at seventeen to the factory of Messrs.
Gilstead, Miles and Doran, to become a designer of patterns. The
result was something more than his father had expected, for Mr.
Doran, who had his abode at Sowerby Bridge, quickly discovered that
the lad was meant for far other things, and, by dint of personal
intervention, caused Mr. Mallard to give his son a chance of
becoming an artist.
A remarkable man, this Mr. Doran. By nature a Bohemian, somehow made
into a Yorkshire mill-owner; a strong, active, nobly featured man,
who dressed as no one in the factory regions ever did before or
probably ever will again--his usual appearance suggesting the
common notion of a bushranger; an artist to the core; a purchaser of
pictures by unknown men who had a future--at the sale of his
collection three Robert Cheeles got into the hands of dealers, all
of them now the boasted possessions of great galleries; a passionate
lover of music--he had been known to make the journey to Paris
merely to hear Diodati sing; finally, in common rumour a profligate
whom no prudent householder would admit to the society of his wife
and daughters. However, at the time of young Mallard's coming under
his notice he had been married about a year. Mrs. Doran came from
Manchester; she was very beautiful, but had slight education, and
before long Sowerby Bridge remarked that the husband was too often
away from home.
Doran and the elder Mallard, having once met, were disposed to sec
more of each other; in spite of the difference of social standing,
they became intimates, and Mr. Mallard had at length some one with
whom he found pleasure in conversing. He did not long enjoy the new
experience. In the winter that followed, he died of a cold
contracted on one of his walks when the hills were deep in snow.
Doran remained the firm friend of the family. Local talk had
inspired Mrs. Mallard with a prejudice against him, but substantial
services mitigated this, and the widow was in course of time less
uneasy at her son's being practically under the guardianship of this
singular man of business. Mallard, after preliminary training, was
sent to the studio of a young artist whom Doran greatly admired,
Cullen Banks, then struggling for the recognition he was never to
enjoy, death being beforehand with him. Mrs. Mallard was given to
understand that no expenses were involved save those of the lad's
support in Manchester, where Banks lived, and Mallard himself did
not till long after know that his friend had paid the artist a fee
out of his own pocket. Two things did Mallard learn from Doran
himself which were to have a marked influence on his life--a
belief that only in landscape can a painter of our time hope to do
really great work, and a limitless contempt of the Royal Academy. In
Manchester he made the acquaintance of several people with whom
Doran was familiar, among them Edward Spence, then in the
shipping-office, and Jacob Bush Bradshaw, well on his way to making
a fortune out of silk. On Banks's death, Mallard, now nearly
twenty-one, went to London for a time. His patrimony was modest, but
happily, if the capital remained intact, sufficient to save him from
the cares that degrade and waste a life. His mother and sisters had
also an income adequate to their simple habits.
In the meantime, Mrs. Doran was dead. After giving birth to a
daughter, she fell into miserable health; her husband took her
abroad, and she died in Germany. Thereafter Sowerby Bridge saw no
more of its bugbear; Doran abandoned commerce and became a Bohemian
in earnest--save that his dinner was always assured. He wandered
over Europe; he lived with Bohemian society in every capital; he
kept adding to his collection of pictures (stored in a house at
Woolwich, which he freely lent as an abode to a succession of
ill-to-do artists); and finally he was struck with paralysis whilst
conducting to their home the widow and child of a young painter who
had suddenly died in the Ardennes. The poor woman under his
protection had to become his guardian. He was brought to the house
at Woolwich, and there for several months lay between life and
death. A partial recovery followed, and he was taken to the Isle of
Wight, where, in a short time, a second attack killed him.
His child, Cecily, was twelve years old. For the last five years she
had been living in the care of Mrs. Elgar at Manchester. This lady
was an intimate friend of Mrs. Doran's family, and in entrusting his
child to her, Doran had given a strong illustration of one of the
singularities of his character. Though by no means the debauchee
that Sowerby Bridge declared him, he was not a man of conventional
morality; yet, in the case of people who were in any way entrusted
to his care, he showed a curious severity of practice. Ross Mallard,
for instance; no provincial Puritan could have instructed the lad
more strenuously in the accepted moral code than did Mr. Doran on
taking him from home to live in Manchester. In choosing a wife, he
went to a family of conventional Dissenters; and he desired his
daughter to pass the years of her childhood with people who he knew
would guide her in the very straitest way of Puritan doctrine. What
his theory was in this matter (if he had one) he told nobody. Dying,
he left it to the discretion of the two trustees to appoint a
residence for Cecily, if for any reason she could not remain with
Mrs. Elgar. This occasion soon presented itself, and Cecily passed
into the care of Doran's sister, Mrs. Lessingham, who was just
entered upon a happy widowhood. Mallard, most unexpectedly left sole
trustee, had no choice but to assent to this arrangement; the only
other home possible for the girl was with Miriam at Redbeck House,
but Mr. Baske did not look with favour on that proposal. Hitherto,
Mr. Trench, the elder trustee, who lived in Manchester, had alone
been in personal relations with Mrs. Elgar and little Cecily; even
now Mallard did not make the personal acquaintance of Mrs. Elgar
(otherwise he would doubtless have met Miriam), but saw Mrs.
Lessingham in London, and for the first time met Cecily when she
came to the south in her aunt's care. He knew what an extreme change
would be made in the manner of the girl's education, and it caused
him some mental trouble; but it was clear that Cecily might benefit
greatly in health by travel, and, as for the moral question, Mrs.
Lessingham strongly stirred his sympathies by the dolorous account
she gave of the child's surroundings in the north. Cecily was being
intellectually starved; that seemed clear to Mallard himself after a
little conversation with her. It was wonderful how much she had
already learnt, impelled by sheer inner necessity, of things which
in general she was discouraged from studying. So Cecily left
England, to return only for short intervals, spent in London.
Between that departure and this present meeting, Mallard saw her
only twice; but the girl wrote to him with some regularity. These
letters grew more and more delightful. Cecily addressed herself with
exquisite frankness as to an old friend, old in both senses of the
word; collected, they made a history of her rapidly growing mind
such as the shy artist might have glorified in possessing. In
reality, he did nothing of the kind; he wished the letters would not
come and disturb him in his work. He sent gruff little answers, over
which Cecily laughed, as so characteristic.
Yes, there was a distinct connection between those homely memories
and picturings which took him in thought to Sowerby Bridge, and the
image of Cecily Doran which had caused him to waste all this time in
Naples. They represented two worlds, in both of which he had some
part; but it was only too certain with which of them he was the more
closely linked. What but mere accident put him in contact with the
world which was Cecily's? Through her aunt she had aristocratic
relatives; her wealth made her a natural member of what is called
society; her beauty and her brilliancy marked her to be one of
society's ornaments. What could she possibly be to him, Ross
Mallard, landscape-painter of small if any note, as unaristocratic
in mind and person as any one that breathed? To put the point with
uncompromising plainness, and therefore in all its absurdity, how
could he possibly imagine Cecily Doran called Mrs. Mallard?
The thing was flagrantly, grossly, palpably absurd. He tingled in
the ears in trying to represent to himself how Cecily would think of
it, if by any misfortune it were ever suggested to her.
Then why not, in the name of common sense, cease to ponder such
follies, and get on with the work which waited for him? Why this
fluttering about a flame which scorched him more and more
dangerously? It was not the first time that he had experienced
temptations of this kind; a story of five years ago, its scene in
London, should have reminded him that he could stand a desperate
wrench when convinced that his life's purpose depended upon it. Here
were three years of trusteeship before him--he could not, or would
not, count on her marrying before she came of age. Her letters would
still come; from time to time doubtless he must meet her. It had all
resulted from this confounded journey taken together! Why, knowing
himself sufficiently, did he consent to meet the people at Genoa,
loitering there for a couple of days in expectancy? Why had he come
to Italy at all just now?
The answers to all such angry queries were plain enough. however he
had hitherto tried to avoid them. He was a lonely man like his
father, but not content with loneliness; friendship was always
strong to tempt him, and when the thought of something more than
friendship had been suffered to take hold upon his imagination, it
held with terrible grip, burning, torturing. He had come simply to
meet Cecily; there was the long and short of it. It was a weakness,
such as any man may be guilty of, particularly any artist who groans
in lifelong solitude. Let it he recognized; let it be flung savagely
into the past, like so many others encountered and overcome on his
course.
The other day, when it was rainy and sunless, he had seemed all at
once to find his freedom. In a moment of mental languor, he was able
to view his position clearly, as though some other man were
concerned, and to cry out that he had triumphed; but within the same
hour an event befell which revived all the old trouble and added
new. Reuben Elgar entered his room, coming directly from Villa
Sannazaro, in a state of excitement, talking at once of Cecily Doran
as though his acquaintance with her had been unbroken from the time
when she was in his mother's care to now. Irritation immediately
scattered the thoughts Mallard had been ranging; he could barely
make a show of amicable behaviour; a cold fear began to creep about
his heart. The next morning he woke to a new phase of his conflict,
the end further off than ever. Unable to command thought and
feeling, he preserved at least the control of his action, and could
persevere in the resolve not to see Cecily; to avoid casual meetings
he kept away even from the Spences. He shunned all places likely to
be visited by Cecily, and either sat at home in dull idleness or
strayed about the swarming quarters of the town, trying to entertain
himself with the spectacle of Neapolitan life. To-day the delicious
weather had drawn him forth in a heedless mood. And, indeed, it did
not much matter now whether he met his friends or not; he had spoken
the word--to-morrow he would go his way.
At the very moment of thinking this thought, when his cigar was
nearly finished and he had begun to stretch his limbs, wearied by
remaining in one position. shadows and footsteps approached him. He
looked up, and--
"Mr. Mallard! So we have caught you at last! It only needed this to
complete our enjoyment. Now you will go across to Raise with us."
Cecily, with Mrs. Baske and Spence. She had run eagerly forward, and
her companions were advancing at a more sober pace. Mallard rose
with his grim smile, and of course forgot that it is customary to
doff one's beaver when ladies approach; he took the offered hand,
said "How do you do?" and turned to the others.
"A fair capture!" exclaimed Spence. "Just now, at lunch, we were
speculating on such a chance. The cigar argues a broken fast, I take
it."
"Yes, I have had my maccheroni."
"We are going to take a boat over to Bale. Suppose you come with
us."
"Of course Mr. Mallard will come," said Cecily, her face radiant.
"He can make no pretence of work interrupted."
Already the group was surrounded by boatmen offering their services.
Spence led the way down to the quay, and after much tumult a boat
was selected and a bargain struck, the original demand made by the
artless sailors being of course five times as much as was ever paid
for the transit. They rowed out through the cluster of little craft,
then hoisted a sail, and glided smoothly over the blue water.
"Where is Mrs. Lessingham?" Mallard inquired of Cecily.
"At the Hotel Bristol, with some very disagreeable people who have
just landed on their way from India--a military gentleman, and a
more military lady, and a most military son, relatives of ours. We
spent last evening with them, and I implored to be let off to-day."
Mallard propped himself idly, and from under the shadow of his hat
often looked at her. He had begun to wonder at the unreserved joy
with which she greeted his joining the party. Of course she could
have no slightest suspicion of what was in his mind; one moment's
thought of him in such a light must have altered her behaviour
immediately. Altered in what way? That he in vain tried to imagine;
his knowledge of her did not go far enough. But he could not be
wrong in attributing unconsciousness to her. Moreover, with the
inconsistency of a man in his plight, he resented it. To sit thus,
almost touching him, gazing freely into his face, and yet to be in
complete ignorance of suffering which racked him, seemed
incompatible with fine qualities either of heart or mind. What
rubbish was talked about woman's insight, about her delicate
sympathies!
"Mrs. Spence is very sorry not to see you occasionally, Mr.
Mallard."
It was Miriam who spoke. Mallard was watching Cecily, and now, on
turning his head, he felt sure that Mrs. Baske had been observant of
his countenance. Her eyes fell whilst he was seeking words for a
reply.
"I shall call to see her to-morrow morning," he said, "just to say
good-bye for a time."
"You really go to-morrow?" asked Cecily, with interest, but nothing
more.
"Yes. I hope to see Mrs. Lessingham for a moment also. Can you tell
me when she is likely to be at home?"
"Certainly between two and three, if you could come then."
He waited a little, then looked unexpectedly at Miriam. Again her
eyes were fixed on him, and again they fell with something of
consciousness. Did _she_, perchance, understand him?
His speculations concerning Cecily became comparative. In point of
age, the distance between Cecily and Miriam was of some importance;
the fact that the elder had been a married woman was of still more
account. On the first day of his meeting with Mrs. Baske, he had
thought a good deal about her; since then she had slipped from his
mind, but now he felt his interest reviving. Surely she was as
remote from him as a woman well could be, yet his attitude towards
her had no character of intolerance; he half wished that he could
form a closer acquaintance with her. At present, the thought of calm
conversation with such a woman made a soothing contrast to the riot
excited in him by Cecily. Did she read his mind? For one thing, it
was not impossible that the Spences had spoken freely in her
presence of himself and his odd relations to the girl; there was no
doubting how _they_ regarded him. Possibly he was a frequent subject
of discussion between Eleanor and her cousin. Mature women could
talk with each other freely of these things.
On the other hand, whatever Mrs. Lessingham might have in her mind,
she certainly would not expose it in dialogue with her niece. Cecily
was in an unusual position for a girl of her age; she had, he
believed, no intimate friend; at all events, she had none who also
knew him. Girls, to be sure, had their own way of talking over
delicate points, just as married women had theirs, and with
intimates of the ordinary kind Cecily must have come by now to
consider her guardian as a male creature of flesh and blood. What
did it mean, that she did not?
A question difficult of debate, involving much that the mind is wont
to slur over in natural scruple. Mallard was no slave to the
imbecile convention which supposes a young girl sexless in her
understanding; he could not, in conformity with the school of
hypocritic idealism, regard Cecily as a child of woman's growth. No.
She had the fruits of a modern education; she had a lucid brain; of
late she had mingled and conversed with a variety of men and women,
most of them anything but crassly conventional. It was this very
aspect of her training that had caused him so much doubt. And he
knew by this time what his doubt principally meant; in a measure, it
came of native conscientiousness, of prejudice which testified to
his origin; but, more than that, it signified simple jealousy.
Secretly, he did not like her outlook upon the world to be so
unrestrained; he would have preferred her to view life as a simpler
matter. Partly for this reason did her letters so disturb him. No;
it would have been an insult to imagine her with the moral
sensibilities of a child of twelve.
Was she intellectual at the expense of her emotional being? Was she
guarded by nature against these disturbances? Somewhat ridiculous to
ask that, and then look up at her face effulgent with the joy of
life. She who could not speak without the note of emotion, who so
often gave way to lyrical outbursts of delight, who was so
warm-hearted in her friendship, whose every movement was in glad
harmony with the loveliness of her form,--must surely have the
corresponding capabilities of passion.
After all--and it was fetching a great compass to reach a point so
near at hand--might she not take him at his own profession? Might
she not view him as a man indeed, and one not yet past his youth,
but still as a man who suffered no trivialities to interfere with
the grave objects of his genius? She had so long had him represented
to her in that way--from the very first of their meetings, indeed.
Grant her mature sense and a reflective mind, was that any reason
why she should probe subtly the natural appearance of her friend,
and attribute to him that which he gave no sign of harbouring? Why
must she be mysteriously conscious of his inner being, rather than
take him ingenuously for what he seemed? She had instruction and
wit, but she was only a girl; her experience was as good as nil.
Mallard repeated that to himself as he looked at Mrs. Baske. To a
great extent Cecily did, in fact, inhabit an ideal world. She was
ready to accept the noble as the natural. Untroubled herself, she
could contemplate without scepticism the image of an artist finding
his bliss in solitary toil. This was the ground of the respect she
had for him; disturb this idea, and he became to her quite another
man--one less interesting, and, it might be, less lovable in
either sense of the word.
Spence maintained a conversation with Miriam, chiefly referring to
the characteristics of the scene about them; he ignored her
peculiarities, and talked as though everything must necessarily give
her pleasure. Her face proved that at all events the physical
influences of this day in the open air were beneficial. The soft
breeze had brought a touch of health to her cheek, and languid
inattention no longer marked her gaze at sea and shore; she was
often absent, but never listless. When she spoke, her voice was
subdued and grave; it always caused Mallard to glance in her
direction.
At Baiae they dismissed the boat, purposing to drive back to Naples.
In their ramble among the ruins, Mallard did his best to be at ease
and seem to share Cecily's happiness; in any case, it was better to
talk of the Romans than of personal concerns. When in after-time he
recalled this day, it seemed to him that he had himself been well
contented; it dwelt in his memory with a sunny glow. He saw Cecily's
unsurpassable grace as she walked beside him, and her look of
winning candour turned to him so often, and he fancied that it had
given him pleasure to be with her. And pleasure there was, no doubt,
but inextricably blended with complex miseries. To Cecily his mood
appeared more gracious than she had ever known it; he did not
disdain to converse on topics which presupposed some knowledge on
her part, and there was something of unusual gentleness in his tone
which she liked.
"Some day," she said, "we shall talk of Baiae in London, in a
November fog."
"I hope not."
"But such contrasts help one to get the most out of life," she
rejoined, laughing; "At all events, when some one happens to speak
to me of Mr. Mallard's pictures, I shall win credit by casually
mentioning that I was at Baiae in his company in such-and-such a
year."
"You mean, when I have painted my last!"
"No, no! It would be no pleasure to me to anticipate that time."
"But natural, in talking with a veteran."
It was against his better purpose that he let fall these words; they
contained almost a hint of his hidden self, and he had not yet
allowed anything of the kind to escape him. But the moment proved
too strong.
"A veteran who fortunately gives no sign of turning grey," replied
Cecily, glancing at his hair.
An interruption from Spence put an end to this dangerous dialogue.
Mallard, inwardly growling at himself, resisted the temptation to
further _tete-a-tete_, and in a short time the party went in search
of a conveyance for their return. None offered that would hold four
persons; the ordinary public carriages have convenient room for two
only, and a separation was necessary. Mallard succeeded in catching
Spence's eye, and made him understand with a savage look that he was
to take Cecily with him. This arrangement was effected, and the
first carriage drove off with those two, Cecily exchanging merry
words with an old Italian who had rendered no kind of service, but
came to beg his _mancia_ on the strength of being able to utter a
few sentences in English.
For the first time, Mallard was alone with Mrs. Baske. Miriam had
not concealed surprise at the new adjustment of companionship; she
looked curiously both at Cecily and at Mallard whilst it was going
on. The first remark which the artist addressed to her, when they
had been driving for a few minutes, was perhaps, she thought, an
explanation of the proceeding.
"I shall meet your brother again at Pompeii to-morrow, Mrs. Baske."
"Have you seen much of him since he came!" Miriam asked
constrainedly. She had not met Mallard since Reuben's arrival.
"Oh yes. We have dined together each evening."
Between two such unloquacious persons, dialogue was naturally slow
at first, but they had a long drive before them. Miriam presently
trusted herself to ask,--
"Has he spoken to you at all of his plans--of what he is going to
do when he returns to England?"
"In general terms only. He has literary projects."
"Do you put any faith in them, Mr. Mallard?"
This was a sudden step towards intimacy. As she spoke, Miriam looked
at him in a way that he felt to be appealing. He answered the look
frankly.
"I think he has the power to do something worth doing. Whether his
perseverance will carry him through it, is another question."
"He speaks to me of you in a way that--He seems, I mean, to put
a value on your friendship, and I think you may still influence him.
I am very glad he has met you here."
"I have very little faith in the influence of one person on another,
Mrs. Baske. For ill--yes, that is often seen; but influence of the
kind you suggest is the rarest of things."
"I'm afraid you are right."
She retreated into herself, and, when he looked at her, he saw cold
reserve once more on her countenance. Doubtless she did not choose
to let him know how deeply this question of his power concerned her.
Mallard felt something like compassion; yet not ordinary compassion
either, for at the same time he had a desire to break down this
reserve, and see still more of what she felt. Curious; that evening
when he dined at the villa, he had already become aware of this sort
of attraction in her, an appeal to his sympathies together with the
excitement of his combative spirit--if that expressed it.
"No man," he remarked, "ever did solid work except in his own
strength. One can be encouraged in effort, but the effort must
originate in one's self."
Miriam kept silence. He put a direct question.
"Have you yourself encouraged him to pursue this idea?"
"I have not _dis_couraged him."
"In your brother's case, discouragement would probably be the result
if direct encouragement were withheld."
Again she said nothing, and again Mallard felt a desire to subdue
the pride, or whatever it might be, that had checked the growth of
friendliness between them in its very beginning. He remained mute
for a long time, until they were nearing Pozzuoli, but Miriam showed
no disposition to be the first to speak. At length he said abruptly:
"Shall you go to the San Carlo during the winter?"
"The San Carlo?" she asked inquiringly.
"The opera."
Mallard was in a strange mood. Whenever he looked ahead at Cecily,
he had a miserable longing which crushed his heart down, down; in
struggling against this, he felt that Mrs. Baske's proximity was an
aid, but that it would be still more so if he could move her to any
unusual self-revelation. He had impulses to offend her, to irritate
her prejudices--anything, so she should but be moved. This
question that fell. from him was mild in comparison with some of the
subjects that pressed on his harassed brain.
"I don't go to theatres," Miriam replied distantly.
"That is losing much pleasure."
"The word has very different meanings."
She was roused. Mallard observed with a perverse satisfaction the
scorn implied in this rejoinder. He noted that her features had more
decided beauty than when placid.
"I imagine," he resumed, smiling at her, "that the life of an artist
must seem to you frivolous, if not something worse. I mean an artist
in the sense of a painter."
"I cannot think it the highest kind of life," Miriam replied, also
smiling, but ominously.
"As Miss Doran does," added Mallard, his eyes happening to catch
Cecily's face as it looked backwards, and his tongue speaking
recklessly.
"There are very few subjects on which Miss Doran and I think alike."
He durst not pursue this; in his state of mind, the danger of
committing some flagrant absurdity was too great. The subject
attracted him like an evil temptation, for he desired to have Miriam
speak of Cecily. But he mastered himself.
"The artist's life may be the highest of which a particular man is
capable. For instance, I think it is so in my own case."
Miriam seemed about to keep silence again, but ultimately she spoke.
The voice suggested that upon her too there was a constraint of some
kind.
"On what grounds do you believe that?"
His eyes sought her face rapidly. Was she ironical at his expense?
That would be new light upon her mind, for hitherto she had seemed
to him painfully literal. Irony meant intellect; mere scorn or pride
might signify anything but that. And he was hoping to find reserves
of power in her, such as would rescue her from the imputation of
commonplaceness in her beliefs. Testing her with his eye, he
answered meaningly:
"Not, I admit, on the ground of recognized success."
Miriam made a nervous movement, and her brows contracted. Without
looking at him, she said, in a voice which seemed rather to resent
his interpretation than to be earnest in deprecating it:
"You know, Mr. Mallard, that I meant nothing of the kind."
"Yet I could have understood you, if you had. Naturally you must
wonder a little at a man's passing his life as I do. You interpret
life absolutely; it is your belief that it can have only one
meaning, the same for all, involving certain duties of which there
can be no question, and admitting certain relaxations which have
endured the moral test. A man may not fritter away the years that
are granted him; and that is what I seem to you to be doing, at
best."
"Why should you suppose that I take upon myself to judge you?"
"Forgive me; I think it is one result of your mental habits that you
judge all who differ from you."
This time she clearly was resolved to make no reply. They were
passing through Pozzuoli, and she appeared to forget the discussion
in looking about her. Mallard watched her, but she showed no
consciousness of his gaze.
"Even if the world recognized me as an artist of distinction," he
resumed, "you would still regard me as doubtfully employed. Art does
not seem to you an end of sufficient gravity. Probably you had
rather there were no such thing, if it were practicable."
"There is surely a great responsibility on any one who makes it the
_end_ of life."
This was milder again, and just when he had anticipated the
opposite.
"A responsibility to himself, yes. Well, when I say that I believe
this course is the highest I can follow, I mean that I believe it
employs all my best natural powers as no other would. As for highest
in the absolute sense, that is a different matter. Possibly the life
of a hospital nurse, of a sister of mercy--something of that
kind--comes nearest to the ideal."
She glanced at him, evidently in the same kind of doubt about his
meaning as he had recently felt about hers.
"Why should you speak contemptuously of such people?"
"Contemptuously? I speak sincerely. In a world where pain is the
most obvious fact, the task of mercy must surely take precedence of
most others."
"I am surprised to hear you say this."
It was spoken in the tone most characteristic of her, that of a
proud condescension.
"Why, Mrs. Baske?"
She hesitated a little, but made answer:
"I don't mean that I think you unfeeling, but your interests seem to
be so far from such simple things."
"True."
Again a long silence. The carriage was descending the road from
Pozzuoli; it approached the sea-shore, where the gentle breakers
were beginning to be tinged with evening light. Cecily looked back
and waved her hand.
"When You say that art is an end in itself," Miriam resumed
abruptly, "you claim, I suppose, that it is a way of serving
mankind?"
Mallard was learning the significance of her tones. In this
instance, he knew that the words "serving mankind" were a
contemptuous use of a phrase she had heard, a phrase which
represented the philosophy alien to her own.
"Indeed, I claim nothing of the kind," he replied, laughing. "Art
may, or may not, serve such a purpose; but be assured that the
artist never thinks of his work in that way."
"You make no claim, then, even of usefulness?"
"Most decidedly, none. You little imagine how distasteful the word
is to me in such connection."
"Then how can you say you are employing your best natural powers?"
She had fallen to ingenuous surprise, and Mallard again laughed,
partly at the simplicity of the question, partly because it pleased
him to have brought her to such directness.
"Because," he answered, "this work gives me keener and more lasting
pleasure than any other would. And I am not a man easily pleased
with my own endeavours, Mrs. Baske. I work with little or no hope of
ever satisfying myself--that is another thing. I have heard men
speak of my kind of art as 'the noble pursuit of Truth,' and so on.
I don't care for such phrases; they may mean something, but as a
rule come of the very spirit so opposed to my own--that which
feels it necessary to justify art by bombast. The one object I have
in life is to paint a bit of the world just as I see it. I exhaust
myself in vain toil; I shall never succeed; but I am right to
persevere, I am right to go on pleasing myself."
Miriam listened in astonishment.
"With such views, Mr. Mallard, it is fortunate that you happen to
find pleasure in painting pictures."
"Which, at all events, do people no harm."
She turned upon him suddenly.
"Do you encourage my brother in believing that his duty in life is
to please himself?"
"It has been my effort," he replied gravely.
"I don't understand you," Miriam said, in indignation.
"No, you do not. I mean to say that I believe your brother is not
really pleased with the kind of life he has too long been leading;
that to please himself he must begin serious work of some kind."
"That is playing with words, and on a subject ill-chosen for it."
"Mrs. Baske, do you seriously believe that Reuben Elgar can be made
a man of steady purpose by considerations that have primary
reference to any one or anything but himself?"
She made no answer.
"I am not depreciating him. The same will apply (if you are content
to face the truth) to many a man whom you would esteem. I am sorry
that I have lost your confidence, but that is better than to keep it
by repeating idle formulas that the world's experience has
outgrown."
Miriam pondered, then said quietly:
"We have different thoughts, Mr. Mallard, and speak different
languages."
"But we know a little more of each other than we did. For my part, I
feel it a gain."
During the rest of the drive they scarcely spoke at all; the few
sentences exchanged were mere remarks upon the scenery. Both
carriages drew up at the gate of the villa, where Miriam and Mallard
alighted. Spence, rising, called to the latter.
"Will you accompany Miss Doran the rest of the way?"
"Certainly."
Mallard took his seat in the other carriage; and, as it drove off,
he looked back. Miriam was gazing after them.
Cecily was a little tired, and not much disposed to converse. Her
companion being still less so, they reached the Mergellina without
having broached any subject.
"It has been an unforgettable day," Cecily said, as they parted.
CHAPTER VI
CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS
He had taken leave of the Spences and Mrs. Baske, yet was not sure
that he should go. He had said good-bye to Mrs. Lessingham and to
Cecily herself, yet made no haste to depart. It drew on to evening,
and he sat idly in his room in Casa Rolandi, looking at his traps
half packed. Then of a sudden up he started. "Imbecile! Insensate! I
give you fifteen minutes to be on your way to the station. Miss the
next train--and sink to the level of common men!" Shirts, socks--
straps, locks; adieux, tips--horses, whips! Clatter through the
Piazzetta Mondragone; down at breakneck speed to the Toledo; across
the Piazza del Municipio; a good-bye to the public scriveners
sitting at their little tables by the San Carlo; sharp round the
corner, and along by the Porto Grande with its throng of vessels.
All the time he sings a tune to himself, caught up in the streets of
the tuneful city; an air lilting to the refrain--
"Io ti voglio bene assaje
E tu non pienz' a me!"
Just after nightfall he alighted from the train at Pompeii. Having
stowed away certain impedimenta at the station, he took his
travelling-bag in his hand, broke with small ceremony through
porters and hotel-touts, came forth upon the high-road, and stepped
forward like one to whom the locality is familiar. In a minute or
two he was overtaken by a little lad, who looked up at him and said
in an insinuating voice, "Albergo del Sole, signore?"
"Prendi, bambino," was Mallard's reply, as he handed the bag to him.
"Avanti!"
A divine evening, softly warm, dim-glimmering. The dusty road ran on
between white trunks of plane-trees; when the station and the houses
near it were left behind, no other building came in view. To the
left of the road, hidden behind its long earth-rampart, lay the dead
city; far beyond rose the dark shape of Vesuvius, crested with
beacon-glow, a small red fire, now angry, now murky, now for a time
extinguished. The long rumble of the train died away, and there
followed silence absolute, scarcely broken for a few minutes by a
peasant singing in the distance, the wailing song so often heard in
the south of Italy. Silence that was something more than the wonted
soundlessness of night; the haunting oblivion of a time long past, a
melancholy brooding voiceless upon the desolate home of forgotten
generations.
A walk of ten minutes, and there shone light from windows. The lad
ran forward and turned in at the gate of a garden; Mallard followed,
and approached some persons who were standing at an open door. He
speedily made arrangements for his night's lodging, saw his room,
and went to the quarter of the inn where dinner was already in
progress. This was a building to itself, at one side of the garden.
Through the doorway he stepped immediately into a low-roofed hall,
where a number of persons sat at table. Pillars supported the
ceiling in the middle, and the walls were in several places painted
with heads or landscapes, the work of artists who had made their
abode here; one or two cases with glass doors showed relics of
Pompeii.
Elgar was one of the company. When he became aware of Mallard's
arrival, he stood up with a cry of "All hail!" and pointed to a seat
near him.
"I began to be afraid you wouldn't come this evening. Try the
risotto; it's excellent. Ye gods! what an appetite I had when I sat
down! To-day have I ascended Vesuvius. How many bottles of wine I
drank between starting and returning I cannot compute; I never knew
before what it was to be athirst. Why, their vino di Vesuvio is for
all the world like cider; I thought at first I was being swindled--
not an impossible thing in these regions. I must tell you a story
about a party of Americans I encountered at Bosco Reale."
The guests numbered seven or eight; with one exception besides
Elgar, they were Germans, all artists of one kind or another,
fellows of genial appearance, loud in vivacious talk. The exception
was a young Englishman, somewhat oddly dressed, and with a great
quantity of auburn hair that rolled forward upon his distinguished
brow. At a certain _pension_ on the Mergellina he was well known. He
sat opposite Elgar, and had been in conversation with him.
Mallard cared little what he ate, and ate little of any thing.
Neither was he in the mood for talk; but Elgar, who had finished his
solid meal, and now amused himself with grapes (in two forms),
spared him the necessity of anything but an occasional monosyllable.
The young man was elated, and grew more so as he proceeded with his
dessert; his cheeks were deeply flushed; his eyes gleamed
magnificently.
In the meantime Clifford Marsh had joined in conversation with the
Germans; his use of their tongue was far from idiomatic, but by
sheer determination to force a way through linguistic obstacles, he
talked with a haphazard fluency which was amusing enough. No false
modesty imposed a check upon his eloquence. It was to the general
table that he addressed himself on the topic that had arisen; in an
English dress his speech ran somewhat as follows:--
"Gentlemen, allow me to say that I have absolutely no faith in the
future of which you speak! It is my opinion that democracy is the
fatal enemy of art. How can you speak of ancient and mediaeval
states? Neither in Greece nor in Italy was there ever what we
understand by a democracy."
"Factisch! Der Herr hat Recht!" cried some one, and several other
voices strove to make themselves heard; but the orator raised his
note and overbore interruption.
"You must excuse me, gentlemen, if I say that--however it may be
from other points of view--from the standpoint of art, democracy
is simply the triumph of ignorance and brutality." ("Gewisz!"--
"Nimmermehr!"--"Vortrefflich!") "I don't care to draw distinctions
between forms of the thing. Socialism, communism, collectivism,
parliamentarism,--all these have one and the same end: to put men
on an equality; and in proportion as that end is approached, so will
art in every shape languish. Art, gentlemen, is nourished upon
inequalities and injustices!" ("Ach!"--"Wie kann man so etwas
sagen!"--"Hoch! verissime!") "I am not representing this as either
good or bad. It may be well that justice should be established, even
though art perish. I simply state a fact!" ("Doch!"--"Erlauben
Sie!") "Supremacy of the vulgar interest means supremacy of ignoble
judgment in all matters of mind. See what plutocracy already makes
of art!"
Here one of the Germans insisted on a hearing; a fine fellow, with
Samsonic locks and a ringing voice.
"Sir! sir! who talks of a genuine democracy with mankind in its
present state? Before it comes about, the multitude will be
instructed, exalted, emancipated, humanized!"
"Sir!" shouted Marsh, "who talks of the Millennium? I speak of
things possible within a few hundred years. The multitude will
_never_ be humanized. Civilization is attainable only by the few;
nature so ordains it."
"Pardon me for saying that is a lie! I use the word
controversially."
"It is a manifest truth!" cried the other. "Who ever doubted it but
a _Dummkopf_? I use the word with reference to this argument only."
So it went on for a long time. Mallard and Elgar knew no German, so
could derive neither pleasure nor profit from the high debate.
"Are you as glum here as in London?" Reuben asked of his companion,
in a bantering voice. "I should have pictured you grandly jovial,
wreathed perhaps with ruddy vine-leaves, the light of inspiration in
your eye, and in your hand a mantling goblet! Drink, man, drink! you
need a stimulant, an exhilarant, an anti-phlegmatic, a
counter-irritant against English spleen. You are still on the other
side of the Alps, of the Channel; the fogs yet cling about you.
Clear your brow, O painter of Ossianic wildernesses! Taste the foam
of life! We are in the land of Horace, and _nunc est bibendum_!--
Seriously, do you never relax?"
"Oh yes. You should see me over the fifth tumbler of whiskey at
Stornoway."
"Bah! you might as well say the fifth draught of fish-oil North
Cape. How innocent this wine is! A gallon of it would give one no
more than a pleasant glow, the faculty of genial speech. Take a
glass with me to the health of your enchanting ward."
"Please to command your tongue," growled Mallard, with a look that
was not to be mistaken.
"I beg your pardon. It shall be to the health of that superb girl we
saw in the Mercato. But, as far as I can judge yet, the Neapolitan
type doesn't appeal to me very strongly. It is finely animal, and of
course that has its value; but I prefer the suggestion of a soul,
don't you? I remember a model old Langton had in Rome, a girl fresh
from the mountains; by Juno! a glorious creature! I dare say you
have seen her portrait in his studio; he likes to show it. But it
does her nothing like justice; she might have sat for the genius of
the Republic. Utterly untaught, and intensely stupid; but there were
marvellous things to be read in her face. Ah, but give me the girls
of Venice! You know them, how they walk about the piazza; their
tall, lithe forms, the counterpart of the gondolier; their splendid
black hair, elaborately braided and pierced with large ornaments;
their noble, aristocratic, grave features; their long shawls! What
natural dignity! What eloquent eyes! I like to imagine them
profoundly intellectual, which they are unhappily not."
Marsh had withdrawn from colloquy with the Germans, and kept
glancing across the table at his compatriots, obviously wishing that
he might join them. Mallard, upon whom Elgar's excited talk jarred
more and more, noticed the stranger's looks, and at length leaned
forward to speak to him.
"As usual, we are in a minority among the sun-worshippers."
"Sun-worshippers! Good!" laughed the other. "Yes, I have never met
more than one or two chance Englishmen at the 'Sole.'"
"But you are at your case with our friends there.--I think you
know as little German as I do, Elgar?"
"Devilish bad at languages! To tell you the truth, I can't endure
the sense of inferiority one has in beginning to smatter with
foreigners. I read four or five, but avoid speaking as much as
possible."
Marsh took an early opportunity of alluding to the argument in which
he had recently taken part. The subject was resumed. At Elgar's
bidding the waiter had brought cigars, and things looked
comfortable; the Germans talked with more animation than ever.
"One of the worst evils of democracy in England," said Reuben,
forcibly, "is its alliance with Puritan morality."
"Oh, that is being quickly outgrown," cried Marsh. "Look at the
spread of rationalism."
"You take it for granted that Puritanism doesn't survive religious
dogma? Believe me, you are greatly mistaken. I am sorry to say I
have a large experience in this question. The mass of the English
people have no genuine religious belief, but none the less they are
Puritans in morality. The same applies to the vastly greater part of
those who even repudiate Christianity."
"One must take account of the national hypocrisy," remarked the
younger man, with an air of superiority, shaking his head as his
habit was.
"It's a complicated matter. The representative English bourgeois is
a hypocrite in essence, but is perfectly serious in his judgment of
the man next door; and the latter characteristic has more weight
than the former in determining his life. Puritanism has aided the
material progress of England; but its effect on art! But for it, we
should have a school of painters corresponding in greatness to the
Elizabethan dramatists. Depend upon it, the democracy will continue
to be Puritan. Every picture, every book, will be tried by the same
imbecile test Enforcement of Puritan morality will be one of the
ways in which the mob, come to power, will revenge itself on those
who still remain its superiors."
Marsh was not altogether pleased at finding his facile eloquence
outdone. In comparing himself with Elgar, he was conscious of but
weakly representing the tendencies which were a passionate force in
this man with the singularly fine head, with such a glow of wild
life about him. He abandoned the abstract argument, and struck a
personal note.
"However it may be in the future, I grant you the artist has at
present no scope save in one direction. For my own part, I have
fallen back on landscape. Let those who will, paint Miss Wilhelmina
in the nursery, with an interesting doll of her own size; or a
member of Parliament rising to deliver a great speech on the liquor
traffic; or Mrs. What-do-you-call-her, lecturing on woman's rights.
These are the subjects our time affords."
Mallard eyed with fresh curiosity the gentleman who had "fallen back
on landscape."
"What did you formerly aim at?" he inquired, with a sort of suave
gruffness.
"Things which were hopelessly out of the question. I worked for a
long time at a 'Death of Messalina.' That was in Rome. I had a
splendid inspiration for Messalina's face. But my hand was paralyzed
when I thought of the idiotic comments such a picture would occasion
in England. One fellow would say I had searched through history in a
prurient spirit for something sensational; another, that I read a
moral lesson of terrible significance; and so on."
"A grand subject, decidedly!" exclaimed Elgar, with genuine
enthusiasm, which restored Marsh to his own good opinion. "Go on
with it! Bid the fools be hanged! Have you your studies here?"
"Unfortunately not. They are in Rome."
Mallard delivered himself of a blunt opinion.
"That is no subject for a picture. Use it for literature, if you
like."
The inevitable discussion began, the discussion so familiar
nowadays, and which would have sounded so odd to the English
painters who were wont to call themselves "historical," Where is the
line between subjects for the easel and subjects for the desk? What
distinguishes the art of the illustrator from the art of the artist?
That was a great evening round the table at the Albergo del Sole.
How gloriously the air thickened with tobacco-smoke! What removal of
empty bottles and replacing them with full! The Germans were making
it a set _Kneipe_; the Englishmen, unable to drink quite so
heroically, were scarce behind in vehemence of debate. Mallard,
grimly accepting the help of wine against his inner foes, at length
earned Elgar's approval; he had relaxed indeed, and was no longer
under the oppression of English fog. But with him such moods were of
brief duration; he suddenly quitted the table, and went out into the
night air.
The late moon was rising, amber-coloured on a sky of dusky azure. He
walked from the garden, across the road, and towards the ruins of
the Amphitheatre, which lie some distance apart from the Pompeian
streets that have been unearthed; he passed beneath an arch, and
stood looking down into the dark hollow so often thronged with
citizens of Latin speech. Small wonder that Benvenuto's necromancer
could evoke his myriads of flitting ghosts in the midnight
Colosseum; here too it needed but to stand for a few minutes in the
dead stillness, and the air grew alive with mysterious presences,
murmurous with awful whisperings. Mallard enjoyed it for awhile, but
at length turned away abruptly, feeling as if a cold hand had
touched him.
As he re-entered the inn-precincts, he heard voices still uproarious
in the dining-room; but he had no intention of going among them
again. His bedroom was one of a row which opened immediately upon
the garden. He locked himself in, went to bed, but did not sleep for
a long time. A wind was rising, and a branch of a tree constantly
tapped against the pane. It might have been some centuries-dead
inhabitant of Pompeii trying to deliver a message from the silent
world.
The breakfast-party next morning lacked vivacity. Clifford Marsh was
mute and dolorous of aspect; no doubt his personal embarrassments
were occupying him. Yesterday's wine had become his foe, instead of
an ally urging him to dare all in the cause of "art." He consumed
his coffee and roll in the manner of ordinary mortals, not once
flourishing his dainty hand or shaking his ambrosial hair. Elgar was
very stiff from his ascent of Vesuvius, and he too found that "the
foam of life" had an unpleasant after-taste, suggestive of wrecked
fortunes and a dubious future. Mallard was only a little gruffer
than his wonted self.
"I am going on at once to Sorrento," he said, meeting Elgar
afterwards in the garden. "To-morrow I shall cross over the hills to
Positano and Amalfi. Suppose you come with me?"
The other hesitated.
"You mean you are going to walk?"
"No. I have traps to carry on from the station. We should have a
carriage to Sorrento, and to-morrow a donkey for the baggage."
They paced about, hands in pockets. It was a keen morning; the
tramontana blew blusterously, causing the smoke of Vesuvius to lie
all down its long slope, a dense white cloud, or a vast turbid
torrent, breaking at the foot into foam and spray. The clearness of
the air was marvellous. Distance seemed to have no power to dim the
details of the landscape. The Apennines glistened with new-fallen
snow.
"I hadn't thought of going any further just now," said Elgar, who
seemed to have a difficulty in simply declining the invitation, as
he wished to do.
"What should you do, then?"
"Spend another day here, I think,--I've only had a few hours among
the ruins, you know,--and then go back to Naples."
"What to do there?" asked Mallard, bluntly.
"Give a little more time to the museum, and see more of the
surroundings."
"Better come on with me. I shall be glad of your company."
It was said with decision, but scarcely with heartiness. Elgar
looked about him vaguely.
"To tell you the truth," he said at last, "I don't care to incur
much expense."
"The expenses of what I propose are trivial."
"My traps are at Naples, and I have kept the room there. No, I don't
see my way to it, Mallard."
"All right."
The artist turned away. He walked about the road for ten minutes.--
Very well; then he too would return to Naples. Why? What was
altered? Even if Elgar accompanied him to Amalfi, it would only be
for a few days; there was no preventing the fellow's eventual
return--his visits to the villa, perhaps to Mrs. Gluck's. Again imbecile
and insensate What did it all matter?
He stopped short. He would sit down and write a letter to Mrs.
Baske.--A pretty complication, that! What grounds for such a
letter as he meditated?
The devil! Had he not a stronger will than Reuben Elgar? If he
wished to carry a point with such a weakling, was he going to let
himself be thwarted? Grant it was help only for a few days, no
matter; Elgar should go with him.
He walked back to the garden. Good; there the fellow loitered,
obviously irresolute.
"Elgar, you'd better come, after all," he said, with a grim smile.
"I want to have some talk with you. Let us pay our shot, and walk on
to the station."
"What kind of talk, Mallard?"
"Various. Get whatever you have to carry; I'll see to the bill."
"But how can I go on without a shirt?"
"I have shirts in abundance. A truce to your obstacles. March!"
And before very long they were side by side in the vehicle, speeding
along the level road towards Castellammare and the mountains. This
exertion of native energy had been beneficial to Mallard's temper;
he talked almost genially. Elgar, too, had subdued his restiveness,
and began to look forward with pleasure to the expedition.
"I only wish this wind would fall!" he exclaimed. "It's cold, and I
hate a wind of any kind."
"Hate a wind? You're effeminate; you're a boulevardier. It would do
you good to be pitched in a gale about the coast of Skye. A fellow
of your temperament has no business in these relaxing latitudes. You
want tonics."
"Too true, old man. I know myself at least as well as you know me."
"Then what a contemptible creature you must be! If a man knows his
weakness, he is inexcusable for not overcoming it."
"A preposterous contradiction, allow me to say. A man is what he is,
and will be ever the same. Have you no tincture of philosophy? You
talk as though one could govern fate."
"And you, very much like the braying jackass in the field there."
Mallard had a savage satisfaction in breaking all bounds of
civility. He overwhelmed his companion with abuse, revelled in
insulting comparisons. Elgar laughed, and stretched himself on the
cushions so as to avoid the wind as much as possible.
They clattered through the streets of Castellammare, pursued by
urchins, crying, "Un sordo, signori!" Thence on by the seaside road
to Vico Equense, Elgar every now and then shouting his ecstasy at
the view. The hills on this side of the promontory climb, for the
most part, softly and slowly upwards, everywhere thickly clad with
olives and orange-trees, fig-trees and aloes. Beyond Vico comes a
jutting headland; the road curves round it, clinging close on the
hillside, turns inland, and all at once looks down upon the Piano di
Sorrento. Instinctively, the companions rose to their feet, as
though any other attitude on the first revelation of such a prospect
were irreverent. It is not really a plain. but a gently rising wide
and deep lap, surrounded by lofty mountains and ending at a line of
sheer cliffs along the sea-front. A vast garden planted for Nature's
joy; a pleasance of the gods; a haunt of the spirit of beauty set
between sun-smitten crags and the enchanted shore.
"Heaven be praised that you forced me to come!" muttered Elgar, in
his choking throat.
Mallard could say nothing. He had looked upon this scene before, but
it affected him none the less.
They drove into the town of Tasso, and to an inn which stood upon
the edge of a profound gorge, cloven towards the sea-cliffs.
Sauntering in the yard whilst dinner was made ready, they read an
inscription on a homely fountain:
"Sordibus abstersis, instructo marmore, priscus
Fons nitet, et manat gratior unda tibi."
"Eternal gratitude to our old schoolmasters," cried Elgar, "who
thrashed us through the Eton Latin grammar! What is Italy to the man
who cannot share our feelings as we murmur that distich? I marvel
that I was allowed to learn this heathen tongue. Had my parents
known what it would mean to me, I should never have chanted my _hic,
haec, hoc_."
He was at his best this afternoon; Mallard could scarcely identify
him with the reckless, and sometimes vulgar, spendthrift who had
been rushing his way to ruin in London. His talk abounded in
quotation, in literary allusion, in high-spirited jest, in poetical
feeling. When had he read so much? What a memory he had! In a world
that consisted of but one sex, what a fine fellow he would have
been!
"What do you think of my sister?" he asked, _a propos_ of nothing,
as they idled about the Capo di Sorrento and on the road to Massa.
"An absurd question."
"You mean that I cannot suppose you would tell me the truth."
"And just as little the untruth. I do not know your sister."
"We had a horrible scene that day I turned up. I behaved brutally to
her, poor girl."
"I'm afraid you have often done so."
"Often. I rave at her superstition; how can she help it? But she's a
good girl, and has wit enough if she might use it. Oh, if some
generous, large-brained man would drag her out of that slough of
despond!--What a marriage that was! Powers of darkness, what a
marriage!"
Mallard was led to no question.
"I shall never understand it, never," went on Elgar, in excitement.
"If you had seen that oily beast! I don't know what criterion girls
have. Several of my acquaintance have made marriages that set my
hair on end. Lives thrown away in accursed ignorance--that's my
belief."
Mallard waited for the next words, expecting that they would torture
him. There was a long pause, however, and what he awaited did not
come.
"Do you hate the name Miriam, as I do?"
"Hate it, no."
"I wonder they didn't call her Keziah, and me Mephibosheth. It isn't
a nice thing to detest the memory of one's parents, Mallard. It
doesn't help to make one a well-balanced man. How on earth did I get
my individuality? And you mustn't think that Miriam is just what she
seems--I mean, there _are_ possibilities in her; I am convinced of
it."
"Did it ever occur to you that your own proceedings may have acted
as a check upon those possibilities?"
"I don't know that I ever thought of it," said Elgar, ingenuously.
"You never reflected that her notion of the liberated man is
yourself?"
"You are right, Mallard. I see it. What other example had she?"
They walked as far as Massa Lubrense, a little town on the steep
shore; over against it the giant cliffs of Capri, every cleft and
scar and jutting rock discernible through the pellucid air, every
minutest ruggedness casting its clear-cut shadow. But the surpassing
glory was the prospect at the Cape of Sorrento when they reached it
on their walk back. Before them the entire sweep of the gulf, from
Ischia to Capri; Naples in its utmost extent, an unbroken line of
delicate pink, from Posillipo to Torre Annunziata. Far below their
feet the little _marina_ of Sorrento, with its row of boats drawn up
on the strand; behind them noble limestone heights. The sea was
foaming under the tramontana, and its foam took colour from the
declining sun.
Next morning they set forth again as Mallard had proposed, their
baggage packed on a donkey, a guide with them to lead the way over
the mountains to the other shore. A long climb, and at the
culminating point of the ridge they rested to look the last on
Naples; thenceforward their faces were set to the far blue hills of
Calabria.
"Yonder lies Paestum," said Mallard, pointing to the dim plain
beyond the Gulf of Salerno; and his companion's eyes were agleam.
Early in the afternoon they reached the coast at Positano, and
thence took boat for Amalfi. Elgar was like one possessed at his
first sight of the wonderful old town, nested in its mountain gorge,
overlooked by wild crags; this relic saved from the waste of
mediaeval glory. When they had put up at an inn less frequented and
much cheaper than the "Cappuccini," he would not rest until he had
used the last hour of sunlight in clambering about the little maze
of streets, or rather of mountain paths and burrows beneath houses
piled one upon another indistinguishably. Forced back by hunger, he
still lingered upon the window-balcony, looking' up at the hoary
riven tower set high above the town on what seems an inaccessible
peak, or at the cathedral and its many-coloured campanile.
How could Mallard help comparing these manifestations of ardent
temper with what he had witnessed in Cecily? The resemblance was at
moments more than he could endure; once or twice he astonished Elgar
with a reply of unprovoked savageness. The emotions of the day, even
more than its bodily exercise, had so wearied him that he went early
to bed. They had a double-bedded room, and Elgar continued talking
for hours. Even without this, Mallard felt that he would have been
unable to sleep. To add to his torments, the clock of the cathedral,
which was just on the opposite side of the street, had the terrible
southern habit of striking the whole hour after the chime at each
quarter; by midnight the clangour was all but incessant. Elgar sank
at length into oblivion, but to his companion sleep came not. Very
early in the morning there sounded the loud blast of a horn, all
through the town and away into remoteness. Signify what it might,
the practical result seemed to be a rousing of the population to
their daily life; lively voices, the tramp of feet, the clatter of
vehicles began at once, and waxed with the spread of daylight.
The sun rose, but only to gleam for an hour on clouds and vapours
which it had not power to disperse. The mountain summits were
hidden, and down their sides crept ominously the ragged edges of
mist; a thin rain began to fall, and grew heavier as the sky dulled.
Having breakfasted, the two friends spent an hour in the cathedral,
which was dark and chill and gloomy. Two or three old people knelt
in prayer, their heads bowed against column or wall; remarking the
strangers, they came 'up to them and begged.
"My spirits are disagreeably on the ebb," said Elgar. "If it's to be
a Scotch day, let us do some mountaineering."
They struck up the gorge, intending to pursue the little river, but
were soon lost among ascents and descents, narrow stairs,
precipitous gardens, and noisy paper-mills. Probably no unassisted
stranger ever made his way out of Amalfi on to the mountain slopes.
They had scorned to take a guide, but did so at length in
self-defence, so pestered were they by all but every person they
passed; man, woman, and child beset them for soldi, either frankly
begging or offering a direction and then extending their hands. The
paper-mills were not romantic; the old women who came along bending
under huge bales of rags were anything but picturesque. And it
rained, it rained.
Wet and weary, they had no choice but to return to the inn. Elgar's
animation had given place to fretfulness; Mallard, after his
miserable night, eared little to converse, and would gladly have
been alone. A midday meal, with liberal supply of wine, helped them
somewhat, and they sat down to smoke in their bedroom. It rained
harder than ever; from the window they could see the old tower on
the crag smitten with white scud.
"Come now," said Mallard, forcing himself to take a livelier tone,
"tell me about those projects of yours. Are you serious in your idea
of writing?"
"Perfectly serious."
"And what are you going to write?"
"That I haven't quite determined. lam revolving things. I have ideas
without number."
"Too many for use, then. You need to live in some such place as this
for a few weeks, and clear your thoughts. 'Company, villainous
company,' is the first thing to be avoided."
"No doubt you are right"
But it was half-heartedly said, and with a restless glance towards
the window. Mallard, in whose heart a sick weariness conflicted with
his will and his desire, went on in a dogged way.
"I want to work here for a time." Work! The syllable was like lead
upon his tongue, and the thought a desolation in his mind. "Write to
your sister; get her to send your belongings from Casa Rolandi,
together with a ream of scribbling-paper. I shall be out of doors
most of the day, and no one will disturb you here. Use the
opportunity like a man. Fall to. I have a strong suspicion that it
is now or never with you."
"I doubt whether I could do anything here."
"Perhaps not on a day like this; but it is happily exceptional.
Remember yesterday. Were I a penman, the view from this window in
sunlight would make the ink flow nobly."
Elgar was mute for a few minutes.
"I believe I need a big town. Scenes like this dispose me to idle
enjoyment. I have thought of settling in Paris for the next six
months."
Mallard made a movement of irritation.
"Then why did you come here at all? You say you have no money to
waste."
"Oh, it isn't quite so bad with me as all that," replied Elgar, as
if he slightly resented this interference with his private affairs.
Yet he had yesterday, in the flow of his good-humour, all but
confessed that it was high time he looked out for an income. Mallard
examined him askance. The other, aware of this scrutiny, put on a
smile, and said with an air of self-conquest:
"But you are right; I have every reason to trust your advice. I'll
tell you what, Mallard. To-morrow I'll drive to Salerno, take the
train to Naples, pack my traps, and relieve Miriam's mind by an
assurance that I'm going to work in your company; then at once come
back here."
"I don't see the need of going to Naples. Write a letter. Here's
paper; here's pen and ink."
Elgar was again mute. His companion, in an access of intolerable
suffering, cried out vehemently:
"Can't you see into yourself far enough to know that you are
paltering with necessity? Are you such a feeble creature that you
must be at the mercy of every childish whim, and ruin yourself for
lack of courage to do what you know you ought to do? If instability
of nature had made such work of me as it has of you, I'd cut my
throat just to prove that I could at least once make my hand obey my
will!"
"It would be but the final proof of weakness," replied Elgar,
laughing. "Or, to be more serious, what would it prove either one
way or the other? If you cut your throat, it was your destiny to do
so; just as it was to commit the follies that led you there. What is
all this nonsense about weak men and strong men? I act as I am bound
to act; I refrain as I am bound to refrain. You know it well
enough."
This repeated expression of fatalism was genuine enough. It
manifested a habit of his thought. One of the characteristics of our
time is that it produces men who are determinists by instinct; who,
anything but profound students or subtle reasoners, catch at the
floating phrases of philosophy and recognize them as the index of
their being, adopt them thenceforth as clarifiers of their vague
self-consciousness. In certain moods Elgar could not change from one
seat to another without its being brought to his mind that he had
moved by necessity.
"What if that be true?" said Mallard, with unexpected coldness. "In
practice we live as though our will were free. Otherwise, why
discuss anything?"
"True. This very discussion is a part of the scheme of things, the
necessary antecedent of something or other in your life and mine. I
shall go to Naples to-morrow; I shall spend one day there; on the
day after I shall be with you again. My hand upon it, Mallard. I
promise!"
He did so with energy. And for the moment Mallard was the truer
fatalist.
Again they left the inn, this time going seaward. Still in rain,
they walked towards Minori, along the road which is cut in the
mountain-side, high above the beach. They talked about the massive
strongholds which stand as monuments of the time when the
coast-towns were in fear of pirates. Melancholy brooded upon land
and sea; the hills of Calabria, yesterday so blue and clear, had
vanished like a sunny hope.
The morrow revealed them again. But again for Mallard there had
passed a night of much misery. On rising, he durst not speak, so
bitter was he made by Elgar's singing and whistling. Yet he would
not have eared to prevent the journey to Naples, had it been in his
power. He was sick of Elgar's company; he wished for solitude. When
his eyes fell on the materials of his art, he turned away in
disgust.
"You'll get to work as soon as I'm gone," cried Reuben, cheerfully.
"Yes."
He said it to avoid conversation.
"Cheer up, old man! I shall not disappoint you this time. You have
my promise."
"Yes."
A two-horse carriage was at the door. Mallard looked at it from the
balcony, and was direly tempted. No fear of his yielding, however,
It was not his fate to scamper whither desire pointed him.
"I have already begun to work out an idea," said Elgar, as he
breakfasted merrily. "I woke in the night, and it came to me as I
heard the bell striking. My mind is always active when I am
travelling; ten to one I shall come back ready to begin to write. I
fear there's no decent ink purchasable in Amalfi; I mustn't forget
that. By-the-bye, is there anything I can bring you?"
"Nothing, thanks."
They went down together, shook hands, and away drove the carriage.
At the public fountain in the little piazza, where stands the image
of Sant' Andrea, a group of women were busy or idling, washing
clothes and vegetables and fish, drawing water in vessels of
beautiful shape, chattering incessantly--such a group as may have
gathered there any morning for hundreds of years. Children darted
after the vehicle with their perpetual cry of "Un sord', signor!"
and Elgar royally threw to them a handful of coppers, looking back
to laugh as they scrambled.
A morning of mornings, deliciously fresh after the rain, the air
exquisitely fragrant. On the mountain-tops ever so slight a mist
still clinging, moment by moment fading against the blue.
"Yes, I shall be able to work here," said Elgar within himself.
"December, January, February; I can be ready with something for the
spring."
CHAPTER VII
THE MARTYR
Clifford Marsh left Pompeii on the same day as his two chance
acquaintances; he returned to his quarters on the Mergellina, much
perturbed in mind, beset with many doubts, with divers temptations.
"Shall I the spigot wield?" Must the ambitions of his glowing youth
come to naught, and he descend to rank among the Philistines? For,
to give him credit for a certain amount of good sense, he never
gravely contemplated facing the world in the sole strength of his
genius. He knew one or two who had done so before his mind's eye was
a certain little garret in Chelsea, where an acquaintance of his, a
man of real and various powers, was year after year taxing his brain
and heart in a bitter struggle with penury; and these glimpses of
Bohemia were far from inspiring Clifford with zeal for
naturalization. Elated with wine and companionship, he liked to pose
as one who was sacrificing "prospects" to artistic
conscientiousness; but, even though he had "fallen back" on
landscape, he was very widely awake to the fact that his
impressionist studies would not supply him with bread, to say
nothing of butter--and Clifford must needs have both.
That step-father of his was a well-to-do manufacturer of shoddy in
Leeds, one Hibbert, a good-natured man on the whole, but of limited
horizon. He had married a widow above his own social standing, and
for a long time was content to supply her idolized son with the
means of pursuing artistic studies in London and abroad. But Mr.
Hibbert had a strong opinion that this money should by now have
begun to make some show of productiveness. Domestic grounds of
dissatisfaction ripened his resolve to be firm with young Mr. Marsh.
Mrs. Hibbert was extravagant; doubtless her son was playing the fool
in the same direction. After all, one could pay too much for the
privilege of being snubbed by one's superior wife and step-son. If
Clifford were willing to "buckle to" at sober business (it was now
too late for him to learn a profession), well and good; he should
have an opening at which many a young fellow would jump. Otherwise,
let the fastidious gentleman pay his own tailor's bills.
Clifford's difficulties were complicated by his relations with
Madeline Denyer. It was a year since he had met Madeline at Naples,
had promptly fallen in love with her face and her advanced opinions,
and had won her affection in return. Clifford was then firm in the
belief that, if he actually married, Mr. Hibbert would not have the
heart to stop his allowance; Mrs. Denyer had reasons for thinking
otherwise, and her daughter saw the case in the same light. It must
be added that he presumed the Denyers to be better off than they
really were; in fact, he was to a great extent misled. His dignity,
if the worst came about, would not have shrunk from moderate
assistance at the hands of his parents-in-law. Madeline knew well
enough that nothing of this kind was possible, and in the end made
her lover's mind clear on the point. Since then the course of these
young people's affections had been anything but smooth. However, the
fact remained that there _was_ mutual affection--which, to be
sure, made the matter worse.
Distinctly so since the estrangement which had followed Marsh's
arrival at the boarding-house. He did not take Madeline's advice to
seek another abode, and for two or three days Madeline knew not
whether to be glad or offended at his remaining. For two or three
days only; then she began to have a pronounced opinion on the
subject. It was monstrous that he should stay under this roof and
sit at this table, after what had happened. He had no delicacy; he
was behaving as no gentleman could. It was high time that her mother
spoke to him.
Mrs. Denyer solemnly invited the young man to a private interview.
"Mr. Marsh," she began, with pained dignity, whilst Clifford stood
before her twiddling his watch-chain, "I really think the time has
come for me to ask an explanation of what is going on. My daughter
distresses me by saying that all is at an end between you. If that
is really the case, why do you continue to live here, when you must
know how disagreeable it is to Madeline?"
"Mrs. Denyer," replied Clifford, in a friendly tone. "there has been
a misunderstanding between us, but I am very far from reconciling
myself to the thought that everything is at an end. My remaining
surely proves that."
"I should have thought so. But in that case I am obliged to ask you
another question. What can you mean by paying undisguised attentions
to another young lady who is living here?"
"You astonish me. What foundation is there for such a charge?"
"At least you won't affect ignorance as to the person of whom I
speak. I assure you that I am not the only one who has noticed
this."
"You misinterpret my behaviour altogether. Of course, you are
speaking of Miss Doran. If your observation had been accurate, you
would have noticed that Miss Doran gives me no opportunity of paying
her attentions, if I wished. Certainly I have had conversations with
Mrs. Lessingham, but I see no reason why I should deny myself that
pleasure."
"This is sophistry. You walked about the museum with _both_ these
ladies for a long time yesterday."
Clifford was startled, and could not conceal it.
"Of course," he exclaimed, "if my movements are watched, with a view
to my accusation--!"
And he broke off significantly.
"Your movements are not watched. But if I happen to hear of such
things, I must draw my own conclusions."
"I give you my assurance that the meeting was purely by chance, and
that our conversation was solely of indifferent matters--of art,
of Pompeii, and so on."
"Perhaps you are not aware," resumed Mrs. Denyer, with a smile that
made caustic comment on this apology, "that, when we sit at table,
your eyes are directed to Miss Doran with a frequency that no one
can help observing."
Marsh hesitated; then, throwing his head back, remarked in an
unapproachable manner:
"Mrs. Denyer, you will not forget that I am an artist."
"I don't forget that you profess to be one, Mr. Marsh."
This was retort with a vengeance. Clifford reddened slightly, and
looked angry. Mrs. Denyer had reached the point to which her remarks
were from the first directed, and it was not her intention to spare
the young man's susceptibilities. She had long ago gauged him, and
not inaccurately on the whole; it seemed to her that he was of the
men who can be "managed."
"I fail to understand you," said Marsh, with dignity.
"My dear Clifford, let me speak to you as one who has your
well-being much at heart. I have no wish to hurt your feelings, but
I have been upset by this silly affair, and it makes me speak a
little sharply. Now, I see well enough what you have been about; it
is an old device of young gentlemen who wish to revenge themselves
just a little for what they think a slight. Of course you have never
given a thought to Miss Doran, who, as you say, would never dream of
carrying on a flirtation, for she knows how things are between you
and Madeline, and she is a young lady of very proper behaviour. In
no case, as you of course understand, could she be so indelicate as
anything of this kind would imply. No; but you are vexed with
Madeline about some silly little difference, and you play with her
feelings. There has been enough of it; I must interfere. And now let
us talk a little about your position. Madeline has, of course, told
me everything. Listen to me, my dear Clifford; you must at once
accept Mr. Hibbert's kindly meant proposal--you must indeed."
Marsh had reflected anxiously during this speech. He let a moment of
silence pass; then said gravely:
"I cannot consent to do anything of the kind, Mrs. Denyer."
"Oh yes, you can and will, Clifford. Silly boy, don't you see that
in this way you secure yourself the future just suited to your
talents? As an artist you will never make your way; that is certain.
As a man with a substantial business at your back, you can indulge
your artistic tastes quite sufficiently, and will make yourself the
centre of an admiring circle. We cannot all be stars of the first
magnitude. Be content to shine in a provincial sphere, at all events
for a time. Madeline as your wife will help you substantially. You
will have good society, and better the richer you become. You are
made to be a rich man and to enjoy life. Now let us settle this
affair with your step-father."
Still Clifford reflected, and again with the result that he appeared
to have no thought of being persuaded to such concessions. The
debate went on for a long time, ultimately with no little vigour on
both sides. Its only immediate result was that Marsh left the house
for a few days, retiring to meditate at Pompeii.
In the mean time there was no apparent diminution in Madeline's
friendliness towards Cecily Doran. It was not to be supposed that
Madeline thought tenderly of the other's beauty, or with warm
admiration of her endowments; but she would not let Clifford Marsh
imagine that it mattered to her in the least if he at once
transferred his devotion to Miss Doran. Her tone in conversing with
Cecily became a little more patronizing,--though she spoke no more
of impressionism,--in proportion as she discovered the younger
girl's openness of mind and her lack of self-assertiveness.
"You play the piano, I think?" she said one day.
"For my own amusement only."
"And you draw?"
"With the same reserve."
"Ah," said Madeline, "I have long since given up these things. Don't
you think it is a pity to make a pastime of an art? I soon saw that
I was never likely really to _do_ anything in music or drawing, and
out of respect for them I ceased to--to potter. Please don't think
I apply that word to you."
"Oh, but it is very applicable," replied Cecily, with a laugh. "I
think you are quite right; I often enough have the same feeling. But
I am full of inconsistencies--as you are finding out, I know."
Mrs. Lessingham displayed good nature in her intercourse with the
Denyers. She smiled in private, and of course breathed to Cecily a
word of warning; but the family entertained her, and Madeline she
came really to like. With Mrs. Denyer she compared notes on the
Italy of other days.
"A sad, sad change!" Mrs. Denyer was wont to sigh. "All the poetry
gone! Think of Rome before 1870, and what it is now becoming. One
never looked for intellect in Italy--living intellect, of course,
I mean--but natural poetry one did expect and find. It is
heart-breaking, this progress! If it were not for my dear girls, I
shouldn't be here; they adore Italy--of course, never having known
it as it was. And I am sure you must feel, as I do, Mrs. Lessingham,
the miserable results of cheapened travel. Oh, the people one sees
at railway-stations, even meets in hotels, I am sorry to say,
sometimes! In a few years, I do believe, Genoa and Venice will
strongly remind one of Margate."
No echo of the cry of "Wolf!" ever sounded in Mrs. Denyer's
conversation when she spoke of her husband. That Odysseus of
commerce was always referred to as being concerned in enterprises of
mysterious importance and magnitude; she would hint that he had
political missions, naturally not to be spoken of in plain terms.
Mrs. Lessingham often wondered with a smile what the truth really
was; she saw no reason for making conjectures of a disagreeable
kind, but it was pretty clear to her that selfishness, idleness, and
vanity were at the root of Mrs. Denyer's character, and in a measure
explained the position of the family.
During the last few days, Barbara had exhibited a revival of
interest in the "place in Lincolnshire." Her experiments proved that
it needed but a moderate ingenuity to make Mr. Musselwhite's
favourite topic practically inexhaustible. The "place" itself having
been sufficiently described, it was natural to inquire what other
"places" were its neighbours, what were the characteristics of the
nearest town, how long it took to drive from the "place" to the
town, from the "place" to such another "place," and so on. Mr.
Musselwhite was undisguisedly grateful for every remark or question
that kept him talking at his ease. It was always his dread lest a
subject should be broached on which he could say nothing whatever--
there were so many such!--and as often as Barbara broke a silence
without realizing his fear, he glanced at her with the gentlest and
most amiable smile. Never more than glanced; yet this did not seem
to be the result of shyness; rather it indicated a lack of mental
activity, of speculation, of interest in her as a human being.
One morning he lingered at the luncheon-table when nearly all the
others had withdrawn, playing with crumbs, and doubtless shrinking
from the _ennui_ that lay before him until dinner-time. Near him,
Mrs. Denyer, Barbara, and Zillah were standing in conversation about
some photographs that had this morning come by post.
"This one isn't at all like you, my dear," said Mrs. Denyer, with
emphasis, to her eldest girl. "The other is passable, but I wouldn't
have any of these."
"Well, of course I am no judge," replied Barbara, "but I can't agree
with you. I much prefer this one."
Mr. Musselwhite was slowly rising.
"Let us take some one else's opinion," said the mother. "I wonder
what Mr. Musselwhite would say?"
The mention of his name caused him to turn his head, half absently,
with an inquiring smile. Barbara withdrew a step, but Mrs. Denyer,
in the most natural way possible, requested Mr. Musselwhite's
judgment on the portraits under discussion.
He took the two in his hands, and, after inspecting them, looked
round to make comparison with the original. Barbara met his gaze
placidly, with gracefully poised head, her hands joined behind her.
It was such a long time before the arbiter found anything to remark,
that the situation became a little embarrassing; Zillah laughed
girlishly, and her sister's eyes fell.
"Really, it's very hard to decide," said Mr. Musselwhite at length,
with grave conscientiousness. "I think they're both remarkably good.
I really think I should have some of both."
"Barbara thinks that this makes her look too childish," said Mrs.
Denyer, using her daughter's name with a pleasant familiarity.
Again Mr. Musselwhite made close comparison. It was, in fact, the
first time that he had seen the girl's features; hitherto they had
been, like everything else not embalmed in his memory, a mere vague
perception, a detail of the phantasmic world through which he
struggled against his _ennui_.
"Childish? Oh dear, no!" he remarked, almost vivaciously. "It is
charming; they are both charming. Really, I'd have some of both,
Miss Denyer."
"Then we certainly will," was Mrs. Denyer's conclusion; and with a
gracious inclination of the head, she left the room, followed by her
daughters. Mr. Musselwhite looked round for another glance at
Barbara, but of course he was just too late.
Poor Madeline, in the meantime, was being sorely tried. Whilst
Clifford Marsh was away at Pompeii, daily "scenes" took place
between her and her mother. Mrs. Denyer would have had her make
conciliatory movements, whereas Madeline, who had not exchanged a
word with Clifford since the parting in wrath, was determined not to
be the first to show signs of yielding. And she held her ground,
tearless, resentful, strong in a sense of her own importance.
When he again took his place at Mrs. Gluck's table, Clifford had the
air of a man who has resigned himself to the lack of sympathy and
appreciation--nay, who defies everything external, and in the
strength of his genius goes serenely onwards. Never had he displayed
such self-consciousness; not for an instant did he forget to
regulate the play of his features. Mrs. Denyer he had greeted
distantly; her daughters, more distantly still. He did not look more
than once or twice in Miss Doran's direction, for Mrs. Denyer's
reproof had made him conscious of an excess in artistic homage. His
neighbour being Mr. Bradshaw, he conversed with him agreeably,
smiling seldom. He seemed neither depressed nor uneasy; his
countenance wore a grave and noble melancholy, now and then
illumined with an indescribable ardour.
The Bradshaws had begun to talk of leaving Naples, but this seemed
to be the apology for enjoying themselves which is so characteristic
of English people. Even Mrs. Bradshaw found her life from day to day
very pleasant, and in consequence never saw her friends at the villa
without expressing much uneasiness about affairs at home, and
blaming her husband for making so long a stay. Both of them were now
honoured with the special attention of Mr. Marsh. Clifford was never
so much in his element as when conversing of art and kindred matters
with persons who avowed their deficiencies in that sphere of
knowledge, yet were willing to learn; relieved from the fear of
criticism, he expanded, he glowed, he dogmatized. With Mrs.
Lessingham he could not be entirely at his ease; her eye was
occasionally disturbing to a pretender who did not lack discernment.
But in walking about the museum with Mr. Bradshaw, he was the most
brilliant of ciceroni. Jacob was not wholly credulous, for he had
spoken of the young man with Mrs. Lessingham, but he found such
companionship entertaining enough from time to time, and Clifford's
knowledge of Italian was occasionally a help to him.
A day or two of moderate intimacy with any person whatsoever always
led Clifford to a revelation of his private circumstances; it was
not long before Mr. Bradshaw was informed not only of Mr. Hibbert's
harshness, but of the painful treatment to which Clifford was being
subjected at the hands of Mrs. Denyer and Madeline. The latter point
was handled with a good deal of tact, for Clifford had it in view'
that through Mr. Bradshaw his words would one way or other reach
Mrs. Lessingham, and so perchance come to Miss Doran's ears. He made
no unworthy charges; he spoke not in anger, but in sorrow; he was
misunderstood, he was depreciated, by those who should have devoted
themselves to supporting his courage under adversity. And as he
talked, he became the embodiment of calm magnanimity; the rhetoric
which was meant to impress his listener had an exalting effect upon
himself--as usual.
"You mean to hold out, then?" asked the bluff Jacob, with a smile
which all but became a chuckle.
"I am an artist," was the noble reply. "I cannot abandon my life's
work."
"But how about bread and cheese? They are necessary to an artist, as
much as to other men, I'm afraid."
Clifford smiled calmly.
"I shall not be the first who has starved in such a cause."
Jacob roared as he related this conversation to his wife.
"I must keep an eye on the lad," he said. "When I hear he's given
in, I'll write him a letter of congratulation."
CHAPTER VIII
PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION
An interesting conversation took place one morning between Mrs.
Spence and Mrs. Lessingham with regard to Cecily. They were alone
together at the villa; Cecily and Miriam had gone for a drive with
the Bradshaws. After speaking of Reuben Elgar, Mrs. Lessingham
passed rather abruptly to what seemed a disconnected subject.
"I don't think it's time yet for Cecily to give up her set studies.
I should like to find some one to read with her regularly again
before long--say Latin and history; there would be no harm in a
little mathematics. But there's a difficulty in finding the suitable
person." She smiled. "I'm afraid only a lady will answer the
purpose."
"Better, no doubt," assented Eleanor, also with a smile.
"And ladies who would be any good to Cecily are not at one's
disposition every day. What an admirable mind she has! I never knew
any one acquire with so little effort. Of course, she has long ago
left me behind in everything. The only use I can be to her is to
help her in gaining knowledge of the world--not to be learnt
entirely out of books, we know."
"What is your system with her?"
"You see that I have one," said Mrs. Lessingham, gratified, and
rustling her plumage a little as a lady does when she is about to
speak in confidence of something that pleases her. "Of course, I
very soon understood that the ordinary _surveillance_ and
restrictions and moral theories were of little use in her case. (I
may speak with you quite freely, I am sure.) I'm afraid the results
would have been very sad if Cecily had grown up in Lancashire."
"I doubt whether she would have grown up at all."
"Indeed, it seemed doubtful. If her strength had not utterly failed,
she must have suffered dreadfully in mind. I studied her carefully
during the first two years; then I was able to pursue my method with
a good deal of confidence. It has been my aim to give free play to
all her faculties; to direct her intelligence, but never to check
its growth--as is commonly done. We know what is meant by a girl's
education, as a rule; it is not so much the imparting of knowledge
as the careful fostering of special ignorances. I think I put it
rightly?"
"I think so."
"It is usual to say that a girl must know nothing of this and that
and the other thing--these things being, in fact, the most
important for her to understand. I won't say that every girl can
safely be left so free as I have left Cecily; but when one has to
deal with exceptional intelligence, why not yield it the exceptional
advantages? Then again, I had to bear in mind that Cecily has strong
emotions. This seemed to me only another reason for releasing her
mind from the misconceptions it is usual to encourage. I have done
my best to help her to see things as they _are_, not as moral
teachers would like them to be, and as parents make-believe to their
girls that they are indeed."
Mrs. Lessingham ended on a suave note of triumph, and smiled very
graciously as Eleanor looked approval.
"The average parent says," she pursued, "that his or her daughter
must be kept pure-minded, and therefore must grow up in a fool's
paradise. I have no less liking for purity, but I understand it in
rather a different sense; certain examples of the common purity that
I have met with didn't entirely recommend themselves to me. Then
again, the average parent says that the daughter's lot in life is
marriage, and that after marriage is time enough for her to throw
away the patent rose-coloured spectacles. I, on the other hand,
should be very sorry indeed to think that Cecily has no lot in life
besides marriage; to me she seemed a human being to be instructed
and developed, not a pretty girl to be made ready for the market.
The rose coloured spectacles had no part whatever in my system. I
have known some who threw them aside at marriage, in the ordinary
way, with the result that they thenceforth looked on everything very
obliquely indeed. I'm sorry to say that it was my own fate to wear
those spectacles, and I know only too well how hard a struggle it
cost me to recover healthy eyesight."
"Mine fell off and got broken long before I was married," said
Eleanor, "and my parents didn't think it worth while to buy new
ones."
"Wise parents! No, I have steadily resisted the theory that a girl
must know nothing, think nothing, but what is likely to meet the
approval of the average husband--that is to say, the foolish, and
worse than foolish, husband. I see no such difference between girl
and boy as demands a difference in moral training; we know what
comes of the prevalent contrary views. And in Cecily's case, I
believe I have vindicated my theory. She respects herself; she knows
all that lack of self-respect involves. She has been fed on
wholesome victuals, not on adulterated milk. She is not haunted with
that vulgar shame which passes for maiden modesty. Do you find fault
with her, as a girl?"
"I should have to ponder long for an objection."
"And what is the practical result? In whatever society she is, I am
quite easy in mind about her. Cecily will never do anything foolish.
It's only the rose-coloured spectacles that cause stumbling. And I
mean by 'stumbling' all the silliness to which girls are subject.
Ah! if I could live _my_ girlhood over again, and with some sensible
woman to guide me! If I could have been put on my guard against
idiotic illusions, as Cecily is!"
"We mustn't expect too much of education," Eleanor ventured to
remark. "There is no way of putting experience into a young girl's
head. It would say little for her qualities if a girl could not make
a generous mistake."
"Such mistakes are not worthy of being called generous, as a rule.
They are too imbecile. That state of illusion is too contemptible.
There is very little danger of Cecily's seeing any one in a grossly
false light."
Eleanor did not at once assent.
"You seem to doubt that?" added the other, with a searching look.
"I think she is as well guarded as a girl can be; but, as I said
before, education is no substitute for experience. Don't think me
captious, however. I sympathize entirely with the course you have
taken. If I had a daughter, I should like her to be brought up on
the same principles."
"Cecily is very mature for her age," continued Mrs. Lessingham, with
evident pleasure in stating and restating her grounds of confidence.
"She feels strongly, but never apart from judgment. Now and then she
astonishes me with her discernment of character; clearness of
thought seems almost to anticipate in her the experience on which
you lay such stress. Have you noticed her with Mr. Mallard? How
differently many girls would behave! But Cecily understands him so
well; she knows he thinks of her as a child, and nothing could be
more simply natural than her friendship for him. I suppose Mr.
Mallard is one of the artists who never marry?"
"I don't know him well enough to decide that," answered Eleanor,
with a curious smile.
It was in the evening of this day, when the Spences and Miriam were
sitting together after dinner, that a servant announced a visit of
Reuben Elgar, adding that he was in his sister's room. Miriam went
to join him.
"You can spare me a minute or two?" he asked cheerily, as she
entered.
"Certainly. You are just back from Pompeii?"
"From Castellamare--from Sorrento the indescribable--from Amalfi
the unimaginable--from Salerno! Leave Naples without seeing those
places, and hold yourself for ever the most wretched of mortals! Old
Mallard forced me to go with him, and I am in his debt to eternity!"
This exalted manner of speech was little to Miriam's taste
especially from her brother. Sobriety was what she desired in him.
It seemed a small advantage that his extravagance should exhibit
itself in this way rather than in worse; the danger was still there.
"Sit down, and talk more quietly. You say Mr. Mallard _forced_ you
to go?"
"I was coming back to Naples from Pompeii. By-the-bye, I went up
Vesuvius, and descended shoeless. The guides ought to have metal
boots on hire. I was coming back, but Mallard clutched me by the
coat-collar. Even now I've come sorely against his will. I left him
at Amalfi. I'm going to settle my affairs here to-morrow, and join
him again. He's persuaded me to try and work at Amalfi."
"How long do you think of staying there?"
"It all depends. Perhaps I shan't be able to do anything, after
all."
"But surely that depends on yourself."
"Not a bit! If I were a carpenter or bricklayer, one might say so--
in a sense. But such work as I am going to do is a question of mood,
influences, caprices--"
Miriam reflected.
"Mr. Mallard was unwilling to let you return here?"
"Naturally. He knows my uncertainty. But I have promised him; I
shall keep my word."
"He is working himself?"
"Will be by now; we had horrible day of rain at Amalfi. He seems
rather glummer than usual, but that won't hinder his work. I wish I
had the old fellow's energy. After all, though, one can force one's
self to use pencils and brushes; it's a different thing when all has
to come from the brain. If you haven't a quiet mind--"
"What disturbs you?" Miriam asked, watching him.
"Oh, there's always something. I wish you could give me a share of
your equanimity. Never mind, I shall try. By-the-bye, I ought to
have a word with Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily before I go. Are they
likely to be here tomorrow?"
"I can't say."
"Then I shall call at their place. When will they be at home?"
"Do you think you ought to do that?" Miriam asked, without looking
at him.
"Why on earth not?"
His brow darkened, and he seemed about to utter something not unlike
his vehemencies on the day of arrival.
"You must judge for yourself, of course," said Miriam. "We won't
talk about it."
Reuben nodded agreement carelessly. Then he began to talk of his
proposed work, and presently they went to join the Spences. For an
hour or more, Reuben held forth rapturously on what he had seen
these last few days. He could not rest seated, but paced up and down
the room, gesticulating, fervidly eloquent.
"Do play me something, will you, Mrs. Spence?" he asked at length.
(His cousinship with Eleanor had never been affirmed by intimate
association, and he had not the habit of addressing her by the
personal name.) "Just for ten minutes; then I'll be off and trouble
you no more. Something to invigorate! A rugged piece!"
Eleanor made a choice from Beethoven, and, whilst she played, Elgar
leant forward on the back of a chair. Then he bade them good-bye,
his pulse at fever-time.
Half-past ten next morning found him walking hither and thither on
the Mergellina, frequently consulting his watch. He decided at
length to approach the house in which his acquaintances dwelt.
Passing through the _portone_, whom should he encounter but Clifford
Marsh, known to him only from the casual meeting at Pompeii, not by
name. They stopped to speak. Elgar inquired if the other lived at
Mrs. Gluck's.
"For the present."
"I have friends here," Reuben added. "You know Mrs. Lessingham?"
"Oh yes," replied Clifford, eyeing his collocutor. "If you are
calling to see those ladies," he continued, "they went out half an
hour ago. I saw them drive away."
Elgar muttered his annoyance. Though he disliked doing so, he asked
Marsh whether he knew when the ladies were likely to return.
Clifford declared his ignorance. The two looked at each other,
smiled, said good morning, and turned different ways.
Reuben walked about the sea-front for a couple of hours. "Who is
that confounded fellow?" he kept asking in his mind, adding the
highly ludicrous question, "What business has he to know them?" His
impatience waxed; now and then he strode at such a pace that
perspiration covered him. The most trivial discomposure had often
much the same effect on him; if he happened to have a difficulty in
finding his way, for instance, he would fume himself into
exasperated heat.
"What business have they to live in a vulgar boarding house? It's
abominable bad taste and indiscretion in that woman. In fact, I
don't like Mrs. Lessingham.--And what the devil has it to do with
me?"
He strode up to the villa. Possibly they were there; yet he didn't
like to call--for various reasons. He fretted about the roads,
this way and that, till hunger oppressed him. Having eaten at the
first restaurant he came to, he directed his steps towards the
Mergellina again. At two o'clock he reached the house and made
inquiry. The ladies had not yet returned.
He struck off towards the Chiaia, again paced backwards and
forwards, cursed at carriage-drivers who plagued him, tried to amuse
himself on the Santa Lucia. And pray what was all this fuss about?
When he rose this morning, he had half a mind to start at once for
Amalfi, and not see Mrs. Lessingham and her niece at all; he "didn't
know that be cared much." He had met Cecily Doran twice. The second
time was on the Strada Nuova di Posillipo, where he encountered a
carriage in which Cecily and her aunt were taking the air; he talked
with them for three minutes. It was the undeniable fact that he had
broken away from "old Mallard" merely to see Cecily again. He had
never tried to blind himself to it; that kind of thing was not in
his way. None the less was it a truth that he thought himself
capable of saying good-bye to the wonderful girl, and posting off to
his literary work. Why expose himself to temptation? Because he
chose to; because it was pleasant; surely an excellent reason.
If only he hadn't come up against that confounded artist-fellow!
That had upset him, most absurdly. A half good-looking sort of
fellow: a fellow who could prate with a certain _brio_; not unlikely
to make something of a figure in the eyes of a girl like Cecily. And
what then?
Before now, Elgar had confessed to a friend that he couldn't read
the marriage-column in a newspaper without feeling a distinct
jealousy of all the male creatures there mentioned.
He sought out a _caffe_, and sat there for an hour, drinking a
liquor that called itself lacryma-Christi, but would at once have
been detected for a pretender by a learned palate. He drank it for
the first time, and tried to enjoy it, but his mind kept straying to
alien things. When it was nearly four o'clock, he again went forth,
took a carriage, and bade the man drive quickly.
This time he was successful. A servant conducted him by many stairs
and passages to Mrs. Lessingham's sitting-room. He entered, and
found himself alone with Cecily.
"Mrs. Lessingham will certainly be back very soon," she said, in
shaking hands with him. "They told me you had called before, and I
thought you would like better to wait a few minutes than to be
disappointed again."
"I think of going to Amalfi to-morrow morning, perhaps for a long
time," remarked the visitor. "I wished to say good bye."
The accumulated impatience and nervousness of the whole morning
disturbed his pulses and put a weight upon his tongue; he spoke with
awkward indecision, held himself awkwardly. His own voice sounded
boorish to him after Cecily's accents.
Cecily began to speak of how she had spent the day. Her aunt was
making purchases--was later in returning than had been expected.
Then she asked for an account of Elgar's doings since they last met.
The conversation grew easier Reuben began to recover his natural
voice, and to lose disagreeable self-consciousness in the delight of
hearing Cecily and meeting her look. Had he known her better, he
would have observed that she spoke with unusual diffidence, that she
was not quite so self-possessed a. of wont, and that her manner was
deficient in the frank gaiety which as a rule made its great charm.
Her tone softened itself in questioning; she listened so attentively
that, when he had ceased speaking, her eyes always rose to his, as
if she had expected something further.
"Who is the young artist that lives here?" Elgar inquired. "I met
him at Pompeii, and to-day came upon him here in the courtyard. A
slight, rather boyish fellow."
"I think you mean Mr. Marsh," replied Cecily, smiling. "He has
recently been at Pompeii, I know."
"You are on friendly terms with him?"
"Not on _un_friendly," she answered, with amusement.
Elgar averted his face. Instantly the flow of his blood was again
turbid; he felt an inclination to fling out some ill-mannered
remark.
"You must come in contact with all kinds of odd people in a place
like this."
"One or two are certainly odd," was the reply, in a gentle tone;
"but most of them are very pleasant to be with occasionally.
Naturally we see more of the Bradshaws than of any one else. There's
a family named Denyer--a lady with three daughters; I don't think
you would dislike them. Mr. Marsh is their intimate friend."
It was all but as though she pleaded against a mistaken judgment
which troubled her. To Mallard she had spoken of her fellow-boarders
in quite a different way, with merry though kindly criticism, or in
the strain of generous idealization which so often marked her
language.
"Do you know anything of his work?" Elgar pursued.
"I have seen a few of his water-colour drawings."
"He showed you them?"
"No; one of the Miss Denyers did. He had given them to her"
"Oh!" He at once brightened. "And how did they strike you?"
"I'm sorry to say they didn't interest me much. But I have no right
to sit in judgment."
Elgar had the good taste to say nothing more on the subject. He let
his eyes rest on her down-turned face for a moment.
"You see a good deal of Miriam, I'm glad to hear."
"I am sometimes afraid I trouble her by going too often."
"Have no such fear. I wish you were living under the same roof with
her. No one's society could do her so much good as yours. The poor
girl has too long been in need of such an aid to rational
cheerfulness."
They were interrupted by the entrance of an English maidservant, who
asked whether Miss Doran would have tea brought at once, or wait
till Mrs. Lessingham's return.
"You see how English we are," said Cecily to her visitor. "I think
we'll have it now; Mrs. Lessingham may be hero any moment."
It was growing dusk. Whilst the conversation was diverted by
trifles, two lighted lamps were brought into the room. Elgar had
risen and gone to the window.
"We won't shut out the evening sky," said Cecily, standing not far
from him.
The door closed upon the servant who had carried in the tea-tray.
Elgar turned to his companion, and said in a musing tone, with a
smile:
"How long is it since we saw each other every day in Manchester?"
"Seven years since that short time you spent with us."
"Seven; yes. You were not twelve then; I was not quite twenty-one.
As regards change, a lifetime might have passed since, with both of
us. Yet I don't feel very old, not oppressively ancient."
"And I'm sure I don't."
They laughed together.
"You are younger than you were then," he continued, in his most
characteristic voice, the voice which was musical and alluring, and
suggestive of his nature's passionate depths and heights. "You have
grown into health of body and soul, and out of all the evil things
that would have robbed you of natural happiness. Nothing ever made
me more glad than first seeing you at the villa. I didn't know what
you had become, and in looking at you I rejoiced on your account.
You would gladden even miserable old age, like sunlight on a morning
of spring."
Cecily moved towards the tea-table in silence. She began to fill one
of the cups, but put the teapot down again and waited for a moment.
Having resumed her purpose, she looked round and saw Elgar seated
sideways on a chair by the window. With the cup of tea in her hand,
she approached him and offered it without speaking. He rose quickly
to take it, and went to another part of the room.
"I hope Miriam will stay here the whole winter," Cecily said, as she
seated herself by the table.
"I hope so," he assented absently, putting his tea aside. "How long
are you and Mrs. Lessingham likely to stay?"
"At least till February, I think."
"Shall you get as far as Amalfi some day?"
"Oh yes And Miriam will come with us, I hope. And to Capri too."
"I must see Capri. I shouldn't wonder if I go there soon; probably
it would suit my purpose better than Amalfi. Yet I must be alone, if
I am to work. I haven't Mallard's detachment. That seems to you a
paltry confession of weakness."
"No, indeed. I am told that Mr. Mallard is quite exceptional in his
power of disregarding everything but his work."
"Exceptional in many things, no doubt. I must seem very
insignificant in comparison."
"Why should you? Mr. Mallard is so much older; he has long been
fixed in his course."
"Older, yes," assented Elgar, with satisfaction." Perhaps at his age
I too may have done something worth doing."
"Who could doubt it?"
"It does me good to hear you say that!"
He moved from his distant place, and threw himself in one of his
usual careless attitudes on a nearer chair. "But Miriam has no faith
in me, not a jot Does she speak harshly of me to you?"
"No."
Cecily shook her head, and seemed unable to speak more than the
monosyllable.
"But she has nothing encouraging to say? She shows that she looks
upon me as one of whom no good can come? That is the impression you
have received from her?"
Cecily looked at him gravely.
"She has scarcely spoken of you at all--scarcely more than the few
words that were inevitable."
"In itself a condemnation."
Cecily was mute. Before Elgar could say anything more, the door
opened. With a sudden radiance on her features, the girl looked up
to greet Mrs. Lessingham's entrance.
"How long you have been, aunt!"
"Yes; I am sorry. How do you do, Mr. Elgar? Tea, Cecily, lest I
perish!"
From the doorway her quick glance had scrutinized both the young
people. Of course she betrayed no surprise; neither did she make
exhibition of pleasure. Her greeting of the visitor was gracefully
casual, given in passing. She sank upon a low chair as if overcome
with weariness. Mrs. Lessingham had nothing to learn in the arts
wherewith social intercourse is kept smooth in spite of nature's
improprieties. When she chose, she could be the awe-inspiring
chaperon, no less completely than she was at other times the
contemner of the commonplace.
"So you leave us to-morrow, Mr. Elgar? I have just met Mr. Spence,
and heard the news from him. I am glad you could find a moment to
call. You are going to be very busy, I hear, for the rest of the
winter."
"I hope so," Elgar replied, walking across the room to fetch his
half-emptied teacup.
"We shall look eagerly for the results of your work."
For ten minutes the conversation kept a rather flat course. Cecily
only spoke when addressed by her aunt; then quite in her usual way.
Elgar took the first opportunity to signal departure. When Cecily
gave him her hand, it was with a moment's unfaltering look--a look
very different from that which charmed everyday acquaintances at
their coming and going, unlike anything man or woman had yet seen on
her countenance. The faintest smile hovered about her lips as she
said, "Good-bye;" her steadfast eyes added the hope which there was
no need to speak.
When he was gone, Mrs. Lessingham sipped her tea in silence. Cecily
moved about and presently brought a book to her chair by the
tea-table.
"No doubt you had the advantage of hearing Mr. Elgar's projects
detailed," said her aunt, with irony which presumed a complete
understanding between them.
"No." Cecily shook her head and smiled.
"Curious how closely he and Mr. Marsh resemble each other at times."
"Do you think so?"
"Haven't you noticed it? There are differences, of course. Mr. Elgar
is originally much better endowed; though at present I should think
he is even less to be depended upon, either intellectually or
morally. But they belong to the same species. What numbers of such
young men I have met!"
"What are the characteristics of the species, aunt?" Cecily
inquired, with a pleasant laugh.
"I dare say you know them almost as well as I do. You might write an
essay on 'The Young Man of Promise' of our day. I should be rather
too severe; you would treat them with a lighter hand, and therefore
more effectually."
In speaking, she kept her eyes on the girl, who appeared to muse the
subject with sportful malice.
"I am not sure," said Cecily, "that Mr. Elgar would come into the
essay."
"You mean that his promise is too obviously delusive?"
"Not exactly that. I rather think he should have an essay to
himself."
"Of what tendency?" asked Mrs. Lessingham, still closely observant.
"Oh, it would need much meditation; but I think I could make it
interesting."
With another laugh, she dismissed the subject; nor did her aunt
endeavour to revive it.
The morrow was Sunday. Elgar knew at what time his tram left for
Salerno; the time-table was the same as for other days. Yet he lay
in bed till nearly noon, till the train had long since started. No,
he should not go to-day.
It irked him to rise at all. He had not slept; his head was hot, and
his hands shook nervously. Dressed, he sat down for a minute, and
remained seated half an hour, gazing at the wall. When at length he
left the house, he walked without seeing anything, stumbling against
things and people.
Of course, he knew last night that there was no journey for him
to-day. Promise? A promise is void when its fulfilment has become
impossible. Very likely Mallard had a conviction that he would not
come back at the appointed time. To-morrow, perhaps; and perhaps not
even to-morrow It had got beyond his control.
He ate, and returned to his room. Just now his need was physical
repose, undisturbed indulgence of reverie. And the reverie of a man
in his condition is a singular process. It consists of a small
number of memories, forecasts, Imaginings, repeated over and over
again, till one would think the brain must weary itself beyond
endurance. It can go on for many hours consecutively, and not only
remain a sufficient and pleasurable employment, but render every
other business repulsive, all but impossible.
At evening there came a change. He was now unable to keep still; he
went into the town, and exhausted himself with. walking up and down
the hilly streets. Society would have helped him, but he could find
none. He would not go to the villa; still less could he visit the
boarding-house.
What a night! At times he moved about his room like one in frantic
pain, finally flinging himself upon the bed and lying there till the
impulse of his fevered mind broke the beginnings of sleep. Or he
walked the length of the floor, with measured step, fifty times,
counting each time he turned--a sort of conscious insanity. Or he
took his pocket-knife, and drove the point into the flesh of his
arm, satisfied when the pang became intolerable. Then again a loss
of all control in mere frenzy, the desire to shout, to yell. . . .
Elgar was out of the house at sunrise. He went down to the Chiaia,
loitered this way and that, always in the end facing towards
Posillipo. He drank his coffee, but ate nothing; then again walked
along the sea-front. Between nine and ten he turned into the upward
road, and went with purpose towards Villa Sannazaro.
CHAPTER IX
IN THE DEAD CITY
Through it was Sunday, Cecily resolved to go and spend the afternoon
with Miriam. She was restless, and could not take pleasure in Mrs.
Lessingham's conversation. Possibly her arrival at the villa would
be anything but welcome; but she must see Miriam.
She drove up by herself, and first of all saw the Spences. From them
she learnt that Miriam, as usual on Sunday, was keeping her own
room.
"Do you think I may venture, Mrs. Spence?"
"Go and announce yourself, my dear. If you are bidden avaunt, come
back and cheer us old people with your brightness."
So Cecily went with light step along the corridor, and with light
fingers tapped at Miriam's room. The familiar voice bade her enter.
Miriam was sitting near the window, on her lap a closed book.
"May I--?"
"Of course you may," was the quiet answer.
Cecily closed the door, came forward, and bent to kiss her friend.
Then she glanced at the "St. Cecilia;" then examined herself for a
moment in one of the mirrors; then took off her hat, mantle, and
gloves.
"I want to stay as long as your patience will suffer me."
"Do so."
"You avoid saying how long that is likely to be."
"How can I tell?"
"Oh, you have experience of me. You know how trying you find me in
certain moods. To-day I am in a very strange mood indeed; very
malicious, very wicked. And it is Sunday."
Miriam did not seem to resent this. She looked away at the window,
but smiled. Could Cecily have been aware how her face had changed
when the door opened, she would not have doubted whether she was
truly welcome.
"What book is that, Miriam?"
Cecily had been half afraid to ask; to her surprise it proved to be
Dante.
"Do you read this on Sunday?"
Miriam deigned no reply. The other, sitting just in front of her,
took up the volume and rustled its leaves.
"How far have you got? This pencil mark? 'Amor ch'a null' amato amar
perdona.'"
She read the line in an undertone, slowly towards the close.
Miriam's face showed a sudden and curious emotion. Glancing at the
book, she said abruptly:
"No; that's an old mark--a difficulty I had. I'm long past that."
"So am I. 'Amor ch'a null'--'"
Miriam stretched out her hand and took the volume with impatience.
"I'm at the end of this canto," she said, pointing. "Never mind it
now. I should have thought you would have gone somewhere such a fine
afternoon."
"That sounds remarkably like a hint that patience is near its end."
"I didn't mean it for that."
"Then let us get a carriage and drive somewhere together, we two
alone."
Miriam shook her head.
"Because it is Sunday?" asked Cecily, with a mischievous smile,
leaning her head aside.
"There is an understanding between us, Cecily. Don't break it."
"But I told you my mood was wicked. I feel disposed to break any and
every undertaking. I should like to fret and torment and offend you.
I should like to ask you why _I_ am allowed to enjoy the sunshine,
and you not? _Oggi e festa_! What a dreadful sound that must have in
your ears Miriam!"
"But they don't apply it to Sunday," returned the other, who seemed
to resign herself to this teasing.
"Indeed they do!" With a sudden change of subject, Cecily added,
"Your brother came to see us yesterday, to say good-bye."
"Did he?"
"It doesn't interest you. You care nothing where he goes, or what he
does--nothing whatever, Miriam. He told me so; but I knew it
already."
"He told you so?" Miriam asked, with cold surprise.
"Yes. You are unkind; you are unnatural."
"And you, Cecily, are childish. I never knew you so childish as
to-day."
"I warned you. He and I had a long talk before aunt came home."
"I'm sorry he should have thought it necessary to talk about
himself."
"What more natural, when he is beginning a new portion of life?
Never mind; we won't speak of it. May I play you a new piece I have
learnt?"
"Do you mean, of sacred music?"
"Sacred? Why, all music is sacred. There are tunes and jinglings
that I shouldn't call so; but neither do I call them music, just as
I distinguish between bad or foolish verse, and poetry. Everything
worthy of being called art is sacred. I shall keep telling you that
till in self-defence you are forced to think about it. And now I
shall play the piece whether you like it or not."
She opened the piano. What she had in mind was one of the "Moments
Musicaux" of Schubert--a strain of exquisite melody, which ceased
too soon. Cecily sat for a few moments at the key-board after she
had finished, her head bent; then she came and stood before Miriam.
"Do you like it?"
There was no answer. She looked steadily at the trouble a ace, and,
as it still kept averted from her, she laid her arms softly, half
playfully, about Miriam's neck.
"Why must there always be such a distance between us, Miriam dear?
Even when I seem so near to you as this, what a deep black gulf
really separates us!"
"You were once on my side of it" said Miriam, her voice softened.
"How did you pass to the other?"
"How could I tell you? No one read me lectures, or taught me hard
arguments. The change came insensibly, like passing out of a dream
into the light of morning. I followed where my nature led, and my
thoughts about everything altered. I don't know how it might have
been if I had lived on with you. But my happiness was not there."
"Happiness!" murmured the other, scornfully.
"A word you don't, won't understand. Yet to me it means much. Who
knows? Perhaps there may come a day when I shall look back upon it,
and see it as empty of satisfaction as it now seems to you. But more
likely that I shall live to look back in sorrow for its loss."
The dialogue became such as they had held more than once of late,
fruitless it seemed, only saddening to both. And Cecily was to-day
saddened by it beyond her wont; her excessive gaiety yielded to a
dejection which passed indeed, but for a while made her very unlike
herself, silent, with troubled eyes.
"I had one valid excuse for coming to see you to-day," she said,
when gaiety and dejection had both gone by. "Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw
seriously think of going to Rome at the end of next week, and they
wish to have another day at Pompeii. They would like it so much if
you would go with them. If you do, I also will; we shall make four
for a carriage, and drive there, and come back by train."
"What day?"
"To-morrow, if it be fine. Let me take them your assent."
Miriam agreed.
On Monday morning, as arranged, she was driving down to the
Mergellina, when, with astonishment, she saw her brother standing by
the roadside, beckoning to her. The carriage stopped, and he came up
to speak.
"Where are you off to?" he asked.
"You are still here?"
"I haven't been well. Didn't feel able to go yesterday. I was just
coming to see you."
"Not well, Reuben? Why didn't you come before?"
"I couldn't. I want to speak to you. Where are you going?"
She told him the plan for the day. Elgar turned aside, and
meditated.
"I'll see you there--at Pompeii somewhere. It'll be on my way."
"I had rather not go at all. I'll ask them to excuse me; Mrs.
Lessingham will perhaps take my place, and--"
"No! I'll see you at Pompeii. I shall have no difficulty you."
Miriam looked at him anxiously.
"I don't wish you to meet us there, Reuben."
"And I _do_ wish! Let me have my way, Miriam. Say nothing about me,
and let the meeting seem by chance."
"I can't do that. You make yourself ridiculous, after--"
"Let me judge for myself. Go on, or you'll be late."
She half rose, as if about to descend from the carriage. Elgar laid
his hand on her arm, and clutched it so strongly that she sank back
and regarded him with a look of anger.
"Miriam! Do as I wish, dear. Be kind to me for this once. If you
refuse, it will make no difference. Have some feeling for me. This
one day, Miriam."
Again she looked at him, and reflected. On account of the driver,
though of course he could not understand them, they had subdued
their voices, and Reuben's sudden action had not been noticeable.
"This one piece of sisterly kindness," he pleaded.
"It shall be as you wish," Miriam replied, her face cast down.
"Thank you, a thousand times. Avanti, cocchiere!"
Scrutiny less keen than Miriam's could perceive that Cecily had not
her usual pleasure in to-day's expedition. Even Mrs. Bradshaw,
sitting over against her in the carriage, noticed that the girl's
countenance lacked its natural animation, wore now and then a tired
look; the lids hung a little heavily over the beautiful eyes, and
the cheeks were a thought pale. When she forgot herself in
conversation, Cecily was the same as ever; mirthful, brightly
laughing, fervent in expressing delight; but her thoughts too often
made her silent, and then one saw that she was not heart and soul in
the present. It was another Cecily than on that day at Baiae. "She
has been over-exciting herself since she came here," was Mrs.
Bradshaw's mental remark. Miriam, anxiously observant, made a
different interpretation, and was harassed with a painful conflict
of thoughts.
Jacob Bush Bradshaw had no eyes for these trivialities. He sat in
the squared posture of a hearty Englishman, amusing himself with
everything they passed on the road self-congratulant on the
knowledge and experience he had been storing, joking as often as he
spoke.
"The lad Marsh would have uncommonly liked an invitation to come
with us to-day," he said, about midway in the drive. "What precious
mischief we could have made by asking him, Hannah!"
"There's no room for him, fortunately."
"Oh yes; up on the box."
His eye twinkled as he looked at Cecily. She questioned him.
"Where would be the mischief, Mr. Bradshaw?"
"He talks nonsense, my dear," interposed Mrs. Bradshaw. "Pay no
attention to him."
Miriam had heard now and then of Clifford Marsh. She met Jacob's
smile, and involuntarily checked it by her gravity.
"We might have asked the Denyers as well," said Cecily, "and have
had another carriage, or gone by train."
Mr. Bradshaw chuckled for some minutes at this proposal, but his
wife would not allow him to pursue the jest.
They lunched at the Hotel Diomede before entering the precincts of
the ruins. Mr. Bradshaw had invariably a splendid appetite, and was
by this time skilled in ordering the meals that suited him. The few
phrases of Italian which he had appropriated were given forth _ore
rotundo_, with Anglo-saxon emphasis on the _o_'s, and accompanied
with large gestures. His mere appearance always sufficed to put
landlords and waiters into their most urbane mood; they never failed
to take him for one of the English nobility--a belief confirmed by
the handsomeness of his gratuities. Mrs. Bradshaw was not, perhaps,
the ideal lady of rank, but the fine self-satisfaction on her
matronly visage, the good-natured disdain with which she allowed
herself to be waited upon by foolish foreigners, her solid disregard
of everything beyond the circle of her own party, were impressive
enough, and exacted no little subservience.
Strong in the experience of two former visits, Mr. Bradshaw would
have no guide to-day. Murray in hand, he knew just what he wished to
see again, and where to find it.
As Miriam was at Pompeii for the first time, he took her especially
under his direction, and showed her the city much as he might have
led her over his silk-mill in Manchester. Unimbued with history and
literature, he knew nothing of the scholar's or the poet's
enthusiasm; his gratification lay in exercising his solid
intelligence on a lot of strange and often grotesque facts. Here men
had lived two thousand years ago. There was no mistake about it; you
saw the deep ruts of their wheels along the rugged street; nay, you
saw the wearing of their very feet on the comically narrow
pavements. And their life had been as different as possible from
that of men in Manchester. Everything excited him to merriment.
"Now, this is the house of old Pansa--no doubt an ancestor of
friend Sancho"--with a twinkle in his eye. "We'll go over this
carefully, Mrs. Baske; it's one of the largest and completest in
Pompeii. Here we are in what they called the atrium."
Cecily spoke seldom. Of course, she would have preferred to be alone
here with Miriam; best of all--or nearly so--if they could have
made the same party as at Baiae. At times she lingered a little
behind the others, and seemed deep in contemplation of some object;
or she stood to watch the lizards darting about the sunny old walls.
When all were enjoying the view from the top of Jupiter's Temple,
she gazed long towards the Sorrento promontory, the height of St.
Angelo.
"Amalfi is over on the far side," she said to Miriam. "They are both
working there now."
Miriam replied nothing.
When they were in the Street of Tombs, Cecily again paused, by the
sepulchre of the Priestess Mamia, whence there is a clear prospect
across the bay towards the mountains. Turning back again, she heard
a voice that made her tremble with delighted surprise. A wall
concealed the speaker from her; she took a few quick steps, and saw
Reuben Elgar shaking hands with the Bradshaws. He looked at her, and
came forward. She could not say any thing, and was painfully
conscious of the blood that rushed to her face; never yet had she
known this stress of heart-beats that made suffering of joy, and
the misery of being unable to command herself under observant eyes.
It was years since Elgar and the Bradshaws had met. As a boy he had
often visited their house, but from the time of his leaving home at
sixteen to go to a boarding-school, his acquaintance with them, as
with all his other Manchester friends, practically ceased. They had
often heard of him--too often, in their opinion. Aware of his
arrival at Naples, they had expressed no wish to see him. Still, now
that he met them in this unexpected way, they could not but assume
friendliness. Jacob, not on the whole intolerant, was willing enough
to take "the lad" on his present merits; Reuben had the guise and
manners of a gentleman, and perhaps was grown out of his reprobate
habits. Mr. Bradshaw and his wife could not but notice Cecily's
agitation at the meeting; they exchanged wondering glances, and
presently found an opportunity for a few words apart. What was going
on? How had these two young folks become so intimate? Well, it was
no business of theirs. Lucky that Mrs. Baske was one of the company.
And why should Cecily disguise that now only was her enjoyment of
the day begun--that only now had the sunshine its familiar
brightness, the ancient walls and ways their true enchantment? She
did not at once become more talkative, but the shadow had passed
utterly from her face, and there was no more listlessness in her
movements.
"I have stopped here on my way to join Mallard," was all Reuben
said, in explanation of his presence.
All kept together. Mr. Bradshaw resumed his interest in antiquities,
but did not speak so freely about them as before.
"Your brother knows a good deal more about these things than I do,
Mrs. Baske," he remarked. "He shall give us the benefit of his
Latin."
Miriam resolutely kept her eyes alike from Reuben and from Cecily.
Hitherto her attention to the ruins had been intermittent, but
occasionally she had forgotten herself so far as to look and ponder;
now she saw nothing. Her mind was gravely troubled; she wished only
that the day were over.
As for Elgar, he seemed to the Bradshaws singularly quiet, modest,
inoffensive. If he ventured a suggestion or a remark, it was in a
subdued voice and with the most pleasant manner possible. He walked
for a time with Mrs. Bradshaw, and accommodated himself with much
tact to her way of regarding foreign things, whether ancient or
modern. In a short time all went smoothly again.
Not since they shook hands had Elgar and Cecily encountered each
other's glance. They looked at each other often, very often, but
only when the look could not be returned; they exchanged not a
syllable. Yet both knew that at some approaching moment, for them
the supreme moment of this day, their eyes must meet. Not yet; not
casually, and whilst others regarded them. The old ruins would be
kind.
It was in the house of Meleager. They had walked among the coloured
columns, and had visited the inner chamber, where upon the wall is
painted the Judgment of Paris. Mr. Bradshaw passed out through the
narrow door. way, and his voice was dulled; Miriam passed with him,
and, close after her, Mrs. Bradshaw. Reuben seemed to draw aside for
Cecily, but she saw his hand extended towards her--it held a spray
of maidenhair that he had just gathered. She took it, or would have
taken it, but her hand was closed in his.
"I have stayed only to see you again," came panting from his lips.
"I could not go till I had seen you again!"
And before the winged syllables had ceased, their eyes met; nor
their eyes alone, for upon both was the constraint of passion that
leaps like flame to its desire--mouth to mouth and heart to heart
for one instant that concentrated all the joy of being.
What hand, centuries ago crumbled into indistinguishable dust,
painted that parable of the youth making his award to Love? What
eyes gazed upon it, when this was a home of man and woman warm with
life, listening all day long to the music of uttered thoughts?
Dark-buried whilst so many ages of history went by, thrown open for
the sunshine to rest upon its pallid antiquity, again had this
chamber won a place in human hearts, witnessed the birth of joy and
hope, blended itself with the destiny of mortals. He who pictured
Paris dreamt not of these passionate lips and their unborn language,
knew not that he wrought for a world hidden so far in time. Though
his white-limbed goddess fade ghostlike, the symbol is as valid as
ever. Did not her wan beauty smile youthful again in the eyes of
these her latest worshippers?
And they went forth among the painted pillars, once more shunning
each other's look. It was some minutes before Cecily knew that her
fingers still crushed the spray of maidenhair; then she touched it
gently, and secreted it within her glove. It must be dead when she
reached home, but that mattered nothing; would it not remain the
sign of something deathless?
She believed so. In her vision the dead city had a new and wonderful
life; it lay glorious in the light of heaven, its strait ways fit
for the treading of divinities, its barren temples reconsecrate with
song and sacrifice. She believed there was that within her soul
which should survive all change and hazard--survive, it might be,
even this warm flesh that it was hard not to think immortal.
She sought Miriam's side, took her hand, held it playfully as they
walked on together.
"Why do you look at me so sadly, Miriam?"
"I did not mean to."
"Yet you do. Let me see you smile once to-day."
But Miriam's smile was sadder than her grave look.
CHAPTER X
THE DECLARATION
It was true enough that Clifford Marsh would have relished an
invitation to accompany that party of four to Pompeii. For one
thing, he was beginning to have a difficulty in passing his days; if
the present state of things prolonged itself, his position might
soon resemble that of Mr. Musselwhite. But chiefly would he have
welcomed the prospect of spending some hours in the society of Miss
Doran, and under circumstances which would enable him to shine.
Clifford had begun to nurse a daring ambition. Allowing his vanity
to caress him into the half-belief that he was really making a noble
stand against the harshness of fate, he naturally spent much time in
imagining how other people regarded him--above all, what figure he
made in the eyes of Miss Doran. There could be no doubt that she
knew, at all events, the main items of his story; was it not certain
that they must make some appeal to her sympathies? His air of
graceful sadness could not but lead her to muse as often as she
observed it; he had contemplated himself in the mirror, and each
time with reassurance on this point. Why should the attractions
which had been potent with Madeline fail to engage the interest of
this younger and more emotional girl? Miss Doran was far beyond
Madeline in beauty, and, there was every reason to believe, had the
substantial gifts of fortune which Madeline altogether lacked. It
was a bold thing to turn his eye to her with such a thought,
circumstances considered; but the boldness was characteristic of
Marsh, with whom at all times self-esteem had the force of an
irresistible argument.
He was incapable of passion. Just as he had made a pretence of
pursuing art, because of a superficial cleverness and a liking for
ease and the various satisfactions of his vanity in such a career,
so did he now permit his mind to be occupied with Cecily Doran, not
because her qualities blinded him to all other considerations, but
in pleasant yielding to a temptation of his fancy, which made a
lively picture of many desirable things, and flattered him into
thinking that they were not beyond his reach. For the present he
could do nothing but wait, supporting his pose of placid martyrdom.
Wait, and watch every opportunity; there would arrive a moment when
seeming recklessness might advance him far on the way to triumph.
And yet he never for a moment regarded himself as a schemer
endeavouring to compass vulgar ends by machination. He had the
remarkable faculty of viewing himself in an ideal light, even whilst
conscious that so many of his claims were mere pretence. Men such as
Clifford Marsh do not say to themselves, "What a humbug I am!" When
driven to face their conscience, it speaks to them rather in this
way: "You are a fellow of fine qualities, altogether out of the
common way of men. A pity that conditions do not allow you to he
perfectly honest; but people in general are so foolish that you
would get no credit for your superiority if you did not wear a
little tinsel, practise a few harmless affectations. Some day your
difficulties will be at an end, and then you can afford to show
yourself in a simpler guise." When he looked in the glass, Clifford
admired himself without reserve; when he talked freely, he applauded
his own cleverness, and thought it the most natural thing that other
people should do so. When he meditated abandoning Madeline, his
sincere view of the matter was that she had proved herself unworthy:
however sensible her attitude, a girl had no right to put such
questions to her lover as she had done, to injure his self-love.
When he plotted with himself to engage Cecily's interest, he said
that it was the course any lover would have pursued. And in the end
he really persuaded himself that he was in love with her.
Yet none the less he thought of Madeline with affection. He was
piqued that she made no effort to bring him back to her feet. To be
sure, her mother's behaviour probably implied Madeline's desire of
reconciliation, but he wished her to make personal overtures; he
would have liked to see her approach him with humble eyes, not
troubling himself to debate how he should act in that event. With
Mrs. Denyer he was once more on terms of apparent friendliness,
though he held no private dialogue with her; he was willing that she
should suppose him gradually coming over to her views. Barbara and
Zillah showed constraint when he spoke with them, but this he
affected not to perceive. Only with Madeline he did not converse.
Her air of unconcernedness at length proved too much for his
patience, and so it came about that Madeline received by post a
letter addressed in Clifford's hand. She took it to her bedroom, and
broke the envelope with agitation.
"Your behaviour is heartless. Just when I am in deep distress, and
need all possible encouragement in the grave struggle upon which I
have entered--for I need not tell you that I am resolved to remain
an artist--you desert me, and do your best to show that you are
glad at being relieved of all concern on my account. It is well for
me that I see the result of this test, but, I venture to think, not
every woman would have chosen your course. I shall very shortly
leave Naples. It will no doubt complete your satisfaction to think
of me toiling friendless in London. Remember this as my farewell.--
C. M."
The next morning Clifford received what he expected, a reply, also
sent by post. It was written in the clearest and steadiest hand, on
superfine paper.
"I am sorry you should have repeated your insult in a written form;
I venture to think that not every man would have followed this
course. For myself, it is well indeed that I see the result of the
test to which you have been exposed. But I shall say and think no
more of it. As you leave soon, I would suggest that we should be on
the terms of ordinary acquaintances for the remaining time; the
present state of things is both disagreeable and foolish. It will
always seem to me a very singular thing that you should have
continued to live in this house; but that, of course, was in your
own discretion.--M. D."
This was on the morning when Cecily and her companions went to
Pompeii. Towards luncheon-time, Clifford entered the drawing-room,
and there found Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with Madeline. The
former looked towards him in a way which seemed to invite his
approach.
"Another idle morning, Mr. Marsh?" was her greeting.
"I had a letter at breakfast that disturbed me," he replied, seating
himself away from Madeline.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Mr. Marsh is very easily disturbed," said Madeline, in a light tone
of many possible meanings.
"Yes," admitted Clifford, leaning back and letting his head droop a
little; "I can seldom do anything when I am not quite at ease in
mind. Rather a misfortune, but not an uncommon one with artists."
The conversation turned on this subject for a few minutes, Madeline
taking part in it in a way that showed her resolve to act as she had
recommended in her note. Then Mrs. Lessingham rose and left the two
together. Madeline seemed also about to move; she followed the
departing lady with her eyes, and at length, as though adding a
final remark, said to Clifford:
"There are several things you have been so kind as to lend me that I
must return before you go, Mr. Marsh. I will make a parcel of them,
and a servant shall take them to your room.
"Thank you."
Since the quarrel, Madeline had not worn her ring of betrothal, but
this was the first time she had spoken of returning presents.
"I am sorry you have had news that disturbed you," she continued, as
if in calm friendliness. "But I dare say it is something you will
soon forget. In future you probably won't think so much of little
annoyances."
"Probably not."
She smiled, and walked away, stopping to glance at a picture before
she left the room. Clifford was left with knitted brows and uneasy
mind; he had not believed her capable of this sedateness. For some
reason, Madeline had been dressing herself with unusual care of late
(the result, in fact, of frequent observation of Cecily), and just
now, as he entered, it had struck him that she was after all very
pretty, that no one could impugn his taste in having formerly chosen
her. His reference to her letter was a concession, made on the
moment's impulse. Her rejecting it so unmistakably looked serious.
Had she even ceased to be jealous?
In the course of the afternoon, one of Mrs. Gluck's servants
deposited a parcel in his chamber. When he found it, he bit his
lips. Indeed, things looked serious at last. He passed the hours
till dinner in rather comfortless solitude.
But at dinner he was opposite Cecily, and he thought he had never
seen her so brilliant. Perhaps the day in the open air--there was
a fresh breeze--had warmed the exquisite colour of her cheeks and
given her eyes an even purer radiance than of wont. The dress she
wore was not new to him, but its perfection made stronger appeal to
his senses than previously. How divine were the wreaths and
shadowings of her hair! With what gracile loveliness did her neck
bend as she spoke to Mrs. Lessingham! What hand ever shone with more
delicate beauty than hers in the offices of the meal? It pained him
to look at Madeline and make comparison.
Moreover, Cecily met his glance, and smiled--smiled with adorable
frankness. From that moment he rejoiced at what had taken place
to-day. It had left him his complete freedom. Good; he had given
Madeline a final chance, and she had neglected it. In every sense he
was at liberty to turn his thoughts elsewhither, and now he felt
that he had even received encouragement.
"We had an unexpected meeting with Mr. Elgar," were Cecily's words,
when she spoke to her aunt of the day's excursion.
Mrs. Lessingham showed surprise, and noticed that Cecily kept
glancing over the columns of a newspaper she had carelessly taken
up.
"At Pompeii?"
"Yes; in the Street of Tombs. For some reason, he had delayed on his
journey."
"I'm not surprised."
"Why?"
"Delay is one of his characteristics, isn't it?" returned the elder
lady, with unaccustomed tartness. "A minor branch of the root of
inefficiency."
"I am afraid so."
Cecily laughed, and began to read aloud an amusing passage from the
paper. Her aunt put no further question; but after dinner sought
Mrs. Bradshaw, and had a little talk on the subject. Mrs. Bradshaw
allowed herself no conjectures; in her plain way she merely
confirmed what Cecily had said, adding that Elgar had taken leave of
them at the railway-station.
"Possibly Mrs. Baske knew that her brother would be there?" surmised
Mrs. Lessingham, as though the point were of no moment.
"Oh no! not a bit. She was astonished."
"Or seemed so," was Mrs. Lessingham's inward comment, as she smiled
acquiescence. "He has impressed me agree ably," she continued, "but
there's a danger that he will never do justice to himself."
"I don't put much faith in him myself," said Mrs. Bradshaw, meaning
nothing more by the phrase than that she considered Reuben a
ne'er-do-well. The same words would have expressed her lack of
confidence in a servant subjected to some suspicion.
Mrs. Lessingham was closely observant of her niece this evening, and
grew confirmed in distrust, in solicitude. Cecily was more than ever
unlike herself--whimsical, abstracted, nervous; she flushed at an
unexpected sound, could not keep the same place for more than a few
minutes. Much before the accustomed hour, she announced her
retirement for the night.
"Let me feel your pulse," said Mrs. Lessingham, as if in jest, when
the girl approached her.
Cecily permitted it, half averting her face.
"My child, you are feverish."
"A little, I believe, aunt. It will pass by the morning."
"Let us hope so. But I don't like that kind of thing at Naples. I
trust you haven't had a chill?"
"Oh dear, no! I never was better in my life!"
"Yet with fever? Go to bed. Very likely I shall look into your room
in the night.--Cecily!"
It stopped her at her door. She turned, and took a step back. Mrs.
Lessingham moved towards her.
"You haven't forgotten anything that you wished to say to me?"
"Forgotten? No, dear aunt."
"It just come back to my mind that you were on the point of saying
something a little while ago, and I interrupted you."
"No. Good night."
Mrs. Lessingham did enter the girl's room something after midnight,
carrying a dim taper. Cecily was asleep, but lay as though fatigue
had overcome her after much restless moving upon the pillow. Her
face was flushed; one of her hands, that on the coverlet, kept
closing itself with a slight spasm. The visitor drew apart and
looked about the chamber. Her eyes rested on a little writing-desk,
where lay a directed envelope. She looked at it, and found it was
addressed to a French servant of theirs in Paris, an excellent woman
who loved Cecily, and to whom the girl had promised to write from
Italy. The envelope was closed; but it could contain nothing of
importance--was merely an indication of Cecily's abiding kindness.
By this lay a small book, from the pages of which protruded a piece
of white paper. Mrs. Lessingham took up the volume--it was
Shelley--and found that the paper within it was folded about a spray
of maidenhair, and bore the inscription "House of Meleager Pompeii.
Monday, December 8, 1878." Over this the inquisitive lady mused,
until a motion of Cecily caused her to restore things rapidly to
their former condition.
A movement, and a deep sigh; but Cecily did not awake. Mrs.
Lessingham again drew softly near to her, and, without letting the
light fall directly upon her face, looked at her for a long time.
She whispered feelingly, "Poor girl! poor child!" then, with a sigh
almost as deep as that of the slumberer, withdrew.
In the morning, Cecily was already dressed when a servant brought
letters to the sitting-room. There were three, and one of them,
addressed to herself, had only the Naples postmark. She went back to
her bedroom with it.
After breakfast Mrs. Lessingham spoke for a while of news contained
in her correspondence; then of a sudden asked:
"You hadn't any letters?"
"Yes, aunt; one."
"My child, you are far from well this morning. The fever hasn't
gone. Your face burns."
"Yes."
"May I ask from whom the letter was?"
"I have it here--to show you." A choking of her voice broke the
sentence. She held out the letter. Mrs. Lessingham found the
following lines:--
"DEAR CECILY,
"I have, of course, returned to Naples, and I
earnestly hope I may see you between ten and eleven to-morrow
morning. I must see you alone. You cannot reply I will come and send
my name in the ordinary way.
"Yours ever,
"R. ELGAR."
Mrs. Lessingham looked up. Cecily, who was standing before her, now
met her gaze steadily.
"The meaning of this is plain enough," said her aunt, with careful
repression of feeling. "But I am at a loss to understand how it has
come about."
"I cannot tell you, aunt. I cannot tell myself."
Cecily's true accents once more. It was as though she had recovered
all her natural self-command now that the revelation was made. The
flush still possessed her cheeks, but she had no look of
embarrassment; she spoke in a soft murmur, but distinctly, firmly.
"I am afraid that is only too likely, dear. Come and sit down,
little girl, and tell me, at all events, something about it."
"Little girl?" repeated Cecily, with a sweet, affectionate smile.
"No; that has gone by, aunt."
"I thought so myself the other day; but--I suppose you have met
Mr. Elgar several times at his sister's, and have said nothing to me
about it?"
"That would not have been my usual behaviour, I hope. When did I
deceive you, aunt?"
"Never, that I know. Where have you met then?"
"Only at the times and places of which you know."
"Where did you give Mr. Elgar the right to address you in this
manner?"
"Only yesterday. I think you mustn't ask me more than that, aunt."
"I'mafraid your companions were rather lacking in discretion," said
the other, in a tone of annoyance.
"No; not in the sense you attach to the words. But, aunt, you are
speaking as if I _were_ a little girl, to be carefully watched at
every step."
Mrs. Lessingham mused, looking absently at the letter. She paid no
heed to her niece's last words, but at length said with decision:
"Cecily, this meeting cannot take place."
The girl replied with a look of uttermost astonishment.
"It is impossible, dear. Mr. Elgar should not have written to you
like this. He should have addressed himself to other people."
"Other people? But you don't understand, aunt. I cannot explain to
you. I expected this letter; and we must see each other."
Her voice trembled, failed.
"Shall you not treat my wish with respect, Cecily?"
"Will you explain to me all that you do wish, aunt?"
"Certainly. It is true that you are not a French girl, and I have no
desire to regard you as though we were a French aunt and niece
talking of this subject in the conventional way. But you are very
young, dear, and most decidedly it behoved Mr. Elgar to bear in mind
both his and your position. You have no parents, unhappily, but you
know that Mr. Mallard is legally appointed the guardian of your
interests, and I trust you know also that I am deeply concerned in
all that affects you. Let us say nothing, one way or another, of
what has happened. Since it _has_ happened, it was Mr. Elgar's duty
to address himself to me, or to Mr. Mallard, before making private
appointments with you."
"Aunt, you can see that this letter is written so as to allow of my
showing it to you."
"I have noticed that, of course. It makes Mr. Elgar's way of
proceeding seem still more strange to me. He is good enough to ask
you to relieve him of what he thinks--"
"You misunderstand him, aunt, entirely. I cannot explain it to you.
Only trust me, I beg, to do what I know to be right. It is necessary
that I should speak with Mr. Elgar; do not pain me by compelling me
to say more. Afterwards, he will wish to see you, I know."
"Please to remember, dear--it astonishes me that you forget it--
that I have a responsibility to Mr. Mallard. I have no legal charge
of you. With every reason, Mr. Mallard may reproach me if I
countenance what it is impossible for him to approve."
Cecily searched the speaker's face.
"Do you mean," she asked gravely, "that Mr. Mallard will disapprove--what
I have done?"
"I can say nothing on that point. But I am very sure that he would
not approve of this meeting, if he could know what was happening. I
must communicate with him at once. Until he comes, or writes, it is
your duty, my dear, to decline this interview. Believe me, it is
your duty."
Mrs. Lessingham spoke more earnestly than she ever had done to her
niece. Indeed, earnest speech was not frequent upon her lips when
she talked with Cecily. In spite of the girl's nature, there had
never existed between them warmer relations than those of fondness
and interest on one side, and gentleness with respect on the other.
Cecily was well aware of this something lacking in their common
life; she had wished, not seldom these last two years, to supply the
want, but found herself unable, and grew conscious that her aunt
gave all it was in her power to bestow. For this very reason, she
found it impossible to utter herself in the present juncture as she
could have done to a mother--as she could have done to Miriam;
impossible, likewise, to insist on her heart's urgent desire, though
she knew not how she should forbear it. To refuse compliance would
have been something more than failure in dutifulness; she would have
felt it as harshness, and perhaps injustice, to one with whom she
involuntarily stood on terms of ceremony.
"May I write a reply to this letter?" she asked, after a silence.
"I had rather you allowed me to speak for you to Mr. Elgar. To write
and to see him are the same thing. Surely you can forget yourself
for a moment, and regard this from my point of view."
"I don't know how far you may be led by your sense of
responsibility. Remember that you have insisted to me on your
prejudice against Mr. Elgar."
"Vainly enough," returned the other, with a smile. "If you prefer
it, I will myself write a line to be given to Mr. Elgar when he
calls. Of course, you shall see what I write."
Cecily turned away, and stood in struggle with herself. She had not
foreseen a conflict of this kind. Surprise, and probably vexation,
she was prepared for; irony, argument, she was quite ready to face;
but it had not entered her mind that Mrs. Lessingham would invoke
authority to oppose her. Such a step was alien to all the habits of
their intercourse, to the spirit of her education. She had deemed
herself a woman, and free; what else could result from Mrs.
Lessingham's method of training and developing her? This disillusion
gave a shock to her self-respect; she suffered from a sense of
shame; with difficulty she subdued resentment and impulses yet more
rebellious. It was ignoble to debate in this way concerning that of
which she could not yet speak formally with her own mind; to contend
like an insubordinate school-girl, when the point at issue was the
dearest interest of her womanhood.
"I think, aunt," she said, in a changed voice, speaking as though
her opinion had been consulted in the ordinary way, "it will be
better for you to sec Mr. Elgar--if you are willing to do so."
"Quite."
"But I must ask you to let him know exactly why I have not granted
his request. You will tell him, if you please, just what has passed
between us. If that does not seem consistent with your duty, or
dignity, then I had rather you wrote."
"Neither my duty nor my dignity is likely to suffer, Cecily,"
replied her aunt, with an ironical smile. "Mr. Elgar shall know the
simple state of the case. And I will forthwith write to Mr.
Mallard."
"Thank you."
There was no further talk between them. Mrs. Lessingham sat down to
write. With the note-paper before her, and the pen in hand, she was
a long time before she began; she propped her forehead, and seemed
lost in reflection. Cecily, who stood by the window, glanced towards
her several times, and in the end went to her own room.
Mrs. Lessingham's letter was not yet finished when a servant
announced Elgar's arrival. He was at once admitted. On seeing who
was to receive him, he made an instant's pause before coming
forward; there was merely a bow on both sides.
Elgar knew well enough in what mood this lady was about to converse
with him. He did not like her, and partly, no doubt, because he had
discerned her estimate of his character, his faculties. That she
alone was in the room gave him no surprise, though it irritated him
and inflamed his impatience. He would have had her speak immediately
and to the point, that he might understand his position. Mrs.
Lessingham, quite aware of his perfervid state of mind, had pleasure
in delaying. Her real feeling towards him was anything but
unfriendly; had it been possible, she would have liked to see much
of him, to enjoy his talk. Young men of this stamp amused her, and
made strong appeal to certain of her sympathies. But those very
sympathies enabled her to judge him with singular accuracy, aided as
she was by an outline knowledge of his past. Her genuine affection
for Cecily made her, now that the peril had declared itself, his
strenuous adversary. For Cecily to marry Reuben Elgar would be a
catastrophe, nothing less. She was profoundly convinced of this, and
the best elements of her nature came out in the resistance she was
determined to make.
A less worthy ground of vexation against Elgar might probably be
attributed to her. Skilful in judging men, she had not the same
insight where her own sex was concerned, and in the case of Cecily
she was misled, or rather misled herself, with curious persistence.
Possibly some slight, vague fear had already touched her when she
favoured Mrs. Spence with the description of her "system;" not
impossibly she felt the need of reassuring herself by making clear
her attitude to one likely to appreciate it. But at that time she
had not dreamt of such a sudden downfall of her theoretic edifice;
she believed in its strength, and did not doubt of her supreme
influence with Cecily. It was not to be wondered at that she felt
annoyed with the man who, at a touch, made the elaborate structure
collapse like a bubble. She imagined Mrs. Spence's remarks when she
came to hear of what had happened, her fine smile to her husband.
The occurrence was mortifying.
"Miss Doran has put into my hands a letter she received from you
this morning, Mr. Elgar."
Reuben waited. Mrs. Lessingham had not invited him to sit down; she
also stood.
"You probably wished me to learn its contents?"
"Yes; I am glad you have read it."
"It didn't occur to you that Miss Doran might find the task you
imposed upon her somewhat trying?"
Elgar was startled. Just as little as Cecily had he pondered the
details of the situation; mere frenzy possessed him, and he acted as
desire bade. Had Cecily been embarrassed? Was she annoyed at his not
proceeding with formality? He had never thought of her in the light
of conventional obligations, and even now could not bring himself to
do so.
"Did Miss Doran wish me to be told that?" he asked, bluntly, in
unconsidered phrase.
"Miss Doran's wish is, that no further step shall be taken by either
of you until her guardian, Mr. Mallard, has been communicated with."
"She will not see me?"
"She thinks it better neither to see you nor to write. I am bound to
tell you that this is the result of my advice. Her own intention was
to do as you request in this letter."
"What harm would there have been in that, Mrs. Lessingham? Why
mayn't I see her?"
"I really think Miss Doran must be allowed to act as seems best to
her. It is quite enough that I tell you what she has decided."
"But that is not her decision," broke out Elgar, moving impetuously.
"That is simply the result of your persuasion, of your authority.
Why may I not see her?"
"For reasons which would be plain enough to any but a very
thoughtless young gentleman. I can say no more."
Her caustic tone was not agreeable. Elgar winced under it, and had
much ado to restrain himself from useless vehemence.
"Do you intend to write to Mr. Mallard to-day?" he asked.
"I will write to-day."
Expostulation and entreaty seemed of no avail; Elgar recognized the
situation, and with a grinding of his teeth kept down the horrible
pain he suffered. His only comfort was that Mallard would assuredly
come post-haste; he would arrive by to-morrow evening. But two days
of this misery! Mrs. Lessingham was gratified with his look as he
departed; she had supplied him with abundant matter for speculation,
yet had fulfilled her promise to Cecily.
She finished her letter, then went to Cecily's room. The girl sat
unoccupied, and listened without replying. That day she took her
meals in private, scarcely pretending to eat. Her face kept its
flush, and her hands remained feverishly hot. Till late at night she
sat in the same chair, now and then opening a book, but unable to
read; she spoke only a word or two, when it was necessary.
The same on the day that followed. Seldom moving, seldomer speaking;
she suffered and waited.
CHAPTER XI
THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY
"Hic intus homo verus certus optumus recumbo, Publius Octavius
Rufus, decuno."
Mallard stood reading this inscription, graven on an ancient
sarcophagus preserved in the cathedral of Amalfi. A fool, probably,
that excellent Rufus--he said to himself,--but what a happy
fool! Unborn as yet, or to him unknown, the faith that would have
bidden him write himself a miserable sinner; what he deemed himself
in life, what perchance his friends and neighbours deemed him, why
not declare it upon the marble when be rested from all his virtues?
"Here lie I, Ross Mallard; who can say no good of myself, yet have
as little right to say ill; who had no faith whereby to direct my
steps, yet often felt that some such was needful; who spent all my
strength on a task which I knew to be vain; who suffered much and
joyed rarely; whose happiest day was his last."
Somehow like that would it run, if he were to write his own epitaph
at present.
The quiet of the dim sanctuary was helpful to such self-communing.
He relished being alone again, and after an hour's brooding had
recovered at all events a decent balance of thought, a respite from
madness in melancholy.
But he could not employ himself, could not even seek the relief of
bodily exertion; his mind grew sluggish, and threw a lassitude upon
his limbs. The greater part of the day he spent in his room at the
hotel, merely idle. This time he had no energy to attack himself
with adjurations and sarcasms; body and soul were oppressed with
uttermost fatigue, and for a time must lie torpid. Fortunately he
was sure of sleep to-night; the bell of the cathedral might clang
its worst, and still not rob him of the just oblivion.
The next day he strayed into the hills, and there in solitude faced
the enemy in his heart, bidding misery do its worst. In imagination
he followed Reuben Elgar to Naples, saw him speed to Villa
Sannazaro, where as likely as not he would meet Cecily. Mallard had
no tangible evidence of its being Reuben's desire to see Cecily, but
he was none the less convinced that for no other reason had his
companion set forth. And jealousy tormented him sorely. It was his
first experience of this cruellest passion: what hitherto had been
only a name to him, and of ignoble sound, became a disease clutching
at his vitals. It taught him fierceness, injustice, base suspicion,
brutal conjecture; it taught him that of which all these are
constituents--hatred.
But it did not constrain him to any unworthy action. The temptation
that passed through his mind when he looked from the balcony on the
carriage that was to convey Elgar, did not return--or only as a
bitter desire, impossible of realization. Distant from Naples he
must remain, awaiting whatsoever might happen.
Ah, bright, gentle, sweet-faced Cecily! Inconceivable to her this
suffering that lay upon her friend. How it would pain her if she
knew of it! With what sad, wondering tenderness her eyes would
regard him! How kindly would she lay her soft hand in his, and
entreat him to be comforted!
If he asked her, would she not give him that hand, to be his always?
Perhaps, perhaps; in her gentleness she would submit to this change,
and do her best to love him. And in return he would give her gruff
affection, removal from the life to which she was accustomed,
loneliness, his uncertain humours, his dubious reputation. How often
most he picture these results, and convince himself of the
impossibility of anything of the kind?
He knew her better than did Mrs. Lessingham; oh, far better! He had
detected in her deep eyes the sleeping passion, some day to awake
with suddenness and make the whole world new to her. He knew how far
from impossible it was that Reuben Elgar should be the prince to
break her charmed slumber. There was the likeness and the
unlikeness; common to both that temperament of enthusiasm. On the
one hand, Cecily with her unsullied maidenhood; and on the other,
Elgar with his reckless experiences--contrasts which so commonly
have a mutual attraction. There was the singularity of their meeting
after years, and seeing each other in such a new light; the
interest, the curiosity inevitably resulting. What likelihood that
any distrust would mingle with Cecily's warmth of feeling, were that
feeling once excited? He knew her too well.
How Mrs. Lessingham regarded Elgar he did not know. He had no
confidence in that lady's discretion; he thought it not improbable
that she would speak of Reuben to Cecily in the very way she should
not, making him an impressive figure. Then again, what part was Mrs.
Baske likely to have in such a situation? Could she be relied upon
to rep resent her brother unfavourably, with the right colour of
unfavourableness? Or was it not rather to be feared that the thought
of Cecily's influence might tempt her to encourage what otherwise
she must have condemned? He retraced in memory that curious dialogue
he had held with Miriam on the drive back from Baiae; could he
gather from it any hints of her probable behaviour?. . . .
By a sudden revulsion of mind, Mallard became aware that in the long
fit of brooding just gone by he had not been occupied with Cecily at
all. Busying his thoughts with Mrs. Baske, he had slipped into a
train of meditation already begun on the evening in question, after
the drive with her. What was Mrs. Baske's true history? How had she
come to marry the man of whom Elgar's phrases had produced such a
hateful image? What was the state, in very deed, of her mind at
present? What awaited her in the future?
It was curious that Mrs. Baske's face was much more recoverable by
his mind's eye than Cecily's. In fact, to see Miriam cost him no
effort at all; equally at will. he heard the sound of her voice.
There were times when Cecily, her look and utterance, visited him
very clearly; but this was when he did not wish to be reminded of
her. If he endeavoured to make her present, as a rule the picturing
faculty was irresponsive.
Welcome reverie! If only he could continue to busy himself with idle
speculation concerning the strange young Puritan, and so find relief
from the anguish that beset him. Suppose now, he set himself to
imagine Miriam in unlikely situations. What if she somehow fell into
poverty, was made absolutely dependent on her own efforts? Suppose
she suffered cruelly what so many women have to suffer--toil,
oppression, solitude; what would she become? Not, he suspected, a
meek martyr; anything but that, Miriam Baske. And how magnificent to
see her flash out into revolt against circumstances! Then indeed she
would be interesting.
Nay, suppose she fell in love--desperately, with grim fate against
her? For somehow this came more easilyto the fancy than the thought
of her loving obstacle. Presumably she had never loved; her husband
was out of the question. Would she pass her life without that
experience? One thing could be affirmed with certainty; if she lost
her heart to a man, it would not be to a Puritan. He could conceive
her being attracted by a strong and somewhat rude fellow, a despiser
of conventionalities, without religion, a man of brains and blood;
one whose look could overwhelm her with tumultuous scorn, and whose
hand, if need be, could crush her life out at a blow. Why not,
however, a highly polished gentleman, critical, keen of speech,
deeply read, brilliant in conversation, at once man of the world and
scholar? Might not that type have power over her? In a degree, but
not so decidedly as the intellectual brute.
Pshaw! what brain-sickness was this! What was he fallen to! Yet it
did what nothing else would, amused him for a few minutes in his
pain. He recurred to it several times, and always successfully.
Sunday came. This evening would see Elgar back again.
No doubt of his return had yet entered his mind. Whether Reuben
would in reality settle to some kind of work was a different
question; but of course he would come back, if it were only to say
that he had kept his promise, but found he must set off again to
some place or other. Mallard dreaded his coming. News of some kind
he would bring, and Mallard's need was of silence. If he indeed
remained here, the old irritation would revive and go on from day to
day. Impossible that they should live together long.
It was pretty certain by what train he would journey from Naples to
Salerno; easy, therefore, to calculate the probable hour of his
arrival at Amalfi. When that hour drew near, Mallard set out to walk
a short distance along the road, to meet him. Unlike the Sorrento
side of the promontory, the mountains here rise suddenly and boldly
out of the sea, towering to craggy eminences, moulded and cleft into
infinite variety of slope and precipice, bastion and gorge. Cut upon
the declivity, often at vast sheer height above the beach, the road
follows the curving of the hills. Now and then it makes a deep loop
inland, on the sides of an impassable chasm; and set in each of
these recesses is a little town, white-gleaming amid its orchard
verdure, with quaint and many-coloured campanile, with the semblance
of a remote time. Far up on the heights are other gleaming specks,
villages which seem utterly beyond the traffic of man, solitary for
ever in sun or mountain mist.
Mallard paid little heed to the things about him; he walked on and
on, watching for a vehicle, listening for the tread of horses.
Sometimes he could see the white road-track miles away, and he
strained his eyes in observing it. Twice or thrice he was deceived;
a carriage came towards him, and with agitation he waited to see its
occupants, only to be disappointed by strange faces.
There are few things more pathetic than persistency in hope due to
ignorance of something that has befallen beyond our ken. It is one
of those instances of the irony inherent in human fate which move at
once to tears and bitter laughter; the waste of emotion, the involuntary
folly, the cruel deception caused by limit of faculties--how
they concentrate into an hour or a day the essence of life itself!
He walked on and on; as well do this as go back and loiter fretfully
at the hotel. He got as far as the Capo d' Orso, the headland
half-way between Amalfi and Salerno, and there sat down by the
wayside to rest. From this point Salerno was first visible, in the
far distance, between the sea and the purple Apennines.
Either Elgar was not coming, or he had lingered long between the two
portions of his journey.
Mallard turned back; if the carriage came, it would overtake him. He
plodded slowly, the evening falling around him in still loveliness,
fragrance from the groves of orange and lemon spread on every motion
of the air.
And if he did not come? That must have some strange meaning. In any
case, he must surely write. And ten to one his letter would be a
lie. What was to be expected of him but a lie?
Monday, Tuesday, and now Wednesday morning. Hitherto not even a
letter.
When it was clear that Elgar had disregarded his promise, and, for
whatever reason, did not even seek to justify or excuse himself,
there came upon Mallard a strong mood of scorn, which for some hours
enabled him to act as though all his anxiety were at an end. He set
himself a piece of work; a flash of the familiar energy traversed
his mind. He believed that at length his degradation was over, and
that, come what might, he could now face it sturdily. Mere
self-deception, of course. The sun veiled itself, and hope was as
far as ever.
Never before had he utterly lost the power of working. In every
struggle he had speedily overcome, and found in work the one
unfailing resource. If he were robbed of this, what stay had life
for him henceforth? He could not try to persuade himself that his
suffering would pass, sooner or later, and time grant him
convalescence; the blackness ahead was too profound. He fell again
into torpor, and let the days go as they would; he cared not.
But this morning brought him a letter. At the first glance he was
surprised by a handwriting which was not Elgar's; recollecting
himself, he knew it for that of Mrs. Lessingham.
"DEAR MR. MALLARD,--
"It grieves me to be obliged to send you
disquieting news so soon after your departure from Naples, but I
think you will agree with me that I have no choice but to write of
something that has this morning come to my knowledge. You have no
taste for roundabout phrases, so I will say at once in plain words
that Cecily and Mr. Elgar have somehow contrived to fall in love
with each other--or to imagine that they have done so, which, as
regards results, unfortunately amounts to the same thing. I cannot
learn by what process it came about, but I am assured by Cecily, in
words of becoming vagueness, that they plighted troth, or some thing
of the kind, yesterday at Pompeii. There was a party of four: Mr.
and Mrs. Bradshaw, Cecily, and Mrs. Baske. At Pompeii they were
unexpectedly (so I am told) joined by Mr. Elgar--notwithstanding
that he had taken leave of us on Saturday, with the information that
he was about to return to you at Amalfi, and there devote himself to
literary work of some indefinite kind. Perhaps you have in the
meantime heard from him. This morning Cecily received a letter, in
which he made peremptory request for an inter view; she showed this
to me. My duty was plain. I declared the interview impossible, and
Cecily gave way on condition that I saw Mr. Elgar, told him why she
herself did not appear, and forthwith wrote to you. Our young
gentleman was disconcerted when he found that his visit was to be
wasted on my uninteresting self. I sent him about his business--
only that, unhappily, he has none--bidding him wait till we had
heard from you.
"I fancy this will be as disagreeable to you as it is to me. The
poor child is in a sad state, much disposed, I fear, to regard me as
her ruthless enemy, and like to fall ill if she be kept long in idle
suspense. Do you think it worth while to come to Naples? It is very
annoying that your time should be wasted by foolish children. I had
given Cecily credit for more sense. For my own part, I cannot think
with patience of her marrying Mr. Elgar; or rather, I cannot think
of it without dread. We must save her from becoming wise through
bitter sorrow, if it can in any way b" managed. I hope and trust
that nothing may happen to prevent your receiving this letter
to-morrow, for I am very uneasy, and not likely to become less so as
time goes on.
"Believe me, dear Mr. Mallard,
"Sincerely yours,
"EDITH LESSINGHAM."
At seven o'clock in the evening, Mallard was in Naples. He did not
go to Casa Rolandi, but took a room in one of the musty hotels which
overlook the port. When he felt sure that Mrs. Gluck's guests must
have dined, he presented himself at the house and sent his name to
Mrs. Lessingham.
She took his hand with warm welcome.
"Thank you for coming so promptly. I have been getting into such a
state of nervousness. Cecily keeps her room, and looks ill; I have
several times been on the point of sending for the doctor, though it
seemed absurd."
Mallard seated himself without invitation; indeed, he had a
difficulty in standing.
"Hasn't she been out to-day?" he asked, in a voice which might have
signified selfish indifference.
"Nor yesterday. Mrs. Spence was here this morning, but Cecily would
not see her. I made excuses, and of course said nothing of what was
going on. I asked the child if she would like to see Mrs. Baske, but
she refused."
Mallard sat as if he had nothing to say, looking vaguely about the
room.
"Have you heard from Mr. Elgar?" Mrs. Lessingham inquired.
"No. I know nothing about him. I haven't been to Casa Rolandi, lest
I should meet him. It was better to see you first."
"You were not prepared for this news?"
"His failure to return made me speculate, of course. I suppose they
have met several times at Mrs. Baske's?"
"That at once occurred to me, but Cecily assures me that is not so.
There is a mystery. I have no idea how they saw each other privately
at Pompeii on Monday. But, between ourselves, Mr. Mallard, I can't
help suspecting that he had learnt from his sister the particulars
of the excursion."
"You think it not impossible that Mrs. Baske connived at their
meeting in that way?"
"One doesn't like to use words of that kind, but--"
"I suppose one must use the word that expresses one's meaning," said
Mallard, bluntly. "But I didn't think Mrs. Baske was likely to aid
her brother for such a purpose. Have you any reason to think the
contrary?"
"None that would carry any weight."
Mallard paused; then, with a restless movement on his chair
exclaimed:
"But what has this to do with the matter? What has happened has
happened, and there's an end of it. The question is, what ought to
be done now? I don't see that we can treat Miss Doran like a child."
Mrs. Lessingham looked at him. She was resting one arm on a table by
which she sat, and supporting her forehead with her hand.
"You propose that things should take their natural course?"
"They will, whether I propose it or not."
"And if our next information is that they desire to be married as
soon as conveniently may be?"
"That is another matter. They will have no consent of mine to
anything of the kind."
"You relieve me."
Mallard looked at her frowningly.
"Miss Doran," he continued, "will not marry Elgar with my consent
until she be one-and-twenty. Then, of course, she may do as she
likes."
"You will see Mr. Elgar, and make this clear to him?"
"Very clear indeed," was the grim reply. "As for any thing else,
why, what can we do? If they insist upon it, I suppose they must see
each other--of course, under reason able restrictions. You cannot
make yourself a duenna of melodrama, Mrs. Lessingham."
"Scarcely. But I think our stay at Naples may reasonably be
shortened--unless, of course, Mr. Elgar leaves."
"You take it for granted, I see, that Miss Doran will be guided by
our judgment," said Mallard, after musing on the last remark.
"I have no fear of that," replied Mrs. Lessingham with confidence,
"if it is made to appear only a question of postponement. This will
be a trifle compared with my task of yesterday morning. You can
scarcely imagine how astonished she was at the first hint of
opposition."
"I can imagine it very well," said the other, in his throat. "What
else could be expected after--" He checked himself on the point
of saying something that would have revealed his opinion of Mrs.
Lessingham's "system"--his opinion accentuated by unreasoning
bitterness. "From all we know of her," were the words he
substituted.
"She is more like her father than I had supposed," said Mrs.
Lessingham, meditatively.
Mallard stood up.
"You will let her know that I have been here?"
"Certainly."
"She has expressed no wish to see me?"
"None. I had better report to her simply that you have no objection
to Mr. Elgar's visits."
"That is all I would say at present. I shall see Elgar tonight. He
is still at Casa Rolandi, I take it?"
"That was the address on his letter."
"Then, good-night. By-the-bye, I had better give you my address." He
wrote it on a leaf in his pocket-book. "I will see you again in a
day or two, when things have begun to clear up."
"It's too bad that you should have this trouble, Mr. Mallard."
"I don't pretend to like it, but there's no help."
And he left Mrs. Lessingham to make her comment on his candour.
Yes, Signor Elgar was in his chamber; he had entered but a quarter
of an hour since. The signor seemed not quite well, unhappily--
said Olimpia, the domestic, in her chopped Neapolitan. Mallard
vouchsafed no reply. He knocked sharply at the big solid door. There
was a cry of "Avanti!" and he entered.
Elgar advanced a few steps. He did not affect to smile, but looked
directly at his visitor, who--as if all the pain of the interview
were on him rather than the other--cast down his eyes.
"I was expecting you," said Reuben, without offering his hand.
"So was I you--three days ago."
"Sit down, and let us talk. I'm ashamed of myself, Mallard. I ought
at all events to have written."
"One would have thought so."
"Have you seen Mrs. Lessingham?"
"Yes."
"Then you understand everything. I repeat that I am ashamed of my
behaviour to you. For days--since last Saturday--I have been
little better than a madman. On Saturday I went to say good-bye to
Mrs. Lessingham and her niece; it was _bona fide_, Mallard."
"In your sense of the phrase. Go on."
"I tell you, I then meant to leave Naples," pursued Elgar, who had
repeated this so often to himself, by way of palliation, that he had
come to think it true. "It was not my fault that I couldn't when
that visit was over. It happened that I saw Miss Doran alone--sat
talking with her till her aunt returned."
Mrs. Lessingham had made no mention of this little matter. Hearing
of it, Mallard ejaculated mentally, "Idiot!"
"It was all over with me. I broke faith with you--as I should have
done with any man; as I should have done if the lives of a hundred
people had depended on my coming. I didn't write, because I
preferred not to write lies, and if I had told the truth, I knew you
would come at once. To be sure, silence might have had the same
result, but I had to risk something, and I risked that."
"I marvel at your disinclination to lie."
"What do you mean by saying that?" broke out Elgar, with natural
warmth.
"I mean simply what I say. Go on."
"After all, Mallard, I don't quite know why you should take this
tone with me. If a man falls in love, he thinks of nothing but how
to gain his end; I should think even you can take that for granted.
My broken promise is a trifle in view of what caused it."
"Again, in _your_ view. In mine it is by no means a trifle. It
distinguishes you from honourable men, that's all; a point of some
moment, I should think, when your character is expressly under
discussion."
"You mean, of course, that I am not worthy of Cecily. I can't grant
any such conclusion."
"Let us leave that aside for the present," said Mallard. "Will you
tell me how it came to pass that you met Miss Doran and her
companions at Pompeii?"
Elgar hesitated; whereupon the other added quickly:
"If it was with Miss Doran's anticipation, I want no details."
"No, it wasn't."
Their looks met.
"By chance, then, of course?" said Mallard, sourly.
Elgar spoke on an impulse, leaning forward.
"Look, I won't lie to you. Miriam told me they were going. I met her
that morning, when I was slinking about, and I compelled her to give
me her help--sorely against her will. Don't think ill of her for
it, Mallard. I frightened he! by my violent manner. I haven't seen
her since; she can't know what the result has been. None of them at
Pompeii suspected--only a moment of privacy; there's no need to
say any more about it."
Mallard mused over this revelation. He felt inclined to scorn Elgar
for making it. It affected him curiously, and at once took a place
among his imaginings of Miriam.
"You shall promise me that you won't betray your knowledge of this,"
added Reuben. "At all events, not now. Promise me that. Your word is
to be trusted, I know."
"It's very unlikely that I should think of touching on the matter to
your sister. I shall make no promise."
"Have you seen Cecily herself?" Elgar asked, leaving the point aside
in his eagerness to come to what concerned him more deeply.
"No."
"I have waited for your permission to visit her. Do you mean to
refuse it?"
"No. If you call to-morrow morning, you will be admitted. Mrs.
Lessingham is willing that you should see her niece in private."
"Hearty thanks for that, Mallard! We haven't shaken hands yet, you
remember. Forgive me for treating you so ill."
He held out his band cordially, and Mallard could not refuse it,
though he would rather have thrust his fingers among red coals than
feel that hot pressure.
"I believe I can be grateful," pursued Elgar, in a voice that
quivered with transport. "I will do my best to prove it."
"Let us speak of things more to the point. What result do you
foresee of this meeting to-morrow!"
The other hesitated.
"I shall ask Cecily when she will marry me."
"You may do so, of course, but the answer cannot depend upon herself
alone."
"What delay do you think necessary?"
"Until she is of age, and her own mistress," replied Mallard, with
quiet decision.
"Impossible! What need is there to wait all that time?"
"Why, there is this need, Elgar," returned the other, more
vigorously than he had yet spoken. "There is need that you should
prove to those who desire Miss Doran's welfare that you are
something more than a young fellow fresh from a life of waste and
idleness and everything that demonstrates or tends to
untrustworthiness. It seems to me that a couple of years or so is
not an over-long time for this, all things considered."
Elgar kept silent.
"You would have seen nothing objectionable in immediate marriage?"
said Mallard.
"It is useless to pretend that I should."
"Not even from the point of view of Mrs. Lessingham and myself?"
"You yourself have never spoken plainly about such things in my
hearing; but I find you in most things a man of your time. And it
doesn't seem to me that Mrs. Lessingham is exactly conventional in
her views."
"You imagine yourself worthy of such a wife at present?"
"Plainly, I do. It would be the merest hypocrisy if I said anything
else. If Cecily loves me, my love for her is at least as strong. If
we are equal in that, what else matters? I am not going to cry
_Peccavi_ about the past. I have lived, and you know what that means
in my language. In what am I inferior as a man to Cecily as a woman?
Would you have me snivel, and talk about my impurity and her angelic
qualities? You know that you would despise me if I did--or any
other man who used the same empty old phrases."
"I grant you that," replied Mallard, deliberately. "I believe I am
no more superstitious with regard to these questions than you are,
and I want to hear no cant. Let us take it on more open ground. Were
Cecily Doran my daughter, I would resist her marrying you to the
utmost of my power--not simply because you have lived laxly, but
because of my conviction that the part of your life is to be a
pattern of the whole. I have no faith in you--no faith in your
sense of honour, in your stability, not even in your mercy. Your
wife will be, sooner or later, one of the unhappiest of women.
Thinking of you in this way, and being in the place of a parent to
Cecily, am I doing my duty or not in insisting that she shall not
marry you hastily, that even in her own despite she shall have time
to study you and herself, that she shall only take the irrevocable
step when she clearly knows that it is done on her own
responsibility? You may urge what you like; I am not so foolish as
to suppose you capable of consideration for others in your present
state of mind. I, however, shall defend myself from the girl's
reproaches in after-years. There will be no marriage until she is
twenty-one."
A silence of some duration followed. Elgar sat with bent head,
twisting his moustaches. At length:
"I believe you are right, Mallard. Not in your judgment of me, but
in your practical resolve."
Mallard examined him from under his eyebrows.
"You are prepared to wait?" he asked, in an uncertain voice.
"Prepared, no. But I grant the force of your arguments. I will try
to bring myself to patience."
Mallard sat unmoving. His legs were crossed, and he held his soft
felt hat crushed together in both his hands. Elgar glanced at him
once or twice, expecting him to speak, but the other was mute.
"Your judgment of me," Elgar resumed, "is harsh and unfounded. I
don't know how you have formed it. You know nothing of what it means
to me to love such a girl as Cecily. Here I have found my rest. It
supplies me with no new qualities, but it strengthens those I have.
You picture me being unfaithful to Cecily--deserting her, becoming
brutal to her? There must be a strange prejudice in your mind to
excite such images." He examined Mallard's face. "Some day I will
remind you of your prophecies."
Mallard regarded him, and spoke at length, in a strangely jarring,
discordant voice.
"I said that hastily. I make no prophecies. I wished to say that
those seemed to me the probabilities."
"Thank you for the small mercy, at all events," said Elgar, with a
laugh.
"What do you intend to do?" Mallard proceeded to ask, changing his
position.
"I can make no plans yet. I have pretended to only too often. You
have no objection to my remaining here?"
"You must take your own course--with the understanding to which we
have come."
"I wish I could make you look more cheerful, Mallard. I owe it to
you, for you have given me more gladness than I can utter."
"You can do it."
"How?"
"See her to-morrow morning, and then go back to England, and make
yourself some kind of reputable existence."
"Not yet. That is asking too much. Not so soon."
"As you please. We understand each other on the main point."
"Yes. Are you going back to Amalfi?"
"I don't know."
They talked for a few minutes more, in short sentences of this kind,
but did not advance beyond the stage of mutual forbearance. Mallard
lingered, as though not sure that he had fulfilled his mission. In
the end he went away abruptly.
CHAPTER XII
ON THE HEIGHTS
In vain, at each meal, did Clifford Marsh await Cecily's appearance.
A trifling indisposition kept her to her room, was Mrs. Lessingham's
reply to sympathetic inquiries. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, who were
seriously making their preparations for journeying northward, held
private talk concerning the young lady, and felt they would like to
stay a week longer, just to see if their suspicions would be
confirmed. Mrs. Denyer found it difficult to assume the becoming air
when she put civil questions to Mrs. Lessingham, for she was now
assured that to Miss Doran was attributable the alarming state of
things between Clifford and Madeline; Marsh would never have been so
intractable but for this new element in the situation. Madeline
herself on the other hand, was a model of magnanimity; in Clifford's
very hearing, she spoke of Cecily with tender concern, and then
walked past her recreant admirer with her fair head in a pose of
conscious grace.
Even Mr. Musselwhite, at the close of the second day, grew aware
that the table lacked one of its ornaments. It was his habit now--
a new habit came as a blessing of Providence to Mr. Musselwhite--
on passing into the drawing-room after dinner, to glance towards a
certain corner, and, after slow, undecided "tackings," to settle in
that direction. There sat Barbara Denyer. Her study at present was
one of the less-known works of Silvio Pellico, and as Mr.
Musselwhite approached, she looked up with an air of absorption. He
was wont to begin conversation with the remark, flatteringly toned,
"Reading Italian as usual, Miss Denyer?" but this evening a new
subject had been suggested to him.
"I hope Miss Doran is not seriously unwell, Miss Denyer?"
"Oh, I think not."
Mr. Musselwhite reflected, stroking his whiskers in a gentlemanly
way.
"One misses her," was his next remark.
"Yes, so much. She is so charming--don't you think, Mr.
Musselwhite?"
"Very." He now plucked at the whiskers uneasily. "Oh yes, very."
Barbara smiled and turned her attention to the book, as though she
could spare no more time. Mr. Musselwhite, dimly feeling that this
topic demanded no further treatment, racked his brains for something
else to say. He was far towards Lincolnshire when a rustle of the
pages under Barbara's finger gave him a happy inspiration.
"I don't know whether you would care to see English papers now and
then, Miss Denyer? I always have quite a number. The _Field_, for
instance, and--"
"You are very kind, I don't read much English, but I shall be glad
to see anything you like to bring me."
Mrs. Denyer was not wholly without consolation in her troubles about
Clifford Marsh.
On the following morning, as she and her daughters were going out,
they came face to face with a gentleman who was announcing to the
servant his wish to see Miss Doran. Naturally they all glanced at
him. Would he be admitted? With much presence of mind, Madeline
exclaimed,--
"Oh dear, mamma! I have forgotten that letter. Please wait for me; I
won't be a minute."
And she disappeared, the others moving out on to the staircase. When
Madeline rejoined them, it was with the intelligence that the
visitor _had_ been admitted.
"Who can he be?"
"Rather a strange-looking person."
"Miss Doran cannot be ill. She has no brother. What an odd thing!"
They walked on, close serried, murmuring to each other discreetly. .
. .
For several minutes there had been perfect stillness in the room, a
hush after the music of low, impassioned voices. It was broken, yet
scarcely broken, by the sound of lips touching lips--touching to
part sweetly, touching again to part more slowly, more sweetly
still.
"They will not influence you against me?"
"Never! never!"
"They will try, Cecily. You will hear endless things to my
disadvantage--things that I cannot contradict if you ask me."
"I care for nothing, Reuben. I am yours for ever and ever, hear what
I may, happen what may!"
"Don't call me by my hateful name, dearest. We will find some other,
if I must have a name for you."
"Why, that is like Romeo!"
"So it is; I wish I had no worse than Romeo's reason. I had rather
have had the vulgarest Anglo-Saxon name than this Jewish one.
Happily, I need have no fear in telling you that; _you_ are no
Puritan."
"As little as a girl could be." She laughed in her happiness. "Have
you the same dislike for your sister's name?"
"Just the same. I believe it partly explains her life."
"She will not be against us, though?"
"Neither for nor against, I am afraid. Yet I have to thank her for
the meeting with you at Pompeii. Why haven't you asked me how I came
there?"
"I never thought to ask. It seemed so natural. I longed for you, and
you stood before me. I could almost believe that my longing had
power to bring you, so strong it was. But tell me."
He did so, and again they lost themselves in rapturous dreamland.
"Do you think Mr. Mallard will wish to see me?" she asked timidly.
"I can't be sure. I half think not."
"Yet I half wish he would. I should find it strange and a little
difficult, but he couldn't be harsh with me. I think it might do
good if he came to see me--in a day or two."
"On what terms have you always been with him? How does he behave to
you?"
"Oh, you know him. He still looks upon me rather too much as a
child, and he seems to have a pleasure in saying odd, half-rude
things; but we are excellent friends--or have been. Such a
delightful day as we had at Baiae! I have always liked him."
"At Baiae? You didn't go alone with him?"
"No; Miriam was there and Mr. Spence. We found him dreaming at
Pozzuoli, and carried him off in the boat with us."
"He never thought much of me, and now he hates me."
"No; that is impossible."
"If you had heard him speaking to me last night, you would think
differently. He makes it a crime that I should love you."
"I don't understand it."
"What's more, he has feared this ever since I came; I feel sure of
it. When I was coming back from Pompeii, he took me with him to
Amalfi all but by force. He dreaded my returning and seeing you."
"But why should he think of such a thing?"
"Why?"
Elgar led her a few paces, until they stood before a mirror.
"Don't look at me. The other face, which is a little paler than it
should be."
She hid it against him.
"But you don't love me for my face only? You will see others who
have more beauty."
"Perhaps so. Mallard hopes so, in the long time we shall have to
wait."
She fixed startled eyes on him.
"He cannot wish me so ill--he cannot! That would be unlike him."
"He wishes _you_ no ill, be sure of it."
"Oh, you haven't spoken to him as you should! You haven't made him
understand you. Let me speak to him for you."
"Cecily."
"Dearest?"
"Suppose he doesn't wish to understand me. Have you never thought,
when he has pretended to treat you as a child, that there might be
some reason for it? Did it never occur to you that, if he spoke too
roughly, it might be because he was afraid of being too gentle?"
"Never! That thought has never approached my mind. You don't speak
in earnest?"
Why could he not command his tongue? Why have suggested this to her
imagination? He did not wholly mean to say it, even to the last
moment; but unwisdom, as so often, overcame him. It was a way of
defending himself; he wished to imply that Mallard had a powerful
reason for assailing his character. He had been convinced since last
night that Mallard was embittered by jealousy, and he half credited
the fear lest jealousy might urge to the use of any weapons against
him; he was tempted by the satisfaction of putting Cecily on her
guard against interested motives. But he should not have troubled
her soul with such suspicions. He read on her face how she was
pained, and her next word. proved his folly.
"If you are right, I can never speak to him as I might have done. It
alters everything; it makes everything harder. You are mistaken."
"I may be. Let us hope I am."
"How I wish I had never seen that possibility! I cannot believe it;
yet it will prevent me from looking honestly in his face, as I
always have done."
"Forget it. Let us speak only of ourselves."
But she was troubled, and Elgar, angry with himself, spoke
impatiently.
"In pity for him, you would love me less. I see that."
"You are not yet satisfied? You find new ways of forcing me to say
that I love you. Seem to distrust me, that I may say it over and
over; make me believe you really doubt if I can be constant, just
that I may hear what my heart says in its distress, and repeat it
all to you. Be a little unkind to me, that I may show how your
unkindness would wound me, and may entreat you back into your own
true self. You can do nothing, say nothing, but I will make it
afford new proofs of hew I love you."
"I had rather you made yourself less dear to me. The time will be so
long. How can I live through it?"
"Will it not help you a little to help me? To know that you are
unhappy would make it so much longer to me, my love."
"It will be hell to live away from you! I cannot make myself another
man. If you knew what I have suffered only in these two days!"
"There was uncertainty."
"Uncertainty? Then what certainty could I ever have? Every hour
spent at a distance from you will be full of hideous misgivings.
Remember that every one will he doing the utmost to part us."
"Let them do the utmost twice over! You must have faith in me. Look
into my eyes. Is there no assurance, no strength for you? Do they
look too happy? That is because you are still here; time enough for
sadness when you are gone. Oh, you think too humbly of yourself!
Having loved you, and known your love, what else can the world offer
me to live for?"
"Wherever you are, I must come often."
"Indeed you must, or for me too the burden will be heavier than I
can bear."
As the Denyers were coming home, it surprised them to pass, at a
little distance from the house, Clifford Marsh in conversation with
the gentleman who had called upon Miss Doran. Madeline, exercising
her new privilege of perfect _sang-froid_, took an opportunity not
long after to speak to Clifford in the drawing-room.
"Who was the gentleman we saw you with?"
"I met him at Pompeii, but didn't know his name till today. He's
asked me to dine with him."
"He is a friend of Miss Doran's, I believe?"
"I believe so."
"You accepted his invitation?"
"Yes; I am always willing to make a new acquaintance."
"A liberal frame of mind. Did he give you news of Miss Doran's
health?"
"No."
He smiled mysteriously, only to appear at his ease; and Madeline,
smiling also, turned away.
Cecily reappeared this evening at the dinner-table. She was changed;
Mrs. Gluck and her guests were not again to behold the vision to
which their eyes had become accustomed; that supremacy of simple
charm which some of them had recognized as English girlhood at its
best, had given place to something less intelligible, less instant
in its attractiveness. Perhaps the climate of Naples was proving not
well suited to her.
After dinner, she and Mrs. Lessingham at once went to their private
room. Cecily sat down to write a letter. When she moved, as if the
letter were finished, her aunt looked up from a newspaper.
"I've been thinking, Cecily. Suppose we go over to Capri for a
change?"
"I am quite willing, aunt."
"I think Mr. Elgar has not been there yet. He might accompany us."
Unprepared for this, Cecily murmured an assent.
"Do you know how much longer he thinks of staying in Italy?"
"We haven't spoken of it."
"Has he given up his literary projects?"
"I'm afraid we didn't speak of that either."
"Shall you be satisfied if he continues to live quite without
occupation?"
"I don't for a moment think he purposes that."
"And yet it will certainly be the ease as long as he remains here--
or wherever else we happen to be living."
Mrs. Lessingham allowed her to ponder this for a few minutes. Then
she resumed the train of thought.
"Have you had leisure yet to ask yourself, my dear, what use you
will make of the great influence you have acquired over Mr. Elgar's
mind?"
"That is not quite the form my thoughts would naturally take, aunt,"
Cecily replied, with gentleness.
"Yet may it not be the form they should? You are accustomed to think
for yourself to a greater extent than girls whose education has been
more ordinary; you cannot take it ill if I remind you now of certain
remarks I have made on Mr. Elgar lately, and remind you also that I
am not alone in my view of him. Don't fear that I shall say anything
unkind; but if you feel equal to a woman's responsibilities, you
must surely exercise a woman's good sense. Let us say nothing more
than that Mr. Elgar has fallen into habits of excessive indolence;
doesn't it seem to you that you might help him out of hem?"
"I think he may not need help as you understand it, now."
"My dear, he needs it perhaps five hundred times more than he did
before. If you decline to believe me, I shall be only too much
justified by your experience hereafter."
"What would you have me do?"
"What must very soon occur to your own excellent wits, Cecily--for
I won't give up all my pride in you. Mr. Elgar should, of course, go
back to England, and do something that becomes him; he must decide
what. Let him have a few days with us in Capri; then go, and so far
recommend himself in our eyes. No one can make him see that this is
what his dignity--if nothing else--demands, except yourself.
Think of it, dear."
Cecily did think of it, long and anxiously. Thanks to Elgar, her
meditations had a dark background such as her own fancy would never
have supplied.
He knew not how sadly the image of him had been blurred in Cecily's
mind, the man who lay that night in his room overlooking the port.
Whether such ignorance were for his aid or his disadvantage, who
shall venture to say?
To a certain point, we may follow with philosophic curiosity, step
by step, the progress of mental anguish, but when that point is
passed, analysis loses its interest; the vocabulary of pain has
exhausted itself, the phenomena already noted do but repeat
themselves with more rapidity, with more intensity--detail is lost
in the mere sense of throes. Perchance the mind is capable of
suffering worse than the fiercest pangs of hopeless love combined
with jealousy; one would not pretend to put a limit to the
possibilities of human woe; but for Mallard, at all events this
night did the black flood of misery reach high-water mark.
What joy in the world that does not represent a counter-balance of
sorrow? What blessedness poured upon one head but some other must
therefore lie down under malediction? We know that with the
uttermost of happiness there is wont to come a sudden blending of
troublous humour. May it not be that the soul has conceived a subtle
sympathy with that hapless one but for whose sacrifice its own
elation were impossible?
CHAPTER XIII
ECHO AND PRELUDE
At Villa Sannazaro, the posture of affairs was already understood.
When Eleanor Spence, casually calling at the _pension_, found that
Cecily was unable to receive visitors, she at the same time learnt
from Mrs. Lessingham to what this seclusion was due. The ladies had
a singular little conversation, for Eleanor was inwardly so amused
at this speedy practical comment on Mrs. Lessingham's utterances of
the other day, that with difficulty she kept her countenance; while
Mrs. Lessingham herself, impelled to make the admission without
delay, that she might exhibit a philosophic acceptance of fact, had
much ado to hide her chagrin beneath the show of half-cynical
frankness that became a woman of the world. Eleanor--passably
roguish within the limits of becoming mirth--acted the scene to
her husband, who laughed shamelessly. Then came explanations between
Eleanor and Miriam.
The following day passed without news, but on the morning after,
Miriam had a letter from Cecily; not a long letter, nor very
effusive, but telling all that was to be told. And it ended with a
promise that Cecily would come to the villa that afternoon. This was
communicated to Eleanor.
"Where's Mallard, I wonder?" said Spence, when his wife came to talk
to him. "Not, I suspect, at the old quarters, It would be like him
to go off somewhere without a word. Confound that fellow Elgar!"
"I'm half disposed to think that it serves Mr. Mallard right," was
Eleanor's remark.
"Well, for heartlessness commend me to a comfortable woman."
"And for folly commend me to a strong-minded man."
"Pooh! He'll growl and mutter a little, and then get on with his
painting."
"If I thought so, my liking for him would diminish. I hope he is
tearing his hair."
"I shall go seek him."
"Do; and give my best love to him, poor fellow."
Cecily came alone. She was closeted with Miriam for a long time,
then saw Eleanor. Spence purposely kept away from home.
Dante lay unread, as well as the other books which Eleanor placed
insidiously in her cousin's room. Letters lay unanswered--among
them several relating to the proposed new chapel at Bartles. How did
Miriam employ herself during the hours that she spent alone?
Not seldom, in looking back upon her childhood and maidenhood.
Imagine a very ugly cubical brick house of two stories, in a suburb
of Manchester. It stands a few yards back from the road. On one
side, it is parted by a row of poplars from several mean cottages;
on the other, by a narrow field from a house somewhat larger and
possibly a little uglier than itself. Its outlook, over the highway,
is on to a tract of country just being broken up by builders, beyond
which a conglomerate of factories, with chimneys ever belching heavy
fumes, closes the view; its rear windows regard a scrubby meadow,
grazed generally by broken-down horses, with again a limitary
prospect of vast mills.
Imagine a Sunday in this house. Half an hour later than on profane
days, Mrs. Elgar descends the stairs. She is a lady of middle age,
slight, not ungraceful, handsome; the look of pain about her
forehead is partly habitual, but the consciousness of Sunday
intensifies it. She moves without a sound. Entering the
breakfast-room, she finds there two children, a girl and a boy, both
attired in new-seeming garments which are obviously stiff and
uncomfortable. The little girl sits on an uneasy chair, her
white-stockinged legs dangling, on her lap a large copy of
"Pilgrim's Progress;" the boy is half reclined on a shiny sofa, his
hands in his pockets, on his face an expression of discontent. The
table is very white, very cold, very uninviting.
Ten minutes later appears the master of the house, shaven, also in
garments that appear now and uncomfortable, glancing hither and
thither with preoccupied eyes. There is some talk in a low voice
between the little girl and her mother; then the family seat
themselves at table silently. Mr. Elgar turns a displeased look on
the boy, and says something in a harsh voice which causes the
youngster to straighten himself, curl his lip precociously, and
thereafter preserve a countenance of rebellion subdued by fear. His
father eats very little, speaks scarcely at all, but thinks,
thinks-and most assuredly not of sacred subjects.
Breakfast over, there follows an hour of indescribable dreariness,
until the neighbourhood begins to sound with the clanging of
religious bells. Mr. Elgar has withdrawn to a little room of his
own, where perhaps, he gives himself up to meditation on the duties
of a Christian parent, though his incredulous son has ere now had a
glimpse at the door, and observed him in the attitude of
letter-writing. Mrs. Elgar moves about silently, the pain on her
brow deepening as chapel-time approaches. At length the boy and girl
go upstairs to be "got ready," which means that they indue other
garments yet more uncomfortable than those they already wear. This
process over, they descend again to the breakfast-room, and again
sit there, waiting for the dread moment of departure. The boy is
more rebellious than usual; he presently drums with his feet, and
even begins to whistle, very low, a popular air. His sister looks at
him, first with astonished reproach, then in dread.
_Satis superque_. Again and again Miriam revived these images of the
past. And the more she thought of herself as a child, the less was
she pleased with what her memory presented. How many instances came
back to her of hypocrisy before her father or mother, hypocrisy
which, strangely enough, she at the time believed a merit, though
perfectly aware of her own insincerity! How many a time had she
suffered from the restraints imposed upon her, and then secretly
allowed herself indulgences, and then again persuaded herself that
by severe attention to formalities she blotted out her sin!
But the worst was when Cecily Doran came to live in the house.
Cecily was careless in religion, had been subjected to no proper
severity, had not been taught to probe her con science. At once
Miriam assumed an attitude of spiritual pride--the beginning of an
evil which was to strengthen its hold upon her through years. She
would be an example to the poor little heathen; she talked with her
unctuously; she excited herself, began to find a pleasure in
asceticism, and drew the susceptible girl into the same way. They
would privately appoint periods of fasting, and at several
successive meals irritate their hunger by taking only one or two
morsels; when faintness came upon them, they gloried in the misery.
And from that stage of youth survived memories far more painful than
those of childhood. Miriam shut her mind against them.
Her marriage came about in the simplest way; nothing easier to
understand, granted these circumstances. The friends of the family
were few, and all people of the same religious sect, of the same
commercial sphere. Miriam had never spoken with a young man whom she
did not in her heart despise; the one or two who might possibly have
been tempted to think of her as a desirable wife were repelled by
her austerity. She had now a character to support; she had made
herself known for severe devotion to the things of the spirit. In
her poor little world she could not submit to be less than
pre-eminent, and only by the way of religion was pre-eminence to be
assured. When the wealthy and pious manufacturer sought her hand,
she doubted for a while, but was in the end induced to consent by
the reflection that not only would she be freer, but at the same
time enjoy a greatly extended credit and influence. Her pride
silenced every other voice.
Religious hypocrisy is in our day a very rare thing; so little is to
be gained by it. To be sure, the vast majority of English people are
constantly guilty of hypocritical practices, but that, as a rule, is
mere testimony to the rootedness of their orthodox faith. Mr. Elgar.
shutting himself up between breakfast and chapel to write business
letters--which he pre- or post-dated--was ignoble enough, but
not therefore a hypocrite. Had a fatal accident happened to one of
his family whilst he was thus employed, he would not have succeeded
in persuading his conscience that the sin and the calamity were
unconnected. His wife had never admitted a doubt of its being
required by the immutable law of God that she should be sad and
severe on Sunday, that Reuben should be sternly punished for
whistling on that day, that little Miriam should be rewarded when
she went through the long services with unnatural stillness and
demureness. Nor was Miriam herself a hypocrite when, mistress of
Redbeck House, she began to establish her reputation and authority
throughout dissenting Bartles.
Her instruction had been rigidly sectarian. Whatever she studied was
represented to her from the point of view of its relation to
Christianity as her teachers understood it. The Christian faith was
alone of absolute significance; all else that the mind of man could
contain was of more or less importance as more or less connected
with that single interest. To the time of her marriage, her outlook
upon the world was incredibly restricted. She had never read a book
that would not pass her mother's censorship; she had never seen a
work of art; she had never heard any but "sacred" music; she had
never perused a journal; she had never been to an entertainment--
unless the name could be given to a magic-lantern exhibition of
views in Palestine, or the like. Those with whom she associated had
gone through a similar training, and knew as little of life.
She had heard of "infidelity;" yes. Live as long as she might, she
would never forget one dreadful day when, in a quarrel with his
mother, Reuben uttered words which signified hatred and rejection of
all he had been taught to hold divine Mrs. Elgar's pallid,
speechless horror; the severe chastisement inflicted on the lad by
his father;--she could never look back on it all without sickness
of heart. Thenceforth, her brother and his wild ways embodied for
her that awful thing, infidelity. At the age which Cecily Doran had
now attained, Miriam believed that there were only a few men living
so unspeakably wicked as to repudiate Christianity; one or two of
these, she had learnt from the pulpit, were "men of science," a term
which to this day fell on her ears with sinister sound.
Thus prepared for the duties of wife, mother, and leader in society,
she shone forth upon Bartles. Her husband, essentially a coarse man,
did his utmost, though unconsciously, to stimulate her pride and
supply her with incentives to unworthy ambition. He was rich, and
boasted of it vulgarly; he was ignorant, and vaunted the fact,
thanking Heaven that for him the purity of religious conviction had
never been endangered by the learning that leads astray; be was
proud of possessing a young and handsome wife, and for the first
time evoked in her a personal vanity. Day by day was it--most
needlessly--impressed upon Miriam that she must regard herself as
the chief lady in Bartles, and omit no duty appertaining to such a
position. She had an example to set; she was chosen as a support of
religion.
Most happily, the man died. Had he remained her consort for ten
years, the story of Miriam's life would have been one of those that
will scarcely bear dwelling upon, too repulsive, too heart-breaking;
a few words of bitterness, of ruth, and there were an end of it. His
death was like the removal of a foul burden that polluted her and
gradually dragged her down. Nor was it long before she herself
understood it in this way, though dimly and uncertainly. She found
herself looking on things with eyes which somehow had a changed
power of vision. With remarkable abruptness, certain of her habits
fell from her, and she remembered them only with distaste, even with
disgust. And one day she said to herself passionately that never
would she wed again--never, never! She was experiencing for the
first time in her life a form of liberty.
Not that her faith had received any shock. To her undeveloped mind
every tenet in which she had been instructed was still valid. This
is the point to note. Her creed was a habit of the intellect; she
held it as she did the knowledge of the motions of the earth. She
had never reflected upon it, for in everything she heard or read
this intellectual basis was presupposed. With doctrinal differences
her reasoning faculty was familiar, and with her to think of
religion was to think of the points at issue between one church and
another--always, moreover, with pre-judgment in favour of her own.
But the external results of her liberty began to be of importance.
She came into frequent connection with her cousin Eleanor; she saw
more than hitherto of the Bradshaws' family life; she had business
transactions; she read newspapers; she progressed slowly towards
some practical acquaintance with the world.
Miriam knew the very moment when the thought of making great
sacrifices to build a new chapel for Bartles had first entered her
mind. One of her girl friends had just married, and was come to live
in the neighbourhood. The husband, Welland by name, was wealthier
and of more social importance than Mr. Baske had been; it soon
became evident that Mrs. Welland, who also aspired to prominence in
religious life, would be a formidable rival to the lady of Redbeck
House. On the occasion of some local meeting, Miriam felt this
danger keenly; she went home in dark mood, and the outcome of her
brooding was the resolve in question.
She had not inherited all her husband's possessions; indeed, there
fell to her something less than half his personal estate. For a
time, this had not concerned her; now she was beginning to think of
it occasionally with discontent, followed by reproach of conscience.
Like reproach did she suffer for the jealousy and envy excited in
her by Mrs. Welland's arrival. A general uneasiness of mind was
gradually induced, and the chapel-building project, with singular
confusion of motives, represented to her at once a worldly ambition
and a discipline for the soul. It was a long time before she spoke
of it, and in the interval she suffered more and more from a vague
mental unrest.
Letters were coming to her from Cecily. Less by what they contained
than by what they omitted, she knew that Cecily was undergoing a
great change. Miriam put at length certain definite questions, and
the answers she received were unsatisfactory, alarming. The
correspondence became a distinct source of trouble. Not merely on
Cecily's account; she was led by it to think of the world beyond her
horizon, and to conceive dissatisfactions such as had never taken
form to her.
Her physical health began to fall off; she had seasons of
depression, during which there settled upon her superstitious fears.
Ascetic impulses returned, and by yielding to them she established a
new cause of bodily weakness. And the more she suffered, the more
intolerable to her grew the thought of resigning her local
importance. Her pride, whenever irritated, showed itself in ways
which exposed her to the ridicule of envious acquaintances. At
length Bartles was surprised with an announcement of what had so
long been in her mind; a newspaper paragraph made known, as if with
authority, the great and noble work Mrs. Baske was about to
undertake. For a day or two Miriam enjoyed the excitement this
produced--the inquiries, the felicitations, the reports of gossip.
She held her head more firmly than ever; she seemed of a sudden to
be quite re-established in health.
Another day or two, and she was lying seriously ill--so ill that
her doctor summoned aid from Manchester.
What a distance between those memories, even the latest of them, and
this room in Villa Sannazaro! Its foreign aspect, its brightness,
its comfort, the view from the windows, had from the first worked
upon her with subtle influences of which she was unconscious. By
reason of her inexperience of life, it was impossible for Miriam to
analyze her own being, and note intelligently the modifications it
underwent. Introspection meant to her nothing but debates held with
conscience--a technical conscience, made of religious precepts.
Original reflection, independent of these precepts, was to her very
simply a form of sin, a species of temptation for which she had been
taught to prepare herself. With anxiety, she found herself slipping
away from that firm ground whence she was won't to judge all within
and about her; more and more difficult was it to keep in view that
sole criterion in estimating the novel impressions she received. To
review the criterion itself was still beyond her power. She suffered
from the conviction that trials foreseen were proving too strong for
her. Whenever her youth yielded to the allurement of natural joys,
there followed misery of penitence. Not that Miriam did in truth
deem it a sin to enjoy the sunshine and the breath of the sea and
the beauty of mountains (though such delights might become
excessive, like any other, and so veil temptation), but she felt
that for one in her position of peril there could not be too strict
a watch kept upon the pleasures that were admitted. Hence she could
never forget herself in pleasure; her attitude must always be that
of one on guard.
The name of Italy signified perilous enticement, and she was
beginning to feel it. The people amid whom she lived were all but
avowed scorners of her belief, and yet she was beginning to like
their society. Every letter she wrote to Bartles seemed to her
despatched on a longer journey than the one before; her paramount
interests were fading, fading; she could not exert herself to think
of a thousand matters which used to have the power to keep her
active all day long. The chapel-plans were hidden away; she durst
not go to the place where they would have met her eye.
She suffered in her pride. On landing at Naples, she had imagined
that her position among the Spences and their friends would not be
greatly different from that she had held at Bartles. They were not
"religious" people; all the more must they respect her, feeling
rebuked in her presence. The chapel project would enhance her
importance. How far otherwise had it proved! They pitied her,
compassionated her lack of knowledge, of opportunities. With the
perception of this, there came upon her another disillusion In
classing the Spences with people who were not "religious," she had
understood them as lax in the observance of duties which at all
events they recognized as such. By degrees she learnt that they were
very far from holding the same views as herself concerning religious
obligation; they were anything but conscience-smitten in the face of
her example. Was it, then, possible that persons who lived in a
seemly manner could be sceptics, perhaps "infidels"? What of Cecily
Doran? She had not dared to ask Cecily face to face how far her
disbelief went; the girl seemed to have no creed but that of worldly
delight. How had she killed her conscience in so short a time?
Obviously, her views were those of Mrs. Lessingham; probably those
of Mr. Mallard. Were these people strange and dreadful exceptions,
or did they represent a whole world of which she had not suspected
the existence?
Yes, she was beginning to feel the allurement of Italy. Instead of
sitting turned away from her windows when musing, she often passed
an hour with her eyes on the picture they framed, content to be
idle, satisfied with form and colour, not thinking at all. Habits of
personal idleness crept upon her; she seldom cared to walk, but
found pleasure in the motion of a carriage, and lay back on the
cushions, instead of sitting quite upright as at first. She began to
wish for music; the sound of Eleanor's piano would tempt her to make
an excuse for going into the room, and then she would remain,
listening. The abundant fruits of the season became a temptation to
her palate; she liked to see shops and stalls overflowing with the
vineyard's delicious growth.
She knew for the first time the seduction of books. From what
unutterable weariness had she been saved when she assented to
Eleanor's proposal and began to learn Italian! First there was the
fear lest she should prove slow at acquiring, suffer yet another
fall from her dignity; but this apprehension was soon removed. She
had a brain, and could use it; Eleanor's praise fell upon her ears
delightfully. Then there was that little volume of English verse
which Eleanor left on the table; its name, "The Golden Treasury,"
made her imagine it of a religious tone; she was undeceived in
glancing through it. Poetry had hitherto made no appeal to her; she
did not care much for the little book. But one day Cecily caught it
up in delight, and read to her for half an hour; she affected
indifference, but had in reality learnt something, and thereafter
read for herself.
The two large mirrors in her room had, oddly enough, no unimportant
part among the agencies working for her development. It was almost
inevitable that, in moving about, she should frequently regard her
own figure. From being something of an annoyance, this necessity at
length won attractiveness, till she gazed at herself far oftener
than she need have done. As for her face she believed it pas sable,
perhaps rather more than that; but the attire that had possessed
distinction at Bartles looked very plain, to say the least, in the
light of her new experience. One day she saw herself standing side
by side with Cecily, and her eyes quickly turned away.
To what was she sinking!
But Dante lay unopened, together with the English books. Miriam had
spent a day or two of alternate languor and irritableness, unable to
attend to anything serious. Just now she had in her hand Cecily's
letter, the letter which told of what had happened. There was no
reason for referring to it again; this afternoon Cecily herself had
been here. But Miriam read over the pages, and dwelt upon the
At dinner, no remark was made on the subject that occupied the minds
of all three. Afterwards they sat together, as usual, and Eleanor
played. In one of the silences, Miriam turned to Spence and asked
him if he had seen Mr. Mallard.
"Yes; I found him after a good deal of going about," replied the
other, glad to have done with artificial disregard of the subject.
"Does he know that they are going to Capri!"
"He evidently hadn't heard of it. I suppose he'll have a note from
Mrs. Lessingham this evening or to-morrow."
Miriam waited a little, then asked:
"What is his own wish? What does he think ought to be arranged?"
"Just what Cecily told you," interposed Eleanor, before her husband
could reply.
"I thought he might have spoken more freely to Edward."
"Well," answered Spence, "he is strongly of opinion that Reuben
ought to go to England very soon. But I suppose Cecily told you that
as well?"
"She seemed to be willing. But why doesn't Mr. Mallard speak to her
himself?"
"Mallard isn't exactly the man for this delicate business," said
Spence, smiling.
Miriam glanced from him to Eleanor. She would have said no more, had
it been in her power to keep silence; but an involuntary
persistence, the same in kind as that often manifested by
questioning children--an impulsive feeling that the next query
must elicit something which would satisfy a vague desire, obliged
her to speak again.
"Is it his intention not to see Cecily at all?"
"I think very likely it is, Miriam," answered Eleanor, when her
husband showed that he left her to do so.
"I understand."
To which remark Eleanor, when Miriam was gone, attached the
interrogative, "I wonder whether she does?" The Spences did not feel
it incumbent upon them to direct her in the matter; it were just as
well if she followed a mistaken clue.
Two days later, Mrs. Lessingham and her niece, accompanied by Reuben
Elgar, departed for Capri. The day after that, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw
in very deed said good-bye to Naples and travelled northwards. They
purposed spending Christmas in Rome, and thence by quicker stages
they would return to the land of civilization. Spence went to the
station to see them off, and at lunch, after speaking of this and
other things, he said to Miriam:
"Mallard wishes to see you. I told him I thought five o'clock this
afternoon would be a convenient time."
Miriam assented, but not without betraying surprise and uneasiness.
Subsequently she just mentioned to Eleanor that she would receive
the visitor in her own sitting-room. There, as five o'clock drew
near, she waited in painful agitation. What it was Mallard's purpose
to say to her she could not with any degree of certainty conjecture.
Had Reuben told him of the part she had played in connection with
that eventful day at Pompeii? What would be his tone? Did he come to
ask for particulars concerning her brother? Intend what he might,
she dreaded the interview. And yet--fact of which she made no
secret to herself--she had rather he came than not. When it was a
few minutes past five, and no foot had yet sounded in the corridor,
all other feeling was lost in the misgiving that he might have
changed his mind. Perhaps he had decided to write instead, and her
heart sank at the thought. She felt an overpowering curiosity as to
the way in which this event had affected the strange man. Reports
were no satisfaction to her; she desired to see him and hear him
speak.
The footsteps at last! She trembled, went hot and cold, had a
parched throat. Mallard entered, and she did not offer him her hand;
perhaps he might reject it. In consequence there was an absurdly
formal bow on both sides.
"Please sit down, Mr. Mallard."
She saw that he was looking at the "St. Cecilia," but with what
countenance her eyes could not determine. To her astonishment, he
spoke of the picture, and in an unembarrassed tone.
"An odd thing that this should be in your room."
"Yes. We spoke of it the first time Cecily came."
Her accents were not firm. At once he fixed his gaze on her, and did
not remove it until her temples throbbed and she cast down her eyes
in helpless abashment.
"I have had a long letter from your brother, Mrs. Baske. It seems he
posted it just before they left for Capri. I can only reply to it in
one way, and it gives me so much pain to do so that I am driven to
ask your help. He writes begging me to take another view of this
matter, and permit them to be married before very long. The letter
is powerfully written; few men could plead their cause with such
eloquence and force. But it cannot alter my determination. I must
reply briefly and brutally. What I wish to ask you is, whether with
sincerity you can urge my arguments upon your brother, and give me
this assistance in the most obvious duty?"
"I have no influence with him, Mr. Mallard."
Again he looked at her persistently, and said with deliberation:
"I think you must have some. And this is one of the cases in which a
number of voices may possibly prevail, though one or two are
ineffectual. But--if you will forgive me my direct words--your
voice is, of course, useless if you cannot speak in earnest."
She was able now to return his look, for her pride was being
aroused. The face she examined bore such plain marks of suffering
that with difficulty she removed her eyes from it. Nor could she
make reply to him, so intensely were her thoughts occupied with what
she saw.
"Perhaps," he said, "you had rather not undertake anything at once."
Then, his voice changing slightly, "I have no wish to seem a
suppliant, Mrs. Baske. My reasons for saying that this marriage
shall not, if I can prevent it, take place till Miss Doran is of
age, are surely simple and convincing enough; I can't suppose that
it is necessary to insist upon them to you. But I feel I had no
right to leave any means unused. By speaking to you, I might cause
you to act more earnestly than you otherwise would. That was all."
"I am very willing to help you," she replied, with carefully
courteous voice.
"After all, I had rather we didn't put it in that way," Mallard
resumed, with a curious doggedness, as if her tone were distasteful
to him. "My own part in the business is accidental. Please tell me:
is it, or not, your own belief that a delay is desirable?"
The reply was forced from her.
"I certainly think it is."
"May I ask you if you have reasoned with your brother about it?"
"I haven't had any communication with him since--since we knew of
this." She paused; but, before Mallard had shown an intention to
speak, added abruptly, "I should have thought that Miss Doran might
have been trusted to understand and respect your wishes."
"Miss Doran knows my wishes," he answered drily, "but I haven't
insisted upon them to her, and am not disposed to do so."
"Would it not be very simple and natural if you did?"
The look he gave her was stern all but to anger.
"It wouldn't be a very pleasant task to me, Mrs. Baske, to lay
before her my strongest arguments against her marrying Mr. Elgar.
And if I don't do that, it seems to me that it is better to let her
know my wishes through Mrs. Lessingham. As you say, it is to be
hoped she will understand and respect them."
He rose from his chair. For some reason, Miriam could not utter the
words that one part of her prompted. She wished to assure him that
she would do her best with Reuben, but at the same time she resented
his mode of addressing her, and the conflict made her tongue-tied.
"I won't occupy more of your time, Mrs. Baske."
She would have begged him to resume his seat. The conversation had
been so short; she wanted to hear him speak more freely. But her
request, she knew, would be disregarded With an effort, she
succeeded in holding out her hand Mallard held it lightly for an
instant.
"I will write to him," fell from her lips, when already he had
turned to the door. "If necessary, I will go and see him."
"Thank you," he replied with civility, and left her.
CHAPTER XIV
ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING
"I cannot answer your long letter; to such correspondence there is
no end. Come and spend a day here with us; I promise to listen
patiently, and you shall hear how things are beginning to shape
themselves in my mind, now I have had leisure to reflect. Cecily
sends a line. Do come. Take the early boat on Monday; Spence will
give you all particulars, and see you off at Santa Lucia. We really
have some very sober plans, not unapproved by Mrs. Lessingham. Will
meet you at the Marina."
Miriam received this on Sunday morning, and went to her own room to
read it. The few lines of Cecily's writing which were enclosed, she
glanced over with careless eye; yet not with mere carelessness
either, but as if something of aversion disinclined her to peruse
them attentively. That sheet she at once laid aside; Reuben's note
she still held in her hand, and kept re-reading it.
She went to the window and looked over towards Capri. A slight mist
softened its outlines this morning; it seemed very far away, on the
dim borders of sea and sky. For a long time she had felt the luring
charm of that island, always before her eyes, yet never more than a
blue mountainous shape. Lately she had been reading of it, and her
fancy, new to such picturings, was possessed by the mysterious dread
of its history in old time, the grandeur of its cliffs, the
loveliness of its green hollows, and the wonder of its sea-caves.
Her childhood had known nothing of fairyland, and now, in this tardy
awakening of the imaginative part of her nature, she thought
sometimes of Capri much as a child is wont to think of the enchanted
countries, nameless, regionless, in books of fable.
What thoughts for Sunday! But Miriam was far on the way of those who
recognize themselves as overmastered by temptation, and grow almost
reckless in the sins they cannot resist. So long it was since she
had been able to attend the accustomed public worship, and now its
substitute in the privacy of her room had become irksome. She
blushed to be practising hypocrisy; the Spences were careful to
refrain from interfering with her to-day, and here, withdrawn from
their sight, she passed the hours in wearisome idleness--in worse
than that.
She could not look again at Cecily's letter. More; she could not let
her eyes turn to Raphael's picture. But before the mirrors she
paused often and long, losing herself in self regard.
Early on the morrow, she drove down with Spence to Santa Lucia, and
went on board the Capri boat. There were few passengers, a handful
of Germans and an English family--father, mother, two daughters,
and two sons Sitting apart, Miriam cast many glances at her country
people, and not without envy. They were comely folk, in the best
English health, refined in bearing, full of enjoyment. Now and then
a few words of their talk fell upon her ears, and it was merry,
kindly, intimate talk, the fruit of a lifetime of domestic
happiness. It made her think again of what her own home-life had
been. Such companionship of parents and children was inconceivable
in her experience. The girls observed her, and, she believed, spoke
of her. Must she not look strange in their eyes? Probably they felt
sorry for her, as an invalid whose countenance was darkened by
recent pain.
The boat made first of all for Sorrento, where a few more persons
came on board. Miriam was by this time enjoying the view of the
coast. From this point she kept her gaze fixed on Capri. One more
delay on the voyage; the steamer stopped near the Blue Grotto, that
such of the passengers as wished might visit it before landing.
Miriam kept her place, and for the present was content to watch the
little boats, as they rocked for a few moments at the foot of the
huge cliff and then suddenly disappeared through the entrance to the
cavern. When the English family returned, she listened to their
eager, wondering conversation. A few minutes more, and she was
landing at the Marina, where Reuben awaited her.
He had a carriage ready for the drive up the serpent road to the
hotel where Mrs. Lessingham and her niece were staying. His own
quarters were elsewhere--at the Pagano, dear to artists.
"Well, have you enjoyed the voyage? What did you think of Sorrento?
We watched the steamer across from there; we were up on the road to
Anacapri, yonder. You don't look so well as when I saw you last--
nothing like."
He waited for no reply to his questions, and talked with nervous
brokenness. Seated in the carriage, he could not keep still from one
moment to the next. His eyes had the unquiet of long-continued
agitation, the look that results from intense excitement when it has
become the habit of day after day.
"Mallard has been talking to you," he said suddenly.
"Why do you say that?"
"I know he has, from your letter.--Look at the views!"
"What plans did you speak of?"
"Oh, we'll talk about it afterwards. But Mallard _has_ been talking
you over?"
Miriam had no resolve by which to guide herself. She knew not
distinctly why she had come to Capri. Her familiar self-reliance and
cold disregard of anything but a few plain rules in regulating her
conduct, were things of the past. She felt herself idly swayed by
conflicting influences, unable even to debate what course she should
take; the one emotion of which she was clearly conscious was of so
strange and disturbing a kind that, so far from impelling her to
act, it seemed merely to destroy all her customary motives and leave
her subject to the will of others. It was the return of weakness
such as had possessed her mind when she lay ill, when she was
ceaselessly troubled with a desire for she knew not what, and,
unable to utter it had no choice but to admit the suggestions and
biddings of those who cared for her. She could not even resent this
language of Reuben's, to which formerly she would have opposed her
unyielding pride; his proximity infected her with nervousness, but
at the same time made her flaccid before his energy.
"He came and spoke to me about you," she admitted. "But he left me
to do as I saw fit."
"After putting the case against me as strongly as it could be put. I
know; you needn't tell me anything about the conversation. Let us
leave it till afterwards.--You see how this road winds, so that
the incline may be gentle enough for carriages. There are stony
little paths, just like the beds of mountain streams, going straight
down to the Marina. I lost myself again and again yesterday among
the gardens and vineyards. Look back over the bay to Naples!"
But in a minute or two the other subject was resumed, again with a
suddenness that told of inability to keep from speaking his
thoughts.
"You understand, I dare say, why Mallard is making such a fuss?"
"How could I help understanding?"
"But _do_ you understand?"
"What do you mean?" she asked irritably.
"Does he speak like a man who is disinterested?"
"It is not my business to discuss Mr. Mallard's motives."
"It certainly is mine--and yours too, if you care anything for
me."
They reached the hotel without further debate of this subject. It
was not much after one o'clock; all lunched together in private,
talking only of Capri. Later they walked to the villa of Tiberius.
Elgar kept up an appearance of light-hearted enjoyment; Cecily was
less able to disguise her preoccupation. Mrs. Lessingham seemed to
have accepted the inevitable. Her first annoyance having passed, she
was submitting to that personal charm in Elgar which all women
sooner or later confessed; her behaviour to him was indulgent, and
marked only with a very gentle reserve when he talked too much
paradox.
Elgar went to his hotel for dinner, and left the others to
themselves through the evening. The next day was given to. wandering
about the island. On the return at sunset, Miriam and Reuben had a
long talk together, in which it was made manifest that the "plans"
were just as vague as ever. Reuben had revived the mention of
literary work, that was all, and proposed to make his head-quarters
in Paris, in order that he might not be too far from Cecily, who
would, it was presumed, remain on the Continent. This evening he
dined with the ladies. Afterwards Cecily played. When Miriam and
Mrs. Lessingham chanced to be conversing together, Elgar stepped up
to the piano, and murmured:
"Will you come out into the garden for a few minutes? There's a full
moon; it's magnificent."
Cecily let her fingers idle upon the keys, then rose and went to
where her aunt was sitting. There was an exchange of words in a low
tone, and she left the room. Elgar at once approached Mrs.
Lessingham to take leave of her.
"The Grotta Azzurra to-morrow," he said gaily. "Perhaps you won't
care to go again? My grave sister will make a very proper chaperon."
"Let us discuss that when to-morrow comes. Please to limit your
moon-gazing to five minutes."
"At the utmost."
From the hotel garden opened a clear prospect towards Naples, which
lay as a long track of lights beyond the expanse of deep blue. The
coast was distinctly outlined against the far sky glowed
intermittently the fire of Vesuvius. Above the trees of the garden
shone white crags, unsubstantial, unearthly in the divine moonlight.
There was no sound, yet to intense listening the air became full of
sea-music. It was the night of Homer, the island-charm of the
Odyssey.
"Answer me quickly, Cecily; we have only a few minutes, and I want
to say a great deal. You have talked with Miriam?"
"Yes."
"You know that she repeats what Mallard has instructed her to say?
Their one object now is to get me at a distance from you. You see
how your aunt has changed--in appearance; her policy is to make me
think that she will be my friend when I am away. I can speak with
certainty after observing her for so long; in reality she is as firm
against me as ever. Don't you notice, too, something strange in
Miriam's behaviour?"
"She is not like herself."
"As unlike as could be. Mallard has influenced her strongly. Who
knows what he told her?"
"Of you?
"Perhaps of himself."
"Dear, he could not speak to her in that way!"
"A man in love--and in love with Cecily Doran--can do anything.
The Spences are his close friends; they too have been working on
Miriam."
"But why, why do you return to this? We have spoken of the worst
they can do. To fear anything from their' persuasions is to distrust
me."
"Cecily, I don't distrust you, but I can't live away from you. I
might have gone straight from Naples, but I can't go now; every hour
with you has helped to make it impossible. In talking to your aunt
and to Miriam, I have been consciously false. Come further this way,
into the shadow. Who is over there?"
"Some one we don't know."
Her voice had sunk to a whisper. Elgar led her by the hand into a
further recess of the garden; the hand was almost crushed between
his own as he continued:
"You must come with me, Cecily. We will go away together, and be
married at once."
She panted rather than breathed.
"You must! I can't leave you! I had rather throw myself from these
Capri rocks than go away with more than two years of solitude before
me."
Cecily made no answer.
"If you think, you will see this is best in every way. It will be
kindest to poor Mallard, putting an end at once to any hopes he may
have."
"We can't be married without his consent," Cecily whispered.
"Oh yes; I can manage that. I have already thought of everything. Be
up early to-morrow morning, and leave the hotel at half-past seven,
as if you were going for a walk. Neither your aunt nor Miriam will
be stirring by then. Go down the road as far as beyond the next
turning, and I will be there with a carriage. At the Marina I will
have a boat ready to take us over to Sorrento; we will drive to
Castellamare, and there take train direct for Caserta and onwards,
so missing Naples altogether. You shall travel as my sister. We will
go to London, and be married there. Of course you can't bring
luggage, but what does that matter? We can stop anywhere and buy
what things you need. I have quite enough money for the present."
"But think of the shock to them all!" she pleaded, trembling through
her frame. "How ill I should seem to repay their long kindness! I
can't do this, my dearest; oh, I can't do this! I will see Mr.
Mallard, as I wished--"
"You shall not see him!" he interrupted violently. "I couldn't bear
it. How do I know--"
"How cruel to speak like that to me!"
"Of your own cruelty you never think. You have made me mad with love
of you, and have no right to refuse to marry me when I show you the
way. If I didn't love you so much, I could bear well enough to let
you speak with any one. Your love is very different from mine, or
you couldn't hesitate a moment."
"Let me think! I can't answer you to-night."
"To-night, or never!--Oh yes, I understand well enough, all your
reasons for hesitating. It would mean relinquishing the
wedding-dress and the carriages and all the rest of the show that
delights women. You are afraid of Mrs. Grundy crying shame when it
is known that you have travelled across Europe with me. You feel it
will be difficult to resume your friendships afterwards. I grant all
these things, but I didn't think they would have meant so much to
Cecily."
"You know well that none of these reasons have any weight with me.
It is only in joking that you can speak of them. But the unkindness
to them all, dear! Think of it!"
"Why say 'to them all'? Wouldn't it be simpler to say 'the
unkindness to Mallard'?"
She looked up into his face.
"Why does love make a man speak so bitterly and untruthfully?
Nothing could make me do _you_ such a wrong."
"Because you are so pure of heart and mind that nothing but truth
can be upon your lips. If I were not very near madness, I could
never speak so to you. My own dear love, think only of what I suffer
day after day! And what folly is it that would keep us apart!
Suppose they had none but conscientious motives; in that case, these
people take upon themselves to say what is good for us, what we may
be allowed and what not; they treat us as children. Of course, it is
all for _your_ protection. I am not fit to be your husband, my
beautiful girl! Tell me--who knows me better, Mallard or
yourself?"
"No one knows you as I do, dearest, nor ever will."
"And do you think me too vile a creature to call you my wife?"
"I need not answer that. You are as much nobler than I am as your
strength is greater than mine."
"But they would remind you that you are an heiress. I have not made
so good a use of my own money as I might have done, and the
likelihood is that I shall squander yours, bring you to beggary. Do
you believe that?"
"I know it is not true."
"Then what else can they oppose to our wish? Here are all the
objections, and all seem to be worthless. Yet there might be one
more. You are very young--how I rejoice in knowing it, sweet
flower!--perhaps your love of me is a mere illusion. It ought to
be tested by time; very likely it may die away, and give place to
something truer."
"If so let me die myself sooner than survive such happiness!"
"Why, then what have they to say for themselves? Their opposition is
mistake, stubborn error. And are we to sacrifice two whole years,
the best time of our lives, to such obstinacy? Either of us may die,
Cecily. Suppose it to be my lot, what would be your thoughts then?"
His head bent to hers, and their faces touched.
"Dare you risk that, my love?"
"I dare not."
Her answer trembled upon his hearing as though it came upon the
night air from the sea.
"You will come with me to-morrow?"
"I will."
He sought her offered lips, and for a few instants their whispering
in the shadow ceased. Then he repeated rapidly the directions he had
already given her.
"Put on your warmest cloak; it will be cold on the water. Now I can
say good-night. Kiss me once more, and once more promise."
She pressed her arms about him.
"I am giving you my life. If I had more, I would give it. Be
faithful to me!"
"Then, you do doubt me?"
"Never! But say it to-night, to give me strength."
"I will be faithful to you whilst I have life."
She issued from shadows into broad moonlight, looked once round,
once at the gleaming crags, and passed again into gloom.
"I think it very unlikely," Mrs. Lessingham was saying to Miriam, in
her pleasantest voice of confidence, "that Mr. Mallard will insist
on the whole term."
"No doubt that will much depend on the next year," Miriam replied,
trying to seem impartial.
"No doubt whatever. I am glad we came here. They are both much
quieter and more sensible. In a few days I think your brother will
have made up his mind."
"I hope so."
"Cecily lost her head a little at first, but I see that her
influence is now in the sober direction, as one would have
anticipated. When Mr. Elgar has left us, no doubt Mr. Mallard will
come over, and we shall have quiet talk, What an odd man he is! How
distinctly I could have foreseen his action in these circumstances!
And I know just how it will be, as soon as things have got into a
regular course again. Mr. Mallard hates disturbance and agitation.
Of course he has avoided seeing Cecily as yet; imagine his
exasperated face if he became involved in a 'scene'!"
And Mrs. Lessingham laughed urbanely.
A short and troubled sleep at night's heaviest; then long waiting
for the first glimmer of dawn. Row unreal the world seemed to her!
She tried to link this present morning with the former days, but her
life had lost its continuity; the past was past in a sense she had
never known; and as for the future, it was like gazing into darkness
that throbbed and flashed. It meant nothing to her to say that this
was Capri--that the blue waves and the wind of morning would
presently bear her to Sorrento; the familiar had no longer a
significance; her consciousness was but a point in space and
eternity. She had no regret of her undertaking, no fear of what lay
before her, but a profound sadness, as though the burden of all
mortal sorrows were laid upon her soul.
At seven o'clock she was ready. A very few things that could be
easily carried she would take with her; her cloak would hide them.
Now she must wait for the appointed moment. It seemed to be very
cold; she shivered.
A minute or two before the half-hour, she left her room silently. On
the stairs a servant passed her, and looked surprised in giving the
"Buon giorno." She walked quickly through the garden, and was on the
firm road. At the place indicated stood Elgar beside the carriage,
and without exchanging a word they took their seats.
At the Marina, they had but to step from the carriage to the boat.
Elgar's luggage was thrown on board, and the men pushed off from the
quay.
Bitterly cold, but what a glorious sunrise! Against the flushed sky,
those limestone heights of Capri caught the golden radiance and
shone wondrously. The green water, gently swelling but unbroken, was
like some rarer element, too limpid for this world's shores. With
laughter and merry talk between themselves, the boatmen hoisted
their sail.
And the gods sent a fair breeze from the west, and it smote upon the
sail, and the prow cleft its track of foam, and on they sped over
the back of the barren sea.
CHAPTER XV
"WOLF!"
It was a case of between two stools, and Clifford Marsh did not like
the bump. From that dinner with Elgar he came home hilariously
dismayed; when his hilarity had evaporated with the wine that was
its cause, dismay possessed him wholly. Miss Doran was not for him,
and in the meantime he had offended Madeline beyond forgiveness.
With what countenance could he now turn to her again? Her mother
would welcome his surrender--and it was drawing on towards the day
when submission even to his stepfather could no longer be postponed--but
he suspected that Madeline's resolve to have done with him
was strengthened by resentment of her mother's importunities. To be
sure, it was some sort of consolation to know that if indeed he went
his way for good, bitterness and regrets would be the result to the
Denyer family, who had no great facility in making alliances of this
kind; in a few years time, Madeline would be wishing that she had
not let her pride interfere with a chance of marriage. But, on the
other hand, there was the awkward certainty that he too would lament
making a fool of himself. He by no means liked the thought of
relinquishing Madeline; he had not done so, even when heating his
brain with contemplation of Cecily Doran. In what manner could he
bring about between her and himself a drama which might result in
tears and mutual pardon?
But whilst he pondered this, fate was at work on behalf. On the day
which saw the departure of the Bradshaws, there landed at Naples,
from Alexandria, a certain lean, wiry man, with shoulders that
stooped slightly, with grizzled head and parchment visage; a man who
glanced about him in a keen, anxious way, and had other nervous
habits. Having passed the custom-house, he hired a porter to take
his luggage--two leather bags and a heavy chest, all much the
worse for wear--to that same hotel at which Mallard was just now
staying. There he refreshed himself, and, it being early in the
afternoon, went forth again, as if on business; for decidedly he was
no tourist. When he had occasion to speak, his Italian was fluent
and to the point; he conducted himself as one to whom travel and
intercourse with every variety of men were life-long habits.
His business conducted him to the Mergellina, to the house of Mrs.
Gluck, where he inquired for Mrs. Denyer. He was led upstairs, and
into the room where sit Mrs. Denyer and her daughters. The sight of
him caused commotion. Barbara, Madeline, and Zillah pressed around
him, with cries of "Papa!" Their mother rose and looked at him with
concern.
When the greetings were over, Mr. Denyer seated himself and wiped
his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He was ominously grave. His
eyes avoided the faces before him, as if in shame. He looked at his
boots, which had just been blacked, but were shabby, and then
glanced at the elegant skirts of his wife and daughters; he looked
at his shirt-cuffs, which were clean but frayed, and then gathered
courage to lift his eyes as far as the dainty hands folded upon laps
in show of patience.
"Madeline," he began, in a voice which was naturally harsh, but
could express much tenderness, as now, "what news of Clifford?"
"He's still here, papa," was the answer, in a very low voice.
"I am glad of that. Girls, I've got something to tell you. I wish it
was something pleasant."
His parchment cheek showed a distinct flush. The attempt to keep his
eyes on the girls was a failure; he seemed to be about to confess a
crime.
"I've brought you bad news, the worst I ever brought you yet. My
dears, I can hold out no longer; I'm at the end of my means. If I
could have kept this from you, Heaven knows I would have done, but
it is better to tell you all plainly."
Mrs. Denyer's brows were knitted; her lips were compressed in angry
obstinacy; she would not look up from the floor. The girls glanced
at her, then at one another. Barbara tried to put on a sceptical
expression, but failed; Madeline was sunk in trouble; Zillah showed
signs of tearfulness.
"I can only hope," Mr. Denyer continued, "that you don't owe very
much here. I thought, after my last letter"--he seemed more
abashed than ever--"you might have looked round for something a
little--" He glanced at the ornaments of the room, but at the
same time chanced to catch his wife's eye, and did not finish the
sentence. "But never mind that; time enough now that the necessity
has come. You know me well enough, Barbara, and you Maddy, and you,
Zillah, my child, to be sure that I wouldn't deny you anything it
was in my power to give. But fortune's gone against me this long
time. I shall have to make a new start, new efforts. I'm going out
to Vera Cruz again."
He once more wiped his forehead, and took the opportunity to look
askance at Mrs. Denyer, dubiously, half reproachfully.
"And what are _we_ to do?" asked his wife, with resentful
helplessness.
"I am afraid you must go to England," Mr. Denyer replied
apologetically, turning his look to the girls a gain. "After
settling here, and paying the expenses of the journey, I shall have
a little left, very little indeed. But I'm going to Vera Cruz on a
distinct engagement, and I shall soon be able to send you something.
I'm afraid you had better go to Aunt Dora's again; I've heard from
her lately, and she has the usual spare rooms."
The girls exchanged looks of dismay. The terrible silence was broken
by Zillah, who spoke in quavering accents.
"Papa dear, I have made up my mind to get a place as a nursery
governess. I shall very soon be able to do so."
"And I shall do the same, papa--or something of the kind," came
abruptly from Madeline.
"You, Maddy?" exclaimed her father, who had received the youngest
girl's announcement with a look of sorrowful resignation, but was
shocked at the other's words.
"I am no longer engaged to Mr. Marsh," Madeline proceeded, casting
down her eyes. "Please don't say anything, mamma. I have made up my
mind. I shall look for employment."
Her father shook his head in distress. He had never enjoyed the
control or direction of his daughters, and his long absences during
late years had put him almost on terms of ceremony with them. In
time gone by, their mother had been to him an object of veneration;
it was his privilege to toil that she might live in luxury; but his
illusions regarding her had received painful shocks, and it was to
the girls that he now sacrificed himself. Their intellect, their
attainments, at once filled him with pride and made him humble in
their presence. But for his reluctance to impose restraints upon
their mode of life, he might have avoided this present catastrophe;
he had cried "Wolf!" indeed, in his mild way, but took no energetic
measures when he found his cry disregarded--all the worse for him
now that he could postpone the evil day no longer.
"You are the best judge of your own affairs, Madeline," he replied
despondently. "I'm very sorry, my girl."
"All I can say is," exclaimed Mrs. Denyer, as if with dignified
reticence, "that I think we should have had longer warning of this!"
"My dear, I have warned you repeatedly for nearly a year."
"I mean _serious_ warning. Who was to imagine that things would come
to such a pass as this?"
"You never told us there was danger of absolute beggary, papa,"
remarked Barbara, in a tone not unlike her mother's.
"I ought to have spoken more plainly," was her father's meek answer.
"You are quite right, Barbara. I feel that I am to blame."
"I don't think you are at all," said Madeline, with decision. "Your
letters were plain enough, if we had chosen to pay any attention to
them."
Her father looked up apprehensively, deprecating defence of himself
at the cost of family discord. But he was powerless to prevent the
gathering storm. Mrs. Denyer gazed sternly at her recalcitrant
daughter, and at length discharged upon the girl's head all the
wrath with which this situation inspired her. Barbara took her
mother's side. Zillah wept and sobbed words of reconciliation. The
unhappy cause of the tumult took refuge at the window, sunk in
gloom.
However, there was no doubt about it this time; trunks must be
packed, bills must he paid, indignities must be swallowed. The Aunt
Dora of whom Mr. Denyer had spoken was his own sister, the wife of a
hotel-keeper at Southampton. Some seven years ago, in a crisis of
the Denyers' fate, she had hospitably housed them for several
months, and was now willing to do as much again, notwithstanding the
arrogance with which Mrs. Denyer had repaid her. To the girls it had
formerly mattered little where they lived; at their present age, it
was far otherwise. The hotel was of a very modest description;
society would become out of the question in such a retreat. Madeline
and Zillah might choose, as the less of two evils, the lot for which
they declared themselves ready; but Barbara had no notion of turning
governess. She shortly went to her bedroom, and spent a very black
hour indeed.
They were to start to-morrow morning. With rage Barbara saw the
interdiction of hopes which were just becoming serious. Another
month of those after-dinner colloquies in the drawing-room, and who
could say what point of intimacy Mr. Musselwhite might have reached.
He was growing noticeably more articulate; he was less absentminded.
Oh, for a month more!
This evening she took her usual place, and at length had the
tormenting gratification of seeing Mr. Musselwhite approach in the
usual way. Though sitting next to him at dinner, she had said
nothing of what would happen on the morrow; the present was a better
opportunity.
"You have no book this evening, Miss Denyer!"
"No."
"No headache, I hope?"
"Yes, I have a little headache."
He looked at her with gentlemanly sympathy.
"I have had to see to a lot of things in a hurry. Unexpectedly, we
have to leave Naples to-morrow; we are going to England."
"Indeed? You don't say so! Really, I'm very sorry to hear that, Miss
Denyer."
"I am sorry too--to have to leave Italy for such a climate at this
time of the year." She shuddered. "But my father has just arrived
from Alexandria, and--for family reasons--wishes us to travel on
with him."
Mr. Musselwhite seemed to reflect anxiously. He curled his
moustaches, he plucked his whiskers, he looked about the room with
wide eyes.
"How lonely it will be at the dinner-table!" he said at length. "So
many have gone of late. But I hoped there was no danger of your
going, Miss Denyer."
"We had no idea of it ourselves till to-day."
A long silence, during which Mr. Musselwhite's reflections grew
intense.
"You are going to London?" he asked mechanically.
"Not at first. I hardly know. I think we shall be for some time with
friends at Southampton."
"Indeed? How odd! I also have friends at Southampton. A son of Sir
Edward Mull; he married a niece of mine."
Barbara could have cried with mortification. She muttered she knew
not what. Then again came a blank in the dialogue.
"I trust we may meet again," was Mr. Musselwhite's next sentence. It
cost him an effort; he reddened a little, and moved his feet about.
"There is no foreseeing. I--we--I am sorry to say my father has
brought us rather unpleasant news."
She knew not whether it was a stroke of policy, or grossly
imprudent, to make this confession. But it came to her lips, and she
uttered it half in recklessness. It affected Mr. Musselwhite
strangely. His countenance fell, and a twinge seemed to catch one of
his legs; at the same time it made him fluent.
"I grieve to hear that, Miss Denyer; I grieve indeed. Your departure
would have been bad enough, but I really grieve to think you should
have cause of distress."
"Thank you for your sympathy, Mr. Musselwhite."
"But perhaps we may meet again in England, for all that? Will you
permit me to give you my London address--a--a little club that I
belong to, and where my friends often send letters? I mean that I
should be so very glad if it were ever possible for me to serve you
in any trifle. As you know, I don't keep any--any establishment in
England at present; but possibly--as you say, there is no
anticipating the future. I should be very happy indeed if we chanced
to meet, there or abroad."
"You are very kind, Mr. Musselwhite."
"If I might ask you for your own probable address?"
"It is so uncertain. But I am sure mamma would have pleasure in
sending it, when we arc settled."
"Thank you so very much." He looked up after long meditation. "I
really do _not_ know what I shall do when you are gone, Miss
Denyer."
And then, without warning, he said good-night and walked away.
Barbara, who had thought that the conversation was just about to
become interesting, felt her heart sink into unfathomable depths.
She went back to her bedroom and cried wretchedly for a long time.
In consequence of private talk with his wife, when the family
conclave had broken up, Mr. Denyer went in search of Clifford Marsh.
They had met only once hitherto, six months ago, when Mr. Denyer
paid a flying visit to London, and had just time to make the
acquaintance of his prospective son-in-law. This afternoon they
walked together for an hour about the Chiaia, with the result that
an understanding of some kind seemed to be arrived at between them,
Mr. Denyer returned to the _pension_, and, when dinnertime
approached, surprised Madeline with the proposal that she should
come out and dine with him at a restaurant.
"The fact is," he whispered to her, with a laugh, "my appearance is
not quite up to the standard of your dinner-table. I'm rather too
careless about these things; it's doubtful whether I possess a
decent suit. Let us go and find a quiet corner somewhere--if a
fashionable young lady will do me so much honour."
Through Madeline's mind there passed a suspicion, but a
restaurant-dinner hit her taste, and she accepted the invitation
readily. Before long, they drove into the town. Perhaps in
recognition of her having taken his part against idle reproaches,
her father began, as soon as they were alone, to talk in a grave,
earnest way about his affairs; and Madeline, who liked above all
things to be respectfully treated, entered into the subject with
dutiful consideration. He showed her exactly how his misfortunes had
accumulated, how this and that project had been a failure, what
unadvised steps he had taken in fear of impending calamity Snugly
seated at the little marble table, they grew very confidential
indeed. Mr. Denyer avowed his hope--the hope ever-retreating,
though sometimes it had seemed within reach--of being able some
day to find rest for the sole of his foot, to settle down with his
family and enjoy a quiet close of life. Possibly this undertaking at
Vera Cruz would be his last exile; he explained it in detail, and
dwelt on its promising aspects. Madeline felt compassionate and
remorseful.
Of her own intimate concerns no word was said, but it happened
strangely enough, just as they had finished dinner, that Clifford
Marsh came strolling into the restaurant. He saw them, and with
expressions of surprise explained that he had just turned in for a
cup of coffee. Mr. Denyer invited him to sit down with them, and
they had coffee together. Clifford kept up a flow of characteristic
talk, never directly addressing Madeline, nor encountering her look.
He referred casually to his meeting with Mr. Denyer that afternoon.
"I shall be going back myself very shortly. It is probable that
there will be something of a change in my circumstances; I may
decide to give up a few hours each day to commercial pursuits. It
all depends on--on uncertain things."
"You won't come out with me to Vera Cruz?" said Mr. Denyer,
jocosely.
"No; I am a man of the old world. I must live in the atmosphere of
art, or I don't care to live at all."
Madeline's slight suspicion was confirmed. When they were about to
leave the restaurant, Mr. Denyer said that he must go to the
railway-station, to make a few inquiries. There was no use in
Madeline's going such a distance; would Clifford be so good as to
see her safely home? Madeline made a few objections--she would
really prefer to accompany her father; she would not trouble Mr.
Marsh--but in the end she found herself seated by Clifford in a
carriage, passing rapidly through the streets.
Now was Clifford's opportunity; he had prepared for it.
"Madeline--you must let me call you by that name again, even if it
is for the last time--I have heard what has happened."
"Happily it does not affect you, Mr. Marsh."
"Indeed it does. It affects me so far, that it alters the whole
course of my life. In spite of everything that has seemed to come
between us, I have never allowed myself to think of our engagement
as at an end. The parcel you sent me the other day is unopened; if
you do not open it yourself no one ever shall. Whatever _you_ may
do, I cannot break faith. You ought to know me better than to
misinterpret a few foolish and hasty words, and appearances that had
a meaning you should have understood. The time has come now for
putting an end to those misconceptions."
"They no longer concern me. Please to speak of something else."
"You must, at all events, understand my position before we part.
This morning I was as firmly resolved as ever to risk everything, to
renounce the aid of my relatives if it must be and face poverty for
the sake of art. Now all is changed. I shall accept my step-father's
offer, and all its results becoming, if it can't be helped, a mere
man of business. I do this because of my sacred duties to _you_. As
an artist, there's no telling how long it might be before I could
ask you again to be my wife; as a man of business, I may soon be in
a position to do so. Don't interrupt me, I entreat! It is no matter
to me if you repulse me now, in your anger. I consider the
engagement as still existing between us, and, such being the ease,
it is plainly my duty to take such steps as will enable me to offer
you a home. By remaining an artist, I should satisfy one part of my
conscience, but at the expense of all my better feelings; it might
even he supposed--though, I trust, not by you--that I made my
helplessness an excuse for forgetting you when most you needed
kindness. I shall go back to England, and devote myself with energy
to the new task, however repulsive it may prove. Whether you think
of me or not, I do it for your sake; you cannot rob me of that
satisfaction. Some day I shall again stand before you, and ask you
for what you once promised. If then you refuse--well, I must bear
the loss of all my hopes."
"You may direct your life as you choose," Madeline replied
scornfully, "but you will please to understand that I give you no
encouragement to hope anything from me. I almost believe you capable
of saying, some day, that you took this step because I urged you to
it. I have no interest whatever in your future; our paths are
separate. Let this be the end of it."
But it was very far from the end of it. When the carriage stopped at
Mrs. Gluck's, mutual reproaches were at their height.
"You shall not leave me yet, Madeline," said Clifford, as he
alighted. "Come to the other side of the road, and let us walk along
for a few minutes. You shall not go in, if I have to hold you by
force."
Madeline yielded, and in the light of the moon they walked side by
side, continuing their dialogue.
"You are heartless! You have played with me from the first."
"If so, I only treated you as you thought to treat me."
"That you can attribute such baseness to me proves how incapable you
are of distinguishing between truth and falsehood. How wretchedly I
have been deceived in you!"
From upbraiding, he fell to lamentation. His life was wrecked; he
had lost his ideals; and all through her unworthiness. Then, as
Madeline was still unrelenting, he began to humble himself. He
confessed his levity; he had not considered the risk he ran of
losing her respect; all he had done was in pique at her treatment of
him. And in the end he implored her forgiveness, besought her to
restore him to life by accepting his unqualified submission. To part
from her on such terms as these meant despair; the consequences
would be tragic. And when he could go no further in amorous
supplication, when she felt that her injured pride had exacted the
uttermost from his penitence, Madeline at length relented.
"Still," she said, after his outburst of gratitude, "don't think
that I ask you to become a man of business. You shall never charge
me with that. It is your nature to reproach other people when
anything goes wrong with you; I know you only too well. You must
decide for yourself; I will take no responsibility."
Yes, he accepted that; it was purely his own choice. Rather than
lose her, he would toil at any most ignoble pursuit, amply repaid by
the hope she granted him.
They had walked some distance, and were out of sight of the
Mergellina, on the ascending road of Posillipo, all the moonlit
glory of the bay before them.
"It will be long before we see it again," said Madeline, sadly.
"We will spend our honeymoon here," was Clifford's hopeful reply.
CHAPTER XVI
LETTERS
On the thirteenth day after the flight from Capri, Edward Spence,
leaving the villa for his afternoon walk, encountered the postman
and received from him three letters. One was addressed to Ross
Mallard, Esq., care of Edward Spence, Esq.; another, to Mrs. Spence;
the third, to Mrs. Baske. As he reascended the stairs, somewhat more
quickly than his wont, Spence gave narrow attention to the
handwriting on the envelopes. He found Eleanor where he had left her
a few minutes before, at the piano, busy with a difficult passage of
Brahms. She looked round in surprise, and on seeing the letters
started up eagerly.
"Do you know Elgar's hand?" Spence asked. "These two from London are
his, I should imagine. This for you is from Mrs. Lessingham, isn't
it?"
"Yes; I think this is the news, at last," said Eleanor, inspecting
Mrs. Baske's letter, not without feminine emotion. "I'll take it to
her. Shall you go over with the other?"
"He'll he here after dinner; the likelihood is that I shouldn't find
him."
"Occasionally--very occasionally--you lack tact, my husband. He
would hardly care to open this and read it in our presence."
"More than occasionally, my dear girl, you remind me of the woman
whose price is above rubies. I'll go over and leave it for him at
once. Just to show the male superiority, however, I shall be careful
to make my walk a few minutes longer than usual--a thing of which
you would be quite incapable whilst the contents of Miriam's letter
were unknown to you."
Alone again, Eleanor sent the letter to Miriam's room by a servant,
and with uncertain fingers broke the envelope of that addressed to
herself. Already she had heard once from Mrs. Lessingham, who ten
days ago left Naples to join certain friends in Rome; the first
hurried glance over the present missive showed that it contained no
intelligence. She had scarcely begun to read it attentively, when
the door opened and Miriam came in.
Her face was pale with agitation, and her eyes had the strangest
light in them; to one who knew nothing of the circumstances, she
would have appeared exultant. Eleanor could not but gaze at her
intently.
"From Reuben!"
"Yes." Miriam suppressed her voice, and held out the sheet of
note-paper, which fluttered. "Read it."
The body of the letter was as follows:--
"I hope we have caused you no anxiety; from the first moment when
our departure was known, you must have understood that we had
resolved to put an end to useless delay. We travelled to London as
brother and sister, and to-day have become man and wife. The above
will be our address for a short time; we have not yet decided where
we shall ultimately live.
"By this same post I write to Mallard, addressed to him at the
villa. I hope he has had the good sense to wait quietly for news.
"Cecily sends her love to you--though she half fears that you will
reject it. I cannot see why you should. We have done the only
sensible thing, and of course in a month or two it will he just the
same, to everybody concerned, as if we had been married in the most
foolish way that respectability can contrive. Let us hear from you
very soon, dear sister. We talk much of you, and hope to have many a
bright day with you yet--more genuinely happy than that we spent
in tracking out old Tiberius."
Eleanor looked up, and again was struck with the singular light in
her cousin's eyes.
"Well, it only tells us what we anticipated. Of course he made false
declarations. If Mr. Mallard were really as grim as he sometimes
looks, the result to both of them might be unpleasant."
"But the marriage could not be undone?" Miriam asked quickly.
"Oh no. Scarcely desirable that it should be."
Miriam took the letter, and in a few minutes went back again to her
room.
At nine o'clock in the evening, the Spences, who sat alone, received
the foreseen visit from Mallard. They welcomed him silently. As he
sat down, he had a smile on his face; he drew a letter deliberately
from his pocket, and, without preface, began to read it aloud, still
in a deliberate manner.
"Let me first of all make a formal announcement. We have this
morning been married by registrar's licence. We intend to live for a
few weeks at this present address, where we have taken some
furnished rooms until better arrangements can be made. I lose no
time in writing to you, for of course there is business between us
that you will desire to transact as soon as may be.
"In obtaining the licence, I naturally gave false information
regarding Cecily's age; this was an inevitable consequence of the
step we had taken. You know my opinions on laws and customs: for the
multitude they are necessary, and an infraction of them by the
average man is, logically enough, called a sin against society; for
Cecily and myself, in relation to such a matter as our becoming man
and wife, the law is idle form. Personally, I could have wished to
dispense with the absurdity altogether, but, as things are, this
involves an injustice to a woman. I told my falsehoods placidly, for
they were meaningless in my eyes. I have the satisfaction of knowing
that you cannot, without inconsistency, find fault with me.
"And now I speak as one who would gladly be on terms of kindness
with you. You know me, Mallard; you must be aware how impossible it
was for me to wait two years. As for Cecily, her one word, again and
again repeated on the journey, was, 'How unkind I shall seem to
them!' and I know that it was the seeming disrespect to you which
most of all distressed her. For her sake, I make it my petition that
you will let the past be past. She cannot yet write to you, but is
sad in the thought of having incurred your displeasure. Whatever you
say to me, let it be said privately; do not hurt Cecily. I mentioned
'business; the word and the thing are equally hateful to me. I most
sincerely wish Cecily had nothing, that the vile question of money
might never arise. Herein, at all events, you will do me justice; I
am no fortune-hunter.
"If you come to London, send a line and appoint a place of meeting.
But could not everything be done through lawyers? You must judge;
but, again I ask it, do not give Cecily more pain."
The listeners were smiling gravely. After a silence, the letter was
discussed, especially its second paragraph. Mallard was informed of
the note which Miriam had received.
"I shall go to-morrow," he said, "and 'transact my business.' On the
whole, it might as well be done through lawyers, but I had better be
in London."
"And then?" asked Eleanor.
"I shall perhaps go and spend a week with the people at Sowerby
Bridge. But you shall hear from me."
"Will you speak to Mrs. Baske?"
"I don't think it is necessary. She has expressed no wish that I
should?"
"No; but she might like to be assured that her brother won't be
prosecuted for perjury."
"Oh, set her mind at ease!"
"Show Mallard the. letter from Mrs. Lessingham," said Spence, with a
twinkle of the eyes.
"I will read it to him."
She did so. And the letter ran thus:
"Still no news? I am uneasy, though there can be no rational doubt
as to what form the news will take when it comes. The material
interests in question are enough to relieve us from anxiety. But I
wish they would be quick and communicate with us.
"One reconciles one's self to the inevitable, and, for my own part,
the result of my own reflections is that I am something more than
acquiescent. After all, granted that these two must make choice of
each other, was it not in the fitness of things that they should act
as they have done? For us comfortable folk, life is too humdrum;
ought we not to be grateful to those who supply us with a strong
emotion, and who remind us that there is yet poetry in the world? I
should apologize for addressing such thoughts to _you_, dear
Eleanor, for you have still the blessing of a young heart, and
certainly do not lack poetry. I speak for myself, and after all I am
much disposed to praise these young people for their unconventional
behaviour.
"What if our darkest anticipations were fulfilled? Beyond all doubt
they are now sincerely devoted to each other, and will remain so for
at least twelve months. Those twelve months will be worth a
life-time of level satisfaction. We shall be poor creatures in
comparison when we utter our 'Didn't I tell you so?'
"Whilst in a confessing mood, I will admit that I had formed rather
a different idea of Cecily; I was disposed to think of her as the
modern woman who has put unreasoning passion under her feet, and
therefore this revelation was at first a little annoying to me. But
I see now that my view of her failed by incompleteness. The modern
woman need by no means be a mere embodied intellect; she will choose
to enjoy as well as to understand, and to enjoy greatly she will
sacrifice all sorts of things that women have regarded as supremely
important. Indeed, I cannot say that I am disappointed in Cecily;
rightly seen, she has justified the system on which I educated her.
My object was to teach her to think for herself, to be self-reliant.
The _jeune fille_, according to society's pattern, is my abhorrence:
an ignorant, deceitful, vain, immoral creature. Cecily is as unlike
that as possible; she has behaved independently and with sincerity.
I really admire her very much, and hope that her life may not fall
below its beginning.
"Let me hear as soon as a word reaches you. I am with charming
people, and yet I think longingly of the delightful evenings at
Villa Sannazaro, your music and your talk. You and your husband have
a great place in my heart; you are of the salt of the earth. Spare
me a little affection, for I am again a lonely woman."
This letter also was discussed, and its philosophy appreciated.
Mallard spoke little; he had clasped his hands behind his head, and
listened musingly.
There was no effusion in the leave-taking, though it might be for a
long time. Warm clasping of hands, but little said.
"A good-bye for me to Mrs. Baske," was Mallard's last word.
And his haggard but composed face turned from Villa Sannazaro.
VOLUME TWO
CHAPTER I
A CORNER OF SOCIETY
In a London drawing-room, where the murmur of urbane colloquy rose
and fell, broken occasionally by the voice of the nomenclator
announcing new arrivals, two ladies, seated in a recess, were
exchanging confidences. One was a novelist of more ability than
repute; the other was a weekly authority on musical performances.
"Her head is getting turned, poor girl. I feel sorry for her."
"Such ridiculous flattery! And really it is difficult to understand.
She is pretty, and speaks French; neither the one thing nor the
other is uncommon, I believe. Do you see anything remarkable in
her?"
"Well, she is rather more than pretty; and there's a certain
cleverness in her talk. But at her age this kind of thing is
ruinous. I blame Mrs. Lessingham. She should bid her stay at home
and mind her baby."
"By-the-bye, what truth is there in that story? The Naples affair,
you know?"
"_N'en sais rien_. But I hear odd things about her husband. Mr.
Bickerdike knew him a few years ago. He ran through a fortune, and
fell into most disreputable ways of life. Somebody was saying that
he got his living as 'bus-conductor, or something of the kind."
"I could imagine that, from the look of him."
It was Mrs. Lessingham's Wednesday evening. The house at Craven Hill
opened its doors at ten o'clock, and until midnight there was no
lack of company. Singular people, more or less; distinguished from
society proper by the fact that all had a modicum of brains. Some
came from luxurious homes, some from garrets. Visitors from Paris
were frequent; their presence made a characteristic of the salon.
This evening, for instance, honour was paid by the hostess to M.
_Amedeee_ Silvenoire, whose experiment in unromantic drama had not
long ago gloriously failed at the Odeon; and Madame Jacquelin, the
violinist, was looked for.
Mrs. Lessingham had. not passed a season in London for several
years. When, at the end of April, she took this house, there came to
live with her the widow and daughter of a man of letters who had
died in poverty. She had known the Delphs in Paris, in the days when
Cecily was with her and in the winter just past she had come upon
Irene Delph copying at the Louvre; the girl showed a good deal of
talent but was hard beset by the difficulty of living whilst she
worked. In the spirit of her generous brother, Mrs. Lessingham
persuaded the two to come and live with her through the season; a
room in the house was a studio for Irene, who took to portraits.
Mrs. Delph, a timid woman whose nerves had failed under her
misfortunes, did not appear on formal occasions like the present,
but Irene was becoming an ornament of the drawing-room. To be sure,
but for her good looks and her artistic aptitude, she would not have
been here-no reason, perhaps, for stinted praise of her friend's
generosity.
An enjoyable thing to see Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with one
of her French guests. She threw off full fifteen years, and looked
thirty at most. Her handsome features had a vivid play of expression
in harmony with the language she was speaking; her eyes were radiant
as she phrased a thought which in English would have required many
words for the--blunting of its point. M. Silvenoire, who--with
the slight disadvantage of knowing no tongue but his own--was
making a study of English social life, found himself at ease this
evening for the first time since he had been in London. Encouraged
to talk his best, he frankly and amusingly told Mrs. Lessingham of
the ideas he had formed regarding conversation in the drawing-rooms
of English ladies.
"Civilization is spreading among us," she replied, with a laugh.
"Once or twice it has been my privilege to introduce young
Frenchmen, who were studying our language, to English families
abroad, and in those cases I privately recommended to them a careful
study of Anthony Trollope's novels, that they might learn what is
permissible in conversation and what is not. But here and there in
London you will find it possible to discuss things that interest
reasonable beings."
At the door sounded the name of "Mr. Biekerdike," and there advanced
towards the hostess a tall, ugly young man, known by repute to all
the English people present. He was the author of a novel called "A
Crown of Lilies," which was much talked of just now, and excited no
less ridicule than admiration, On the one hand, it was lauded for
delicate purity and idealism; on the other, it was scoffed at for
artificiality and affected refinement. Mrs. Lessingham had met him
for the first time a week ago. Her invitation was not due to
approval of his book, but to personal interest which the author
moved in her; she was curious to discover how far the idealism of "A
Crown of Lilies" was a genuine fruit of the man's nature. Mr.
Bickerdike's countenance did not promise clarity of soul; his
features were distinctly coarse, and the glance he threw round the
room on entering made large demands.
Irene Delph was talking with a young married lady named Mrs. Travis;
they both regarded Mr. Bickerdike with close scrutiny.
"Who could have imagined such an author for the book!" murmured the
girl, in wonder.
"I could perfectly well," murmured back Mrs. Travis, with a smile
which revealed knowledge of humanity.
"I pictured a very youthful man, with a face of effeminate beauty--
probably a hectic colour in his cheeks."
"Such men don't write 'the novel of the season.' This gentleman is
very shrewd; he gauges the public. Some day, if he sees fit, he will
write a brutal book, and it will have merit."
Mr. Bickerdike unfortunately did not speak French, so M. Silvenoire
was unable to exchange ideas with him. The Parisian, having learnt
what this gentleman's claims were, regarded him through his
_pince-nez_ with a subtle smile. But in a few moments he had
something more interesting to observe.
"Mrs. Elgar," cried the voice at the door.
Cecily was met half-way by her aunt, "You are alone?"
"Reuben has a headache. Perhaps he will come to fetch me, but more
likely not."
All the eyes in the room had one direction. Alike those who
ingenuously admired and those who wished to seem indifferent paid
the homage of observation to Mrs. Elgar, as she stood exchanging
greetings with the friends who came forward. Yes, there was
something more than attractive features and a pleasant facility of
speech. In Cecily were blended a fresh loveliness and a grace as of
maidenhood with the perfect charm of wedded youth. The air about her
was charged with something finer than the delicate fragrance which
caressed the senses. One had but to hear her speak, were it only the
most ordinary phrase of courtesy, and that wonderful voice more than
justified profound interest. Strangers took her for a few years
older than she was, not judging so much by her face as the finished
ease of her manners; when she conversed, it was hard to think of her
as only one-and-twenty.
"She is a little pale this evening," said Irene to Mrs. Travis.
The other assented; then asked:
"Why don't you paint her portrait?"
"Heaven forbid! I have quite enough discouragement in my attempts at
painting, as it is."
M. Silvenoire was bowing low, as Mrs. Lessingham presented him. To
his delight, he heard his own language fluently, idiomatically
spoken; he remarked, too, that Mrs. Elgar had a distinct pleasure in
speaking it. She seated herself, and flattered him into ecstasies by
the respect with which she received his every word. She had seen it
mentioned in the _Figaro_ that a new play of his was in preparation;
when was it likely to be put on the stage? The theatre in London--
of course, he understood that no one took it _au serieux_?
The Parisian could do nothing but gaze about the room, following her
movements, when their dialogue was at an end. Mon Dieu! And who,
then, was Mr. Elgar? Might not one hope for an invitation to
madame's assemblies? A wonderful people, these English, after all.
Mr. Bickerdike secured, after much impatience, the desired
introduction. For reasons of his own, he made no mention of his
earlier acquaintance with Elgar. Did she know of it? In any case she
appeared not to, but spoke of things which did not interest Mr.
Bickerdike in the least. At length he was driven to bring forward
the one subject on which he desired her views.
"Have you, by chance, read my book, Mrs. Elgar?"
M. Silvenoire would have understood her smile; the Englishman
thought it merely amiable, and prepared for the accustomed
compliment.
"Yes, I have read it, Mr. Bickerdike. It seemed to me a charmingly
written romance."
The novelist, seated upon too low a chair, leaning forward so that
his knees and chin almost touched, was not in himself a very
graceful object; the contrast with his neighbour made him worse than
grotesque. His visage was disagree ably animal as it smiled with
condescension.
"You mean something by that," he remarked, with awkward attempt at
light fencing.
There was barely a perceptible movement of Cecily's brows.
"I try to mean something as often as I speak," she said, in an
amused tone.
"In this ease it is a censure. You take the side of those who find
fault with my idealism."
"Not so; I simply form my own judgment."
Mr. Bickerdike was nervous at all times in the society of a refined
woman; Mrs. Elgar's quiet rebuke brought the perspiration to his
forehead, and made him rub his hands together. Like many a better
man, he could not do justice to the parts he really possessed. save
when sitting in solitude with a sheet of paper before him. Though he
had a confused perception that Mrs. Elgar was punishing him for
forcing her to speak of his book, he was unable to change the topic
and so win her approval for his tact. In the endeavour to seem at
ease, he became blunt.
"And what has your judgment to say on the subject?"
"I think I have already told you, Mr. Bickerdike."
"You mean by a romance a work that is not soiled with the common
realism of to-day."
"I am willing to mean that."
"But you will admit, Mrs. Elgar, that my mode of fiction has as much
to say for itself as that which you prefer?"
"In asking for one admission you take for granted another. That is a
little confusing."
It was made sufficiently so to Mr. Bickerdike. He thrust out his
long legs, and exclaimed:
"I should be grateful to you if you would tell me what your view of
the question really is--I mean, of the question at issue between
the two schools of fiction."
"But will you first make clear to me the characteristics of the
school you represent?"
"It would take a long time to do that satisfactorily. I proceed on
the assumption that fiction is poetry, and that poetry deals only
with the noble and the pure."
"Yes," said Cecily, as he paused for a moment, "I see that it would
take too long. You must deal with so many prejudices--such, for
example, as that which supposes 'King Lear' and 'Othello' to be
poems."
Mr. Bickerdike began a reply, but it was too late; Mrs. Lessingham
had approached with some one else who wished to be presented to Mrs.
Elgar, and the novelist could only bite his lips as be moved away to
find a more reverent listener.
It was not often that Cecily trifled in this way. As a rule, her
manner of speech was direct and earnest. She had a very uncommon
habit of telling the truth whenever it was possible; rather than
utter smooth falsehoods, she would keep silence, and sometimes when
to do so was to run much danger of giving offence. Beautiful women
have very different ways of using the privilege their charm assures
them; Cecily chose to make it a protection of her integrity. She was
much criticized by acquaintances of her own sex. Some held her
presumptuous, conceited, spoilt by adulation; some accused her of
bad taste and blue-stockingism; some declared that she had no object
but to win men's admiration and outshine women. Without a thought of
such comments, she behaved as was natural to her. Where she felt her
superiority, she made no pretence of appearing femininely humble.
Yet persons like Mrs. Delph, who kept themselves in shadow and spoke
only with simple kindness, knew well how unassuming Cecily was, and
with what deference she spoke when good feeling dictated it. Or
again, there was her manner with the people who, by the very respect
with which they inspired her, gave her encouragement to speak
without false restraint; such as Mr. Bird, the art critic, a
grizzle-headed man with whom she sat for a quarter of an hour this
evening, looking her very brightest and talking in her happiest
vein, yet showing all the time her gratitude for what she learnt
from his conversation.
It was nearly twelve o'clock when Mrs. Travis, who had made one or
two careless efforts to draw near to Cecily, succeeded in speaking a
word aside with her.
"I hope you didn't go to see me yesterday? I left home in the
morning, and am staying with friends at Hampstead, not far from
you."
"For long?"
"I don't know. I should like to talk to you, if I could. Shall you
be driving back alone?"
"Yes. Will you come with me?"
"Thank you. Please let me know when you are going."
And Mrs. Travis turned away. In a few minutes Cecily went to take
leave of her aunt.
"How is Clarence?" asked Mrs. Lessingham.
"Still better, I believe. I left him to-night without uneasiness."
"Oh, I had a letter this morning from Mrs. Spence. No talk of
England yet. In the autumn they are going to Greece, then for the
winter to Sicily."
"Miriam with them?"
"As though it were a matter of course."
They both smiled. Then Cecily took leave of two or three other
people, and quitted the room. Mrs. Travis followed her, and in a few
minutes they were seated in the brougham.
Mrs. Travis had a face one could not regard without curiosity. It
was not beautiful in any ordinary sense, but strange and striking
and rich in suggestiveness. In the chance, flickering light that
entered the carriage, she looked haggard, and at all times her
thinness and pallor give her the appearance of suffering both in
body and mind. Her complexion was dark, her hair of a rich brown;
she had very large eyes, which generally wandered in an absent,
restless, discontented way. If she smiled, it was with a touch of
bitterness, and her talk was wont to be caustic. Cecily had only
known her for a few weeks, and did not feel much drawn to her, but
she compassionated her for sorrows known and suspected. Though only
six and twenty, Mrs. Travis had been married seven years, and had
had two children; the first died at birth, the second was carried
off by diphtheria. Her husband Cecily had never seen, but she heard
disagreeable things of him, and Mrs. Travis herself had dropped
hints which signified domestic unhappiness.
After a minute or two of silence, Cecily was beginning to speak on
some indifferent subject, when her companion interrupted her.
"Will you let me tell you something about myself?"
"Whatever you wish, Mrs. Travis," Cecily answered, with sympathy.
"I've left my husband. Perhaps you thought of that?"
"No."
The sudden disclosure gave her a shock. She had the sensation of
standing for the first time face to face with one of the sterner
miseries of life.
"I did it once before," pursued the other, "two years ago. Then I
was foolish enough to be wheedled back again. That shan't happen
this time."
"Have you really no choice but to do this?" Cecily asked, with much
earnestness.
"Oh, I could have stayed if I had chosen. He doesn't beat me. I have
as much of my own way as I could expect. Perhaps you'll think me
unreasonable. A Turkish woman would."
Cecily sat mute. She could not but resent the harsh tone in which
she was addressed, in spite of her pity.
"It's only that I suffer in my self-respect--a little," Mrs.
Travis continued. "Of course, this is no reason for taking such a
step, except to those who have suffered in the same way. Perhaps you
would like to stop the carriage and let me leave you?"
"Your suffering makes you unjust to me," replied Cecily, much
embarrassed by this strange impulsiveness. "Indeed I sympathize with
you. I think it quite possible that you are behaving most rightly."
"You don't maintain, then, that it is a wife's duty to bear every
indignity from her husband?"
"Surely not. On the contrary, I think there are some indignities
which no wife _ought_ to bear."
"I'm glad to hear that. I had a feeling that you would think in this
way, and that's why I wanted to talk to you. Of course you have only
the evidence of my word for believing me."
"I can see that you are very unhappy, and the cause you name is
quite sufficient."
"In one respect, I am very lucky. I have a little money of my own,
and that enables me to go and live by myself. Most women haven't
this resource: many are compelled to live in degradation only for
want of it. I should like to see how many homes would be broken up,
if all women were suddenly made independent in the same way that I
am. How I should enjoy that! I hate the very word 'marriage'!"
Cecily averted her face, and said nothing. After a pause, her
companion continued in a calm voice:
"You can't sympathize with that, I know. And you are comparing my
position with your own."
No answer was possible, for Mrs. Travis had spoken the truth.
"In the first year of my marriage, I used to do the same whenever I
heard of any woman who was miserable with her husband."
"Is there no possibility of winning back your husband?" Cecily
asked, in a veiled voice.
"Winning him back? Oh, he is affectionate enough. But you mean
winning him back to faithfulness. My husband happens to be the
average man, and the average man isn't a pleasant person to talk
about, in this respect."
"Are you not too general in your condemnation, Mrs. Travis?"
"I am content you should think so. You are very young still, and
there's no good in making the world ugly for you as long as it can
seem rosy."
"Please don't use that word," said Cecily, with emphasis. It annoyed
her to be treated as immature in mind. "I am the last person to take
rosy views of life. But there is something between the distrust to
which you are driven by misery and the optimism of foolish people."
"We won't argue about it. Every woman must take life as she finds
it. To me it is a hateful weariness. I hope I mayn't have much of it
still before me; what there is, I will live in independence. You
know Mrs. Calder?"
"Yes."
"Her position is the same as mine has been, but she has more
philosophy; she lets things take their course, just turning her eyes
away."
"That is ignoble, hateful!" exclaimed Cecily.
"So I think, but women as a rule don't. At all events, they are
content to whine a little, and do nothing. Poor wretches, what _can_
they do, as I said?"
"They can go away, and, if need be, starve."
"They have children."
Cecily became mute.
"Will you let me come and see you now and then?" Mrs. Travis asked
presently.
"Come whenever you feel you would like to," Cecily answered, rousing
herself from reverie.
The house in which Mrs. Travis now lived was a quarter of an hour's
drive beyond that of the Elgars; she would have alighted and walked,
making nothing of it, but of course Cecily could not allow this. The
coachman was directed to make the circuit. When Cecily reached home,
it was after one o'clock.
CHAPTER II
THE PROPRIETIES DEFENDED
The house was in Belsize Park. Light shone through the blind of one
of the upper windows, but the rest of the front was lifeless.
Cecily's ring at the bell sounded distinctly; it was answered at
once by a maid-servant, who said that Mr. Elgar was still in the
library. Having spoken a few words, ending with a kind good night,
Cecily passed through the hall and opened the library door.
A reading-lamp made a bright sphere on the table, but no one sat
within its rays. After a fruitless glance round the room, Cecily
called her husband's name. There was a sound of moving, and she saw
that Reuben was on a sofa which the shadow veiled.
"Have you been asleep?" she asked merrily, as she approached him.
He stood up and stretched himself, muttering.
"Why didn't you go to bed, poor boy? I'm dreadfully late; I went out
of my way to take some one home."
"Who was that?" Elgar inquired, coming forward and seating himself
on the corner of the writing-table.
"Mrs. Travis. She has come to stay with friends at Hampstead. But to
bed, to bed! You look like Hamlet when he came and frightened
Ophelia. Have you had an evil dream?"
"That's the truth; I have."
"What about?"
"Oh, a stupid jumble." He moved the lamp-shade, so that the light
fell suddenly full upon her. "Why have you made such friends all at
once with Mrs. Travis?"
"How is your headache?"
"I don't know--much the same. Did she ask you to take her home?"
"Yes, she did--or suggested it, at all events."
"Why has she come to Hampstead?"
"How can I tell, dear? Put the lamp out, and let us go."
He sat swinging his leg. The snatch of uncomfortable sleep had left
him pale and swollen-eyed, and his hair was tumbled.
"Who was there to-night?"
"Several new people. Amedee Silvenoire--the dramatist, you know;
an interesting man. He paid me the compliment of refraining from
compliments on my French. Madame Jacquelin, a stout and very plain
woman, who told us anecdotes of George Sand; remind me to repeat
them to-morrow. And Mr. Bickerdike, the pillar of idealism."
"Bickerdike was there?" Elgar exclaimed, with an air of displeasure.
"He didn't refer to his acquaintance with you. I wonder why not?"
"Did you talk to the fellow?"
"Rather pertly, I'm afraid. He was silly enough to ask me what I
thought of his book, though I hadn't mentioned it. I put on my
superior air and snubbed him; it was like tapping a frog on the head
each time it pokes up out of the water. He will go about and say
what an insufferable person that Mrs. Elgar is."
Reuben was silent for a while.
"I don't like your associating with such people," he said suddenly.
"I wish you didn't go there. It's all very well for a woman like
your aunt to gather about her all the disreputable men and women who
claim to be of some account, but they are not fit companions for
you. I don't like it at all."
She looked at him in astonishment, with bewildered eyes, that were
on the verge of laughter.
"What _are_ you talking about, Reuben?"
"I'm quite serious." He rose and began to walk about the room. "And
it surprised me that you didn't think of staying at home this
evening. I said nothing, because I wanted to see whether it would
occur to you that you oughtn't to go alone."
"How should such a thing occur to me? Surely I am as much at home in
aunt's house as in my own? I can hardly believe that you mean what
you say."
"You will understand it if you think for a moment. A year ago you
wouldn't have dreamt of going out at night when I stayed at home.
But you find the temptation of society irresistible. People admire
you and talk about you and crowd round you, and you enjoy it--
never mind who the people are. Presently we shall be seeing your
portrait in the shop-windows. I noticed what a satisfaction it was
to you when your name was mentioned among the other people in that
idiotic society journal."
Cecily laughed, but not quite so naturally as she wished it to
sound.
"This is too absurd Your dream has unsettled your wits, Reuben. How
could I imagine that you had begun to think of me in such a light?
You used to give me credit for at least average common sense. I
can't talk about it; I am ashamed to defend myself."
He had not spoken angrily, but in a curiously dogged tone, with
awkward emphasis, as if struggling to say what did not come
naturally to his lips. Still walking about, and keeping his eyes on
the floor, he continued in the same half-embarrassed way:
"There's no need for you to defend yourself. I don't exactly mean to
blame you, but to point out a danger."
"Forgetting that you degrade my character in doing so."
"Nothing of the kind, Cecily. But remember how young you are. You
know very little of the world, and often see things in an ideal
light. It is your tendency to idealize. You haven't the experience
necessary to a woman who goes about in promiscuous society."
Cecily knitted her brows.
"Instead of using that vague, commonplace language--which I never
thought to hear from _you_--I wish you would tell me exactly what
you mean. What things do I see in an ideal light? That means, I
suppose, that I am childishly ignorant of common evils in the world.
You couldn't speak otherwise if I had just come out of a convent.
And, indeed, you don't believe what you say. Speak more simply,
Reuben. Say that you distrust my discretion."
"To a certain extent, I do."
"Then there is no more to be said, dear. Please to tell me in future
exactly what you wish me to do, and what to avoid. I will go to
school to your prudence."
The clock ticked very loudly, and, before the silence was again
broken, chimed half-past one.
"Let me give you an instance of what I mean," said Elgar, again
seating himself on the table and fingering his watch-chain
nervously. "You have been making friends with Mrs. Travis. Now, you
are certainly quite ignorant of her character. You don't know that
she left home not long ago."
Cecily asked in a low voice:
"And why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because I don't choose to talk with you about such disagreeable
things."
"Then I begin to see what the difficulty is between us. It is not I
who idealize things, but you. Unless I am much mistaken, this is the
common error of husbands--of those who are at heart the best. They
wish their wives to remain children, as far as possible. Everything
'disagreeable' must be shunned--and we know what the result often
is. But I had supposed all this time that you and I were on other
terms. I thought you regarded me as not quite the everyday woman. In
some things it is certain you do; why not in the most important of
all? Knowing that I was likely to see Mrs. Travis often, it was your
duty to tell me what you knew of her."
Elgar kept silence.
"Now let me give you another version of that story," Cecily
continued. "To-night she has been telling me about herself. She says
that she left home because her husband was unfaithful to her. I
think the reason quite sufficient, and I told her so. But there is
something more. She has again been driven away. She has come to live
at Hampstead because her home is intolerable, and she says that
nothing will ever induce her to return."
"And this has been the subject of your conversation as you drove
back? Then I think such an acquaintance is very unsatisfactory, and
it must come to an end."
"Please to tell me why you spoke just now as if Mrs. Travis were to
blame."
"I have heard that she was."
"Heard from whom?"
"That doesn't matter. There's a doubt about it, and she's no
companion for you."
"As you think it necessary to lay commands on me, I shall of course
obey you. But I believe Mrs. Travis is wronged by the rumours you
have heard; I believe she acted then, and has done now, just as it
behoved her to."
"And you have been encouraging her?"
"Yes, on the assumption that she told me the truth. She asked if she
might come and see me, and I told her to do so whenever she wished.
I needn't say that I shall write and withdraw this invitation."
Elgar hesitated before replying.
"I'm afraid you can't do that. You have tact enough to end the
acquaintance gradually."
"Indeed I have not, Reuben. I either condemn her or pity her; I
can't shuffle contemptibly between the two."
"Of course you prefer to pity her!" he exclaimed impatiently. "There
comes in the idealism of which I was speaking. The vulgar woman's
instinct would be to condemn her; naturally enough, you take the
opposite course. You like to think nobly of people, with the result
that more often than not you will be wrong. You don't know the
world."
"And I am very young; pray finish the formula. But why do you prefer
to take the side of 'the vulgar woman' of whom you speak? I see that
you have no evidence against Mrs. Travis; why lean towards
condemnation?"
"Well, I'll put it in another way. A woman who lives apart from her
husband is always amid temptations, always in doubtful
circumstances. Friends who put faith in her may, of course, keep up
their intimacy; but a slight acquaintance, and particularly one in
your position, will get harm by associating with her. This is simple
and obvious enough."
"If you knew for certain that she was blameless, you would speak in
the same way?"
"If it regarded you, I should. Not if Mrs. Lessingham were in
question."
"That is a distinction which repeats your distrust. We won't say any
more about it. I will bear in mind my want of experience, and in
future never act without consulting you."
She moved towards the door.
"You are coming?"
"Look here, Ciss, you are not so foolish as to misunderstand me.
When I said that I distrusted your discretion, I meant, of course,
that you might innocently do things which would make people talk
about you. There is no harm in reminding you of the danger."
"Perhaps not; though it would be more like yourself to scorn
people's talk."
"That is only possible if we chose to go back to our life of
solitude. I'm afraid it wouldn't suit you very well now."
"No; I am far too eager to see my name in fashionable lists. Has not
all my life pointed to that noble ambition?"
She regarded him with a smile from her distance, a smile that
trembled a little about her lips, and in which her clear eyes had
small part. Elgar, without replying, began to turn down the lamp.
"This is what has made you so absent and uneasy for the last week or
two?" Cecily added.
The lamp was extinguished
"Yes, it is," answered Elgar's voice in the darkness. "I don't like
the course things have been taking."
"Then you were quite right to speak plainly. Be at rest; you shall
have no more anxiety."
She opened the door, and they went upstairs together. In the bedroom
Cecily found her little boy sleeping quietly; she bent above him for
a few moments, and with soft fingers smoothed the coverlet.
There was no further conversation between them--except that Cecily
just mentioned the news her aunt had received from Mrs. Spence.
At breakfast they spoke of the usual subjects, in the usual way.
Elgar had his ride, amused himself in the library till luncheon,
lolled about the drawing-room whilst Cecily played, went to his
club, came back to dinner,--all in customary order. Neither look
nor word, from him or Cecily, made allusion to last night's
incident.
The next morning, when breakfast was over, he came behind his wife's
chair and pointed to an envelope she had opened.
"What strange writing! Whose is it?"
"From Mrs. Travis."
He moved away, and Cecily rose. As she was passing him, he said:
"What has she to say to you?"
"She acknowledges the letter I sent her yesterday morning, that's
all."
"You wrote--in the way you proposed?"
"Certainly."
He allowed her to pass without saying anything more.
CHAPTER III
GRADATION
During the first six months of her wedded life, Cecily wrote from
time to time in a handsomely-bound book which had a little silver
lock to it. She was then living at the seaside in Cornwall, and
Reuben occasionally went out for some hours with the fishers, or
took a long solitary ride inland, just to have the delight of
returning to his home after a semblance of separation; in his
absence, Cecily made a confidant of the clasped volume. On some of
its fair pages were verses, written when verse came to her more
easily than prose, but read not even to him who occasioned them. A
passage or two of the unrhymed thoughts, with long periods of
interval, will suggest the course of her mental history.
"I have no more doubts, and take shame to myself for those I ever
entertained. Presently I will confess to him how my mind was tossed
and troubled on that flight from Capri; I now feel able to do so,
and to make of the confession one more delight. It was impossible
for me not to be haunted by the fear that I had yielded to impulse,
and acted unworthily of one who could reflect. I had not a doubt of
my lover, but the foolish pride which is in a girl's heart whispered
to me that I had been too eager--had allowed myself to be won too
readily; that I should have been more precious to him if more
difficulty had been put in his way. Would it not have been good to
give him proof of constancy through long months of waiting? But the
secret was that I dreaded to lose him. I reproached him for want of
faith in my steadfastness; but just as well he might have reproached
me. It was horrible to think of his going back into the world and
living among people of whom I knew nothing. I knew in some degree
what his life had been; by force of passionate love I understood, or
thought I understood him; and I feared most ignobly.
"And I was putting myself in opposition to all those older and more
experienced people. How could I help distrusting myself at times? I
saw them all looking coldly and reproachfully at me. Here again my
pride had something to say. They would smile among themselves, and
tell each other that they had held a mistakenly high opinion of me.
That was hard to bear. I like to be thought much of; it is delicious
to feel that people respect me, that they apply other judgments to
me than to girls in general. Mr. Mallard hurt me more than he
thought in pretending--I feel sure he only pretended--to regard
my words as trivial. How it rejoices me that there are some things I
know better than my husband does! I have read of women liking to
humble themselves, and in a way I can understand it; I do like to
_say_ that he is far above me--oh! and I mean it, I believe it;
but the joy of joys is to see him look at me with admiration. I
rejoice that I have beauty; I rejoice that I have read much, and can
think for myself now and then, and sometimes say a thing 'that every
one would not think of. Suppose I were an uneducated girl, not
particularly good-looking, and a man loved me; well, in that case
perhaps the one joy would be mere worship of him and intense
gratitude--blind belief in his superiority to every other man that
lived. But then Reuben would never have loved me; he must have
something to admire, to stand a little in awe of. And for this very
reason, perhaps I feel such constant--self-esteem, for that is the
only word.". . .
"All the doubts and fears are over. I acted rightly, and because I
obeyed my passion. The poets are right, and all the prudent people
only grovel in their worldly wisdom. It may not be true for every
one, but for me to love and be loved, infinitely, with the love that
conquers everything, is the sole end of life. It is enough; come
what will, if love remain nothing else is missed. In the direst
poverty, we should be as much to each other as we are now. If he
died, I would live only to remember the days I passed with him. What
folly, what a crime, it would have been to waste two years, as
though we were immortal!
"I never think of Capri but I see it in the light of a magnificent
sunrise. Beloved, sacred island, where the morning of my life indeed
began! No spot in all the earth has beauty like yours; no name of
any place sounds to me as yours does!"
"I know that our life cannot always be what it is now. This is a
long honeymoon; we do not walk on the paths that are trodden by
ordinary mortals; the sky above us is not the same that others see
as they go about their day's business or pleasure. By what process
shall we fall to the common existence? We have all our wants
provided for; there is no need for my husband to work that he may
earn money, no need for me to take anxious thought about expenses;
so that we are tempted to believe that life will always be the same.
That cannot be; I am not so idle as to hope it.
"He certainly has powers which should be put to use. We have talked
much of things that he might possibly do, and I am sure that before
long his mind will hit the right path. I am so greedy of happiness
that even what we enjoy does not suffice me; I want my husband to
distinguish himself among men, that I may glory in his honour.
Yesterday he told me that my own abilities exceeded his, and that I
was more likely to make use of them; but in this case my ambition
takes a humble form. Even if I were sure that I could, say, write a
good book, I would infinitely prefer him to do it and receive the
reward of it. I like him to _say_ such things, but in fact he must
be more than I. Do I need a justification of the love I bear him?
Surely not; that would be a contradiction of love. But it is true
that I would gladly have him justify to others my belief in his
superiority.
"And yet--why not be content with what is well? If _he_ could
remain so; but will he? We have a long life before us, and I know
that it cannot be all honeymoon."
"I have been reading a French novel that has made me angry--in
spite of my better sense. Of course, it is not the first book of the
kind that I have read, but it comes home to me now. What right has
this author to say that no man was ever absolutely faithful? It is a
commonplace, but how can any one have evidence enough to justify
such a statement? I shall not speak of it to Reuben, for I don't
care to think long about it. Does that mean, I wonder, that I am
afraid to think of it?
"Well, f had rather have been taught to read and think about
everything, than be foolishly ignorant as so many women are. This
French author would laugh at my confidence, but I could laugh back
at his narrow cynicism. He knows nothing of love in its highest
sense. I am firm in my optimism, which has a very different base
from that of ignorance.
"This does not concern me; I won't occupy my mind with it; I won't
read any more of the cynics. My husband loves me, and I believe his
love incapable of receiving a soil. If ever I cease to believe that,
time enough then to be miserable and to fight out the problem."
The end of the six months found them still undecided as to where
they should fix a permanent abode. In no part of England had either
of them relatives or friends whose proximity would be of any value.
Cecily inclined towards London, feeling that there only would her
husband find incentives to exertion; but Reuben was more disposed to
settle somewhere on the Continent. He talked of going back to Italy,
living in Florence, and--writing something new about the
Renaissance. Cecily shook her head; Italy she loved, and she had
seen nothing of it north of Naples, but it was the land of
lotus-eaters. They would go there again, but not until life had
seriously shaped itself.
Whilst they talked and dreamed, decision came to them in the shape
of Mrs. Lessingham. Without warning, she one day presented herself
at their lodgings, having come direct from Paris. Her spirits were
delightful; she could not have behaved more graciously had this
marriage been the one desire of her life. The result of her private
talk with Cecily was that within a week all three travelled down to
London; there they remained for a fortnight, then went on to Paris.
Mrs. Lessingham's quarters were in Rue de Belle Chasse, and the
Elgars found a suitable dwelling in the same street.
Their child was born, and for a few months all questions were
postponed to that of its health and Cecily's. The infant gave a good
deal of trouble, was anything but robust; the mother did not regain
her strength speedily. The first three months of the new year were
spent at Bordighera; then came three months of Paris; then the
family returned to England (without Mrs. Lessingham), and
established themselves in the house in Belsize Park.
The immediate effect of paternity upon Elgar was amusing. His
self-importance visibly increased. He spoke with more gravity;
whatever step he took was seriously considered; if he read a
newspaper, it was with an air of sober reflection.
"This is the turning-point in his life," Cecily said to her aunt.
"He seems to me several years older; don't you notice it? I am quite
sure that as soon as things are in order again he will begin to
work."
And the prophecy seemed to find fulfilment. Not many days after
their taking possession of the English home, Reuben declared a
project that his mind had been forming. It was not, to be sure,
thoroughly fashioned; its limits must necessarily be indeterminate
until fixed by long and serious study; but what he had in view was
to write a history of the English mind in its relation to
Puritanism.
"I have a notion, Ciss, that this is the one thing into which I can
throw all my energies. The one need of my intellectual life is to
deal a savage blow at the influences which ruined all my early
years. You can't look at the matter quite as I do; you don't know
the fierce hatred with which I am moved when I look back. If I am to
do literary work at all, it must be on some subject which deeply
concerns me--me myself, as an individual. I feel sure that my bent
isn't to fiction; I am not objective enough. But I enjoy the study
of history, and I have a good deal of acuteness. If I'm not
mistaken, I can make a brilliant book, a book that will excite
hatred and make my name known."
They were sitting in the library, late at night. As usual when he
was stirred, Reuben paced up and down the room and gesticulated.
"Do you mean it to be a big book!" Cecily asked, after reflection.
"Not very big. I should have French models before me, rather than
English."
"It would take you a long time to prepare."
"Two or three years, perhaps. But what does that matter? I shall
work a good deal at the British Museum. It will oblige me to be away
from you a good deal, but--"
"You mustn't trouble about that. I have my own work. If your
mornings are regularly occupied, I shall be able to make flied plans
of study there are so many things I want to work at."
"Capital! It's high time we came to that. And then, you know, you
might be able to give me substantial help--reading, making notes,
and so on--if you cared to."
Cecily smiled.
"Yes, if I care to.--But hasn't the subject been dealt with
already?"
"Oh, of course, in all sorts of ways. But not in _my_ way. No man
ever wrote about it with such energy of hatred as I shall bring to
the task."
Cecily was musing.
"It won't be a history in the ordinary sense," she said. "You will
make no pretence of historic calm and impartiality."
"Not I, indeed! My book shall be cited as a splendid example of
_odium antitheologicum_. There are passages of eloquence rolling in
my mind! And this is just the time for such a work. Throughout
intellectual England, Puritanism is dead; but we know how vigorously
it survives among the half-educated classes. My book shall declare
the emancipation of all the better minds and be a help to those who
are struggling upwards. It will be a demand, also, for a new
literature, free from the absurd restraints that Puritanism has put
upon us. All the younger writers will rally about me. It shall be a
'movement.' The name of my book shall be a watchword."
They talked about it till one in the morning.
For several weeks Elgar was constantly at the Museum. He read
prodigiously; he brought home a great quantity of notes; every night
Cecily and he talked over his acquisitions, and excited themselves.
But the weather grew oppressively hot, and it was plain that they
could not carry out the project of remaining in town all through the
autumn. Already Reuben was languishing in his zeal, when little
Clarence had a sudden and alarming illness. As soon as possible, all
went off to the seaside.
Since his work had begun, Reuben's interest in the child had fallen
off. Its ailments were soon little more than an annoyance to him;
Cecily perceived this, and seldom spoke on the subject. The fact of
the sudden illness affording an opportunity for rest led him to
express more solicitude than he really felt, but when the child got
back into its normal state, Reuben was more plainly indifferent to
it than ever. He spoke impatiently if the mother's cares occupied
her when he wished for her society.
"A baby isn't a rational creature," he said once. "When he is old
enough to begin to be educated, that will be a different thing. At
present he is only a burden. Perhaps you think me an unfatherly
brute?"
"No; I can understand you quite well. I should very often be
impatient myself if I had no servants to help me."
"What a horrible thought! Suppose, Ciss, we all of a sudden lost
everything, and we had to go and live in a garret, and I had to get
work as a clerk at five-and-twenty shillings a week. How soon should
we hate the sight of each other, and the sound of each other's
voices?"
"It might come to that," replied Cecily, with half a smile.
"Perhaps."
"There's no doubt about it."
Cecily remembered something she had written in the book with the
silver lock--a book which had not been opened for a long time.
"I used to think nothing could bring that about. And I am not sure
yet."
"I should behave like a ruffian. I know myself well enough."
"I think that would kill my love in time."
"Of course it would. How can any one love what is not lovable?"
"Yet we hear," suggested Cecily, "of wretched women remaining
devoted to husbands who all but murder them now and then."
"You are not so foolish as to call _that_ love! That is mere
unreasoning and degraded habit--the same kind of thing one may
find in a dog."
"Has love anything to do with reason, Reuben?"
"As I understand it, it has everything to do with reason. Animal
passion has not, of course; but love is made of that with something
added. Can my reason discover any argument why I should not love
you? I won't say that it might not, some day, and then my love would
by so much be diminished."
"You believe that reason is free to exercise itself, where love is
in possession?"
"I believe that love can only come when reason invites. Of course,
we are talking of love between men and women; the word has so many
senses. In this highest sense, it is one of the rarest of things.
How many wives and husbands love each other? Not one pair in five
thousand. In the average pair that have lived together as long as we
have, there is not only mutual criticism, but something even of
mutual dislike. That makes love impossible. Habit takes its place."
"Happily for the world."
"I don't know. Perhaps so. It is an ignoble necessity; but then, the
world largely consists of ignoble creatures."
Cecily reflected often on this conversation. Was there any
significance in such reasonings? It gave her keen pleasure to hear
Reuben maintain such a view, but did it mean anything? If, in
meditating about him, she discovered characteristics of his which
she could have wished to change, which in themselves were certainly
not lovable, had she in that moment ceased to love him, in love's
highest sense?
But in that case love might be self-deception. In that case, perfect
love was impossible save as a result of perfect knowledge.
What part had reason in the impulses which possessed her from her
first meeting with Reuben in Italy, unless that name were given to
the working of mysterious affinities, afterwards to be justified by
experience?
Cecily had been long content to accept love as an ultimate fact of
her being. But it was not Reuben's arguments only that led her to
ponder its nature and find names for its qualities. By this time she
had become conscious that her love as a wife was somehow altered,
modified, since she had been a mother. The time of passionate
reveries was gone by. She no longer wrote verses. The book was
locked up and kept hidden; if ever she resumed her diary, it must be
in a new volume, for that other was sacred to an undivided love. It
would now have been mere idle phrasing, to say that Reuben was all
in all to her. And she could not think of this without some sadness.
To the average woman maternity is absorbing. Naturally so, for the
average woman is incapable of poetical passion, and only too glad to
find something that occupies her thoughts from morning to night, a
relief from the weariness of her unfruitful mind. It was not to he
expected that Cecily, because she had given birth to a child, should
of a sudden convert herself into a combination of wet and dry nurse,
after the common model. The mother's love was strong in her, but it
could not destroy, nor even keep in long abeyance, those
intellectual energies which characterized her. Had she been
constrained to occupy herself ceaselessly with the demands of
babyhood, something more than impatience would shortly have been
roused in her: she would have rebelled against the conditions of her
sex; the gentle melancholy with which she now looked back upon the
early days of marriage would have become a bitter protest against
her slavery to nature. These possibilities in the modern woman
correspond to that spirit in the modern man which is in revolt
against the law of labour. Picture Reuben Elgar reduced to the
necessity of toiling for daily bread--that is to say, brought down
from his pleasant heights of civilization to the dull plain where
nature tells a man that if he would eat he must first sweat at the
furrow; one hears his fierce objurgations, his haughty railing
against the gods. Cecily did not represent that extreme type of
woman to whom the bearing of children has become in itself
repugnant; but she was very far removed from that other type which
the world at large still makes its ideal of the feminine. With what
temper would she have heard the lady in her aunt's drawing-room, who
was of opinion that she should "stay at home and mind the baby"?
Education had made her an individual; she was nurtured into the
disease of thought This child of hers showed in the frail tenure on
which it held its breath how unfit the mother was for fulfilling her
natural functions. Both parents seemed in admirable health, yet
their offspring was a poor, delicate, nervous creature, formed for
exquisite sensibility to every evil of life. Cecily saw this, and
partly understood it; her heart was heavy through the long anxious
nights passed in watching by the cradle.
When they returned to London, Reuben at first made a pretence of
resuming his work. He went now and then to the reading-room, and at
home shut himself up in the study; but he no longer voluntarily
talked of his task. Cecily knew what had happened; the fatal lack of
perseverance had once more declared itself. For some weeks she
refrained from inviting his confidence, but of necessity they spoke
together at last. Reuben could no longer disguise the ennui under
which he was labouring. Instead of sitting in the library, he
loitered about the drawing-room; he was often absent through the
whole day, and Cecily knew that he had not been at the Museum.
"I'm at a stand-still," he admitted, when the opportunity came. "I
don't see my way so clearly as at first. I must take up some other
subject for a time, and rest my mind."
They had no society worth speaking of. Mrs. Lessingham had supplied
them with a few introductions, but these people were now out of
town. Earlier in the year neither of them had cared to be assiduous
in discharging social obligations, with the natural result that
little notice was taken of them in turn. Reuben had resumed two or
three of his old connections; a bachelor acquaintance now and then
came to dine; but this was not the kind of society they needed.
Impossible for them to utter the truth, and confess that each
other's companionship was no longer all-sufficient. Had Reuben been
veritably engaged in serious work, Cecily might have gone on for a
long time with her own studies before she wearied for lack of
variety and friendly voices; as it was, the situation became
impossible.
"Wouldn't you like to belong to a club?" she one day asked.
And Reuben caught at the suggestion. Not long ago, it would have
caused him to smile rather scornfully.
Cecily had lost her faith in the great militant book on Puritanism.
Thinking about it, when it had been quite out of her mind for a few
days, she saw the project in a light of such absurdity that, in
spite of herself, she laughed. It was laughter that pained her, like
a sob. No, that was not the kind of work for him. What was?
She would think rather of her child and its future. If Clarence
lived--if he lived--she herself would take charge of his
education for the first years. She must read the best books that had
been written on the training of children's minds; everything should
be smoothed for him by skilful methods. There could be little doubt
that he would prove a quick child, and the delight of watching his
progress! She imagined him a boy of ten, bright, trustful, happy; he
would have no nearer friend than his mother; between him and her
should exist limitless confidence. But a firm hand would be
necessary; he would exhibit traits inherited from his father--
Cecily remembered the day when she first knew that she did not wish
him to be altogether like his father. Perhaps in no other way could
she have come to so clear an understanding of Reuben's character--
at all events, of those parts of it which had as yet revealed
themselves in their wedded life. She thought of him with an
impartiality which had till of late been impossible. And then it
occurred to her: Had the same change come over his mind concerning
her? Did he feel secret dissatisfactions? If he had a daughter,
would he say to himself that in this and that he would wish her not
to resemble her mother?
About once in three months they received a letter from Miriam,
addressed always to Cecily. She was living still with the Spences,
and still in Italy. Her letters offered no explanation of this
singular fact; indeed, they threw as little light as was possible on
the state of her mind, so brief were they, and so closely confined
to statements of events. Still, it was clear that Miriam no longer
shrank from the study of profane things. Of Bartles she never spoke.
Mrs. Spence also wrote to Cecily, the kind of letter to be expected
from her, delightful in the reading and pleasant in the memory. But
she said nothing significant concerning Miriam.
"Would they welcome us, if we went to see them?" Cecily asked, one
cheerless day this winter--it was Clarence's birthday.
"You can't take the child," answered Reuben, with some discontent.
"No; I should not dare to. And it is just as impossible to leave him
with any one. In another year, perhaps."
Mrs. Lessingham occasionally mentioned Miriam in her letters, and
always with a jest. "I strongly suspect she is studying Greek. Is
she, perchance, the author of that delightful paper on 'Modern
Paganism,' in the current _Fortnightly_? Something strange awaits
us, be sure of that."
The winter dragged to its end, and with the spring came Mrs.
Lessingham herself. Instantly the life of the Elgars underwent a
complete change. The vivacious lady from Paris saw in the twinkling
of an eye how matters stood; she considered the situation perilous,
and set to work most efficaciously to alter it. With what result,
you are aware. The first incident of any importance in the new life
was that which has already been related, yet something happened one
day at the Academy of which it is worth while speaking.
Cecily had looked in her catalogue for the name of a certain artist,
and had found it; he exhibited one picture only. Walking on through
the rooms with her husband, she came at length to the number she had
in mind, and paused before it.
"Whose is that?" Reuben inquired, looking at the same picture.
"Mr. Mallard's," she answered, with a smile, meeting his eyes.
"Old Mallard's? Really? I was wondering whether he had anything this
year."
He seemed to receive the information with genuine pleasure. A little
to Cecily's surprise, for the name was never mentioned between them,
and she had felt uneasy in uttering it. The picture was a piece of
coast-scenery in Norway, very grand, cold, desolate; not at all
likely to hold the gaze of Academy visitors, but significant enough
for the few who see with the imagination.
"Nobody looks at it, you notice," said Elgar, when they had stood on
the spot for five minutes.
"Nobody."
Yet as soon as they had spoken, an old and a young lady came in
front of them, and they heard the young lady say, as she pointed to
Mallard's canvas:
"Where is that, mamma?"
"Oh, Land's End, or some such place," was the careless reply. "_Do_
just look at that _sweet_ little creature playing with the dog! Look
at its collar! And that ribbon!"
Reuben turned away and muttered contemptuous epithets; Cecily cast a
haughty and angry glance at the speaker. They passed on, and for the
present spoke no more of Mallard; but Cecily thought of him, and
would have liked to return to the picture before leaving. There was
a man who _did_ something, and something worth the doing. Reuben
must have had a thought not unlike this, for he said, later in the
same day:
"I am sorry I never took up painting. I believe I could have made
something of it. To a certain extent, you see, it is a handicraft
that any man may learn; if one can handle the tools, there's always
the incentive to work and produce. By-the-bye, why do you never draw
nowadays?"
"I hold the opinion of Miss Denyer--I wonder what's become of her,
poor girl?--that it's no use 'pottering.' Strange how a casual
word can affect one. I've never cared to draw since she spoke of my
'pottering.'"
This day was the last on which Reuben was quite his wonted self.
Cecily, who was not studying him closely just now, did not for a
while observe any change, but in the end it forced itself upon her
attention. She said nothing, thinking it not impossible that he was
again dissatisfied with the fruitlessness of his life, and had been
made to feel it more strongly by associating with so many new
people. Any sign of that kind was still grateful to her.
She knew now how amiss was her interpretation. The truth she could
not accept as she would have done a year ago; it would then have
seemed more than pardonable, as proving that Reuben's love of her
could drive him into grotesque inconsistencies. But now she only
felt it an injury, and in sitting down to write her painful letter
to Mrs. Travis, she acted for the first time in deliberate
resentment of her husband's conduct.
When the reply from Mrs. Travis instructed him in what had been
done, Reuben left the house, and did not return till late at night.
Cecily stayed at home, idle. Visitors called in the afternoon, but
she received no one. After her solitary dinner, she spent weary
hours, now in one room, now in another, unable to occupy herself in
any way. At eleven o'clock she went down to the library, resolving
to wait there for Reuben's return.
She heard him enter, and heard the servant speaking with him. He
came into the room, closed the door, sauntered forwards, his hands
in his pockets.
"Why didn't you tell me you would be away all day?" Cecily asked,
without stress of remonstrance.
"I didn't know that I should be."
He took his favourite position on the corner of the table Examining
him, Cecily saw that his face expressed ennui rather than active
displeasure; there was a little sullenness about his lips, but the
knitting of his brows was not of the kind that threatens tempest.
"Where have you been, dear?"
"At the Museum, the club, and a music-hall."
"A music-hall?" she repeated, in surprise.
"Why not? I had to get through the time somehow. I was in a surly
temper; if I'd come home sooner, I should have raged at you. Don't
say anything to irritate me, Ciss; I'm not quite sure of myself yet"
"But I think the raging would have been preferable; I've had the
dreariest day I ever spent"
"I suppose some one or other called?"
"Yes, but I didn't see them. You have made me very uncertain of howl
ought to behave. I thought it better to keep to myself till we had
come to a clearer understanding."
"That is perversity, you know. And it was perversity that led you to
write in such a way to Mrs. Travis."
"You are quite right. But the provocation was great. And after all I
don't see that there is much difference between writing to her that
she mustn't come, and giving directions to a servant that she isn't
to be admitted."
"You said in the letter that _I_ had forbidden it?"
"Yes, I did."
"And so made me ridiculous!" he exclaimed petulantly.
"My dear, you _were_ ridiculous. It's better that you should see it
plainly."
"The letter will be shown to all sorts of people. Your aunt will see
it, of course. You are ingenious in revenging yourself."
Cecily bent her head, and could not trust herself to speak. All day
she had been thinking of this, and had repented of her foolish
haste. Yet confession of error was impossible in her present mood.
"As you make such a parade of obedience," he continued, with
increasing anger, "I should think it would be better to obey
honestly. I never said that I wished you to break with her in this
fashion."
"Anything else would be contemptible. I can't subdue myself to
that."
"Very well; then to be logical you must give up society altogether.
It demands no end of contemptible things."
"Will you explain to me why you think that letter will make you
ridiculous?"
Reuben hesitated.
"Is it ridiculous," she added, "for a man to forbid his wife to
associate with a woman of doubtful character?"
"I told you distinctly that I had no definite charge to bring
against her. Caution would have been reasonable enough, but to act
as you have represented me is sheer Philistinism."
"Precisely. And it _was_ Philistinism in you to take the matter as
you did. Be frank with me. Why should you wish to have a name for
liberal thinking among your acquaintances, and yet behave in private
like the most narrow of men?"
"That is your misrepresentation. Of course, if you refuse to
understand me--"
He broke off, and went to another part of the room.
"Shall I tell you what all this means, Reuben?" said Cecily, turning
towards him. "We have lived so long in solitude, that the common
circumstances of society are strange and disturbing to us. Solitary
people are theoretical people. You would never have thought of
forbidding me to read such and such a book, on the ground that it
took me into doubtful company; the suggestion of such intolerance
would have made you laugh scornfully. You have become an idealist of
a curious kind; you like to think of me as an emancipated woman, and
yet, when I have the opportunity of making my independence
practical, you show yourself alarmed. I am not sure that I
understand you entirely; I should be very sorry to explain your
words of the other night in the sense they would bear on the lips of
an ordinary man. Can't you help me out of this difficulty?"
Reuben was reflecting, and had no reply ready.
"If there is to be all this difference between theory and practice,"
Cecily continued, "it must either mean that you think otherwise than
you speak, or else that I have shown myself in some way very
untrustworthy. You say you have been angry with me; I have felt both
angry and deeply hurt. Suppose you had known certainly that Mrs.
Travis was not an honourable woman, even then it was wrong to speak
to me as you did. Even then it would have been inconsistent to
forbid me to see her. You put yourself and me on different levels.
You make me your inferior--morally your inferior. What should you
say if I began to warn you against one or other of the men you
know--if I put on a stern face, and told you that your morals were in
danger?"
"Pooh! what harm can a man take?"
"And pray what harm can a woman take, if her name happens to be
Cecily Elgar?"
She drew herself up, and stood regarding him with superb
self-confidence.
"Without meaning it, you insult me, Reuben. You treat me as a vulgar
husband treats a vulgar wife. What harm to me do you imagine? Don't
let us deal in silly evasions and roundabout phrases. Do you
distrust my honour? Do you think I can be degraded by association?
What woman living has power to make me untrue to myself?"
"You are getting rhetorical, Cecily. Then at this rate I should
_never_ be justified in interfering?"
"In interfering with mere command, never."
"Not if I saw you going to destruction?"
She smiled haughtily.
"When it comes to that, we'll discuss the question anew. But I see
that you think it possible. Evidently I have given proof of some
dangerous weakness. Tell me what it is, and I shall understand you
better."
"I'm afraid all this talk leads to nothing. You claim an
independence which will make it very difficult for us to live on the
old terms."
"I claim nothing more than your own theories have always granted."
"Then practice shows that the theories are untenable, as in many
another case."
"You refuse me the right to think for myself."
"In some things, yes. Because, as I said before, you haven't
experience enough to go upon."
Cecily cast down her eyes. She forced herself to keep silence until
that rush of indignant rebellion had gone by. Reuben looked at her
askance.
"If you still loved me as you once did," he said, in a lower voice,
"this would be no hardship. Indeed, I should never have had to utter
such words."
"I still do love you," she answered, very quietly. "If I did not, I
should revolt against your claim. But it is too certain that we no
longer live on the old terms."
They avoided each other's eyes, and after a long silence left the
room without again speaking.
CHAPTER IV
THE DENYERS IN ENGLAND
"There!" said Mrs. Denyer, laying money on the table. "There are
your wages, up to the end of April--notwithstanding your
impertinence to me this morning, you see. Once more I forgive you.
And new get on with your work, and let us have no more
unpleasantness."
It was in the back parlour of a small house at Hampstead, a room
scantily furnished and not remarkably clean. Mrs. Denyer sat at the
table, some loose papers before her. She was in mourning, but still
fresh of complexion, and a trifle stouter than when she lived at
Naples, two years and a half ago. Her words were addressed to a
domestic (most plainly, of all work), who without ceremony gathered
the coins up in both her hands, counted them, and then said with
decision:
"Now I'm goin', mum."
"Going? Indeed you are not, my girl! You don't leave this house
without the due notice."
"Notice or no notice, I'm a-goin'," said the other, firmly. "I never
thought to a' got even this much, an' now I've got it, I'm a-goin'.
It's wore me out, has this 'ouse; what with--"
The conflict lasted for a good quarter of an hour, but the domestic
was to be shaken neither with threats nor prayers. Resolutely did
she ascend to her bedroom, promptly did she pack her box. Almost
before Mrs. Denyer could realize the disaster that had befallen, her
house was servantless.
She again sat in the back parlour, gazing blankly at the table, when
there came the sound of the house-door opening, followed by a light
tread in the passage.
"Barbara!" called Mrs. Denyer.
Barbara presented herself. She also wore mourning, genteel but
inexpensive. Her prettiness endured, but she was pale, and had a
chronic look of discontent.
"Well, now, what do you think has happened? Shut the door. I paid
Charlotte the wages, and the very first thing she did was to pack
and go!"
"And you mean to say you let her? Why, you must be crazy!"
"Don't speak to me in that way!" cried her mother, hotly. "How could
I prevent her, when she was determined? I did my utmost, but nothing
could induce her to stay. Was ever anything so distracting? The very
day after letting our rooms! How are we to manage?"
"I shall have nothing to do with it. The girl wouldn't have gone if
I'd been here. You must manage how you can."
"It's no use talking like that, Barbara. You're bound to wait upon
Mrs. Travis until we get another girl."
"I?" exclaimed her daughter. "Wait on her yourself! I certainly
shall do nothing of the kind."
"You're a bad, cruel, undutiful girl!" cried Mrs. Denyer, her face
on fire. "Nether of your sisters ever treated me as you do. You're
the only one of the family that has never given the least help, and
you're the only one that day by day insults me and behaves with
heartless selfishness! I'm to wait on the lodger myself, am I? Very
well! I will do so, and see if anything in the world will shame you.
She shall know _why_ I wait on her, be sure of that!"
Barbara swept out of the room, and ascended the stairs to the second
floor. Here again she heard her name called, in a soft voice and
interrogatively in reply, she entered a small bedroom, saying
impatiently:
"What is it, Mad?"
It was seen at the first glance that this had long been a
sick-chamber. The arrangement of the furniture, the
medicine-bottles, the appliances for the use of one who cannot rise
from bed, all told their story. The air had a peculiar scent; an
unnatural stillness seemed to pervade it. Against the raised white
pillow showed a face hardly less white.
"Isn't it provoking, Barbara?" said the invalid, without moving in
the least. "Whatever shall you do?"
"As best we can, I suppose. I've to turn cook and housemaid and
parlour-maid, now. Scullery-maid too. I suppose I shall clean the
steps to-morrow morning."
"Oh, but you must go to the registry-office the very first thing.
Don't upset yourself about it. If you can just manage to get that
lady's dinner."
"It's all very well for you to talk! How would _you_ like to _wait_
on people, like a girl in a restaurant?"
"Ah, if only I could!" replied Madeline, with a little laugh that
was heart-breaking. "If only I could!"
In a month it would be two years since Madeline stood and walked
like other people; live as long as she might, she would never rise
from her bed. It came about in this way. Whilst the Denyers were
living in the second-class hotel at Southampton, and when Mr. Denyer
had been gone to Vera Cruz some five months, a little ramble was
taken one day in a part of the New Forest. Madeline was in
particularly good spirits; she had succeeded in getting an
engagement to teach some children, and her work was to begin the
next day. In a frolic she set herself to jump over a fallen tree;
her feet slipped on the dry grass beyond, and she fell with her back
upon the trunk.
This was pleasant news to send to her father! With him things were
going as well as he had anticipated, and before long he was able to
make substantial remittances, but his letters were profoundly sad.
In a year's time, the family quitted Southampton and took the house
at Hampstead; with much expense and difficulty Madeline was removed.
Mrs. Denyer and Barbara were weary of provincial life, and
considered nothing in their resolve to be within reach of London
amusements. Zillah was living as governess with a family in
Yorkshire.
They had been settled at Hampstead three weeks, when information
reached them that Mr. Denyer was dead of yellow fever.
On the day when this news came, the house received no less important
a visitor than Mr. Musselwhite. Long ago, Mrs. Denyer had written to
him from Southampton, addressing her letter to the club in London of
which he had spoken; she had received a prompt reply, dated from
rooms in London, and thenceforth the correspondence was established.
But Mr. Musselwhite never spoke of coming to Southampton; his
letters ended with "Sincere regards to Miss Denyer and the other
young ladies," but they contained nothing that was more to the
point. He wrote about the weather chiefly. Arrived in London, Mrs.
Denyer at once sent an invitation, and to her annoyance this
remained unanswered. To-day the explanation was forthcoming; Mr.
Musselwhite had been on a journey, and by some mistake the letter
had only come into his hands when he returned. He was most
gentlemanly in his expressions of condolement with the family in
their distress; he sat with them, moreover, much longer than was
permissible under the circumstances by the code of society. And on
going, he begged to be allowed to see them frequently--that was
all.
Barbara could not control herself for irritation; Mrs. Denyer was
indignant. Yet, after all, was it to be expected that the 
The Emancipated / Gissing, George, 1857-1903