The Emancipated

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

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

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

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

Clifford smiled calmly.

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

Jacob roared as he related this conversation to his wife.

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

CHAPTER VIII

PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION

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

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

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

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

"What is your system with her?"

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

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

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

"I think so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eleanor did not at once assent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly. You are just back from Pompeii?"

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

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

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

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

"How long do you think of staying there?"

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

"But surely that depends on yourself."

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

Miriam reflected.

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

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

"He is working himself?"

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

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

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

"I can't say."

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

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

"Why on earth not?"

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

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

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

"Do play me something, will you, Mrs. Spence?" he asked at length.
(His cousinship with Eleanor had never been affirmed by intimate
association, and he had not the habit of addressing her by the
personal name.) "Just for ten minutes; then I'll be off and trouble
you no more. Something to invigorate! A rugged piece!"

Eleanor made a choice from Beethoven, and, whilst she played, Elgar
leant forward on the back of a chair. Then he bade them good-bye,
his pulse at fever-time.

Half-past ten next morning found him walking hither and thither on
the Mergellina, frequently consulting his watch. He decided at
length to approach the house in which his acquaintances dwelt.
Passing through the _portone_, whom should he encounter but Clifford
Marsh, known to him only from the casual meeting at Pompeii, not by
name. They stopped to speak. Elgar inquired if the other lived at
Mrs. Gluck's.

"For the present."

"I have friends here," Reuben added. "You know Mrs. Lessingham?"

"Oh yes," replied Clifford, eyeing his collocutor. "If you are
calling to see those ladies," he continued, "they went out half an
hour ago. I saw them drive away."

Elgar muttered his annoyance. Though he disliked doing so, he asked
Marsh whether he knew when the ladies were likely to return.
Clifford declared his ignorance. The two looked at each other,
smiled, said good morning, and turned different ways.

Reuben walked about the sea-front for a couple of hours. "Who is
that confounded fellow?" he kept asking in his mind, adding the
highly ludicrous question, "What business has he to know them?" His
impatience waxed; now and then he strode at such a pace that
perspiration covered him. The most trivial discomposure had often
much the same effect on him; if he happened to have a difficulty in
finding his way, for instance, he would fume himself into
exasperated heat.

"What business have they to live in a vulgar boarding house? It's
abominable bad taste and indiscretion in that woman. In fact, I
don't like Mrs. Lessingham.--And what the devil has it to do with
me?"

He strode up to the villa. Possibly they were there; yet he didn't
like to call--for various reasons. He fretted about the roads,
this way and that, till hunger oppressed him. Having eaten at the
first restaurant he came to, he directed his steps towards the
Mergellina again. At two o'clock he reached the house and made
inquiry. The ladies had not yet returned.

He struck off towards the Chiaia, again paced backwards and
forwards, cursed at carriage-drivers who plagued him, tried to amuse
himself on the Santa Lucia. And pray what was all this fuss about?
When he rose this morning, he had half a mind to start at once for
Amalfi, and not see Mrs. Lessingham and her niece at all; he "didn't
know that be cared much." He had met Cecily Doran twice. The second
time was on the Strada Nuova di Posillipo, where he encountered a
carriage in which Cecily and her aunt were taking the air; he talked
with them for three minutes. It was the undeniable fact that he had
broken away from "old Mallard" merely to see Cecily again. He had
never tried to blind himself to it; that kind of thing was not in
his way. None the less was it a truth that he thought himself
capable of saying good-bye to the wonderful girl, and posting off to
his literary work. Why expose himself to temptation? Because he
chose to; because it was pleasant; surely an excellent reason.

If only he hadn't come up against that confounded artist-fellow!
That had upset him, most absurdly. A half good-looking sort of
fellow: a fellow who could prate with a certain _brio_; not unlikely
to make something of a figure in the eyes of a girl like Cecily. And
what then?

Before now, Elgar had confessed to a friend that he couldn't read
the marriage-column in a newspaper without feeling a distinct
jealousy of all the male creatures there mentioned.

He sought out a _caffe_, and sat there for an hour, drinking a
liquor that called itself lacryma-Christi, but would at once have
been detected for a pretender by a learned palate. He drank it for
the first time, and tried to enjoy it, but his mind kept straying to
alien things. When it was nearly four o'clock, he again went forth,
took a carriage, and bade the man drive quickly.

This time he was successful. A servant conducted him by many stairs
and passages to Mrs. Lessingham's sitting-room. He entered, and
found himself alone with Cecily.

"Mrs. Lessingham will certainly be back very soon," she said, in
shaking hands with him. "They told me you had called before, and I
thought you would like better to wait a few minutes than to be
disappointed again."

"I think of going to Amalfi to-morrow morning, perhaps for a long
time," remarked the visitor. "I wished to say good bye."

The accumulated impatience and nervousness of the whole morning
disturbed his pulses and put a weight upon his tongue; he spoke with
awkward indecision, held himself awkwardly. His own voice sounded
boorish to him after Cecily's accents.

Cecily began to speak of how she had spent the day. Her aunt was
making purchases--was later in returning than had been expected.
Then she asked for an account of Elgar's doings since they last met.
The conversation grew easier Reuben began to recover his natural
voice, and to lose disagreeable self-consciousness in the delight of
hearing Cecily and meeting her look. Had he known her better, he
would have observed that she spoke with unusual diffidence, that she
was not quite so self-possessed a. of wont, and that her manner was
deficient in the frank gaiety which as a rule made its great charm.
Her tone softened itself in questioning; she listened so attentively
that, when he had ceased speaking, her eyes always rose to his, as
if she had expected something further.

"Who is the young artist that lives here?" Elgar inquired. "I met
him at Pompeii, and to-day came upon him here in the courtyard. A
slight, rather boyish fellow."

"I think you mean Mr. Marsh," replied Cecily, smiling. "He has
recently been at Pompeii, I know."

"You are on friendly terms with him?"

"Not on _un_friendly," she answered, with amusement.

Elgar averted his face. Instantly the flow of his blood was again
turbid; he felt an inclination to fling out some ill-mannered
remark.

"You must come in contact with all kinds of odd people in a place
like this."

"One or two are certainly odd," was the reply, in a gentle tone;
"but most of them are very pleasant to be with occasionally.
Naturally we see more of the Bradshaws than of any one else. There's
a family named Denyer--a lady with three daughters; I don't think
you would dislike them. Mr. Marsh is their intimate friend."

It was all but as though she pleaded against a mistaken judgment
which troubled her. To Mallard she had spoken of her fellow-boarders
in quite a different way, with merry though kindly criticism, or in
the strain of generous idealization which so often marked her
language.

"Do you know anything of his work?" Elgar pursued.

"I have seen a few of his water-colour drawings."

"He showed you them?"

"No; one of the Miss Denyers did. He had given them to her"

"Oh!" He at once brightened. "And how did they strike you?"

"I'm sorry to say they didn't interest me much. But I have no right
to sit in judgment."

Elgar had the good taste to say nothing more on the subject. He let
his eyes rest on her down-turned face for a moment.

"You see a good deal of Miriam, I'm glad to hear."

"I am sometimes afraid I trouble her by going too often."

"Have no such fear. I wish you were living under the same roof with
her. No one's society could do her so much good as yours. The poor
girl has too long been in need of such an aid to rational
cheerfulness."

They were interrupted by the entrance of an English maidservant, who
asked whether Miss Doran would have tea brought at once, or wait
till Mrs. Lessingham's return.

"You see how English we are," said Cecily to her visitor. "I think
we'll have it now; Mrs. Lessingham may be hero any moment."

It was growing dusk. Whilst the conversation was diverted by
trifles, two lighted lamps were brought into the room. Elgar had
risen and gone to the window.

"We won't shut out the evening sky," said Cecily, standing not far
from him.

The door closed upon the servant who had carried in the tea-tray.
Elgar turned to his companion, and said in a musing tone, with a
smile:

"How long is it since we saw each other every day in Manchester?"

"Seven years since that short time you spent with us."

"Seven; yes. You were not twelve then; I was not quite twenty-one.
As regards change, a lifetime might have passed since, with both of
us. Yet I don't feel very old, not oppressively ancient."

"And I'm sure I don't."

They laughed together.

"You are younger than you were then," he continued, in his most
characteristic voice, the voice which was musical and alluring, and
suggestive of his nature's passionate depths and heights. "You have
grown into health of body and soul, and out of all the evil things
that would have robbed you of natural happiness. Nothing ever made
me more glad than first seeing you at the villa. I didn't know what
you had become, and in looking at you I rejoiced on your account.
You would gladden even miserable old age, like sunlight on a morning
of spring."

Cecily moved towards the tea-table in silence. She began to fill one
of the cups, but put the teapot down again and waited for a moment.
Having resumed her purpose, she looked round and saw Elgar seated
sideways on a chair by the window. With the cup of tea in her hand,
she approached him and offered it without speaking. He rose quickly
to take it, and went to another part of the room.

"I hope Miriam will stay here the whole winter," Cecily said, as she
seated herself by the table.

"I hope so," he assented absently, putting his tea aside. "How long
are you and Mrs. Lessingham likely to stay?"

"At least till February, I think."

"Shall you get as far as Amalfi some day?"

"Oh yes And Miriam will come with us, I hope. And to Capri too."

"I must see Capri. I shouldn't wonder if I go there soon; probably
it would suit my purpose better than Amalfi. Yet I must be alone, if
I am to work. I haven't Mallard's detachment. That seems to you a
paltry confession of weakness."

"No, indeed. I am told that Mr. Mallard is quite exceptional in his
power of disregarding everything but his work."

"Exceptional in many things, no doubt. I must seem very
insignificant in comparison."

"Why should you? Mr. Mallard is so much older; he has long been
fixed in his course."

"Older, yes," assented Elgar, with satisfaction." Perhaps at his age
I too may have done something worth doing."

"Who could doubt it?"

"It does me good to hear you say that!"

He moved from his distant place, and threw himself in one of his
usual careless attitudes on a nearer chair. "But Miriam has no faith
in me, not a jot Does she speak harshly of me to you?"

"No."

Cecily shook her head, and seemed unable to speak more than the
monosyllable.

"But she has nothing encouraging to say? She shows that she looks
upon me as one of whom no good can come? That is the impression you
have received from her?"

Cecily looked at him gravely.

"She has scarcely spoken of you at all--scarcely more than the few
words that were inevitable."

"In itself a condemnation."

Cecily was mute. Before Elgar could say anything more, the door
opened. With a sudden radiance on her features, the girl looked up
to greet Mrs. Lessingham's entrance.

"How long you have been, aunt!"

"Yes; I am sorry. How do you do, Mr. Elgar? Tea, Cecily, lest I
perish!"

From the doorway her quick glance had scrutinized both the young
people. Of course she betrayed no surprise; neither did she make
exhibition of pleasure. Her greeting of the visitor was gracefully
casual, given in passing. She sank upon a low chair as if overcome
with weariness. Mrs. Lessingham had nothing to learn in the arts
wherewith social intercourse is kept smooth in spite of nature's
improprieties. When she chose, she could be the awe-inspiring
chaperon, no less completely than she was at other times the
contemner of the commonplace.

"So you leave us to-morrow, Mr. Elgar? I have just met Mr. Spence,
and heard the news from him. I am glad you could find a moment to
call. You are going to be very busy, I hear, for the rest of the
winter."

"I hope so," Elgar replied, walking across the room to fetch his
half-emptied teacup.

"We shall look eagerly for the results of your work."

For ten minutes the conversation kept a rather flat course. Cecily
only spoke when addressed by her aunt; then quite in her usual way.
Elgar took the first opportunity to signal departure. When Cecily
gave him her hand, it was with a moment's unfaltering look--a look
very different from that which charmed everyday acquaintances at
their coming and going, unlike anything man or woman had yet seen on
her countenance. The faintest smile hovered about her lips as she
said, "Good-bye;" her steadfast eyes added the hope which there was
no need to speak.

When he was gone, Mrs. Lessingham sipped her tea in silence. Cecily
moved about and presently brought a book to her chair by the
tea-table.

"No doubt you had the advantage of hearing Mr. Elgar's projects
detailed," said her aunt, with irony which presumed a complete
understanding between them.

"No." Cecily shook her head and smiled.

"Curious how closely he and Mr. Marsh resemble each other at times."

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