The Emancipated / Gissing, George, 1857-1903

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Title: The Emancipated

Author: George Gissing

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

George Gissing

The Emancipated





PART I





CHAPTER I

NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They have arrived!"

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

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

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

"Shall I come?"

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

"I will come in a moment."

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

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

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

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

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

"Much, thank you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How's that ?" inquired Spence.

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

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

"By no means."

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

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

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

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

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

"I had seen her photograph, you know."

"Where?"

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

"What is Elgar doing at present?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She looks ill."

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

Mallard regarded the speaker with humorous wonder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It enrages me to talk of the matter."

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

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

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

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

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

"She admits that."

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

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

Mallard made a pause before answering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spence interrupted him with a burst of laughter.

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

Mallard, in his turn, interrupted gruffly.

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

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

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

"On what account?"

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

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

"Yes; there is no denying her beauty."

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

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

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

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

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

"There is a medium."

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER II

CECILY DORAN




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Surely not," said Eleanor, gracefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miriam smiled and shook her head.

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

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

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

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

Cecily laughed with a moved playfulness.

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

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

"Have you heard of late from Reuben?"

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

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

"I never knew."

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

"A good deal. He dined with us."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cecily laughed.

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

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

"Yes; it is time."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I half understand our friend Mallard."

"So do I, Ned."

They looked at each other and smiled significantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, Mallard, to be sure."

Mrs. Bradshaw looked at her hostess and smiled knowingly.

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

"Yes, I did."

Jacob broke the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well?"

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

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

"A good deal of it comes in."

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

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

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

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

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

"Very zealously."

"Nay--!"

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

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

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





CHAPTER III

THE BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, I hoped it was Barbara."

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

"Don't trouble."

"No trouble at all."

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

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

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

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

"Why no right?"

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

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

Without otherwise moving, he put his arm about her.

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

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

Madeline wrinkled her brows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I understand."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No doubt--as it turns out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come here, Clifford."

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

"Do you believe in yourself?"

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

"Do you believe in yourself, Clifford?"

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

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

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

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

"I wondered whether you could suggest any."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I will."

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

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

"I will bear it in mind."

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Denyer stared.

"You've broken off?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Wolf!" cried Barbara, petulantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER IV

MIRIAM'S BROTHER




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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, my dear girl, the chapel!"

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

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

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

"The 'Inferno.' Why, yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he waiting?"

"Yes, ma'am."

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

"I will see him in this room."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am better."

He came nearer again, throwing his hat aside.

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

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

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

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

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

Reuben laughed dispiritedly.

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You purpose remaining with them all the winter?"

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

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

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

"You mean to stay in Naples?"

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

"When did you last see Mr. Mallard?"

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

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

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

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

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

"He is in Naples at present."

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

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

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

"No," Miriam replied distantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were the first to do so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How?"

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

"I had no influence for good."

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

"Did I not care, Reuben?"

"If so, you thought it was your