The Emancipated

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"Do you think so?"

"Haven't you noticed it? There are differences, of course. Mr. Elgar
is originally much better endowed; though at present I should think
he is even less to be depended upon, either intellectually or
morally. But they belong to the same species. What numbers of such
young men I have met!"

"What are the characteristics of the species, aunt?" Cecily
inquired, with a pleasant laugh.

"I dare say you know them almost as well as I do. You might write an
essay on 'The Young Man of Promise' of our day. I should be rather
too severe; you would treat them with a lighter hand, and therefore
more effectually."

In speaking, she kept her eyes on the girl, who appeared to muse the
subject with sportful malice.

"I am not sure," said Cecily, "that Mr. Elgar would come into the
essay."

"You mean that his promise is too obviously delusive?"

"Not exactly that. I rather think he should have an essay to
himself."

"Of what tendency?" asked Mrs. Lessingham, still closely observant.

"Oh, it would need much meditation; but I think I could make it
interesting."

With another laugh, she dismissed the subject; nor did her aunt
endeavour to revive it.

The morrow was Sunday. Elgar knew at what time his tram left for
Salerno; the time-table was the same as for other days. Yet he lay
in bed till nearly noon, till the train had long since started. No,
he should not go to-day.

It irked him to rise at all. He had not slept; his head was hot, and
his hands shook nervously. Dressed, he sat down for a minute, and
remained seated half an hour, gazing at the wall. When at length he
left the house, he walked without seeing anything, stumbling against
things and people.

Of course, he knew last night that there was no journey for him
to-day. Promise? A promise is void when its fulfilment has become
impossible. Very likely Mallard had a conviction that he would not
come back at the appointed time. To-morrow, perhaps; and perhaps not
even to-morrow It had got beyond his control.

He ate, and returned to his room. Just now his need was physical
repose, undisturbed indulgence of reverie. And the reverie of a man
in his condition is a singular process. It consists of a small
number of memories, forecasts, Imaginings, repeated over and over
again, till one would think the brain must weary itself beyond
endurance. It can go on for many hours consecutively, and not only
remain a sufficient and pleasurable employment, but render every
other business repulsive, all but impossible.

At evening there came a change. He was now unable to keep still; he
went into the town, and exhausted himself with. walking up and down
the hilly streets. Society would have helped him, but he could find
none. He would not go to the villa; still less could he visit the
boarding-house.

What a night! At times he moved about his room like one in frantic
pain, finally flinging himself upon the bed and lying there till the
impulse of his fevered mind broke the beginnings of sleep. Or he
walked the length of the floor, with measured step, fifty times,
counting each time he turned--a sort of conscious insanity. Or he
took his pocket-knife, and drove the point into the flesh of his
arm, satisfied when the pang became intolerable. Then again a loss
of all control in mere frenzy, the desire to shout, to yell. . . .

Elgar was out of the house at sunrise. He went down to the Chiaia,
loitered this way and that, always in the end facing towards
Posillipo. He drank his coffee, but ate nothing; then again walked
along the sea-front. Between nine and ten he turned into the upward
road, and went with purpose towards Villa Sannazaro.

CHAPTER IX

IN THE DEAD CITY

Through it was Sunday, Cecily resolved to go and spend the afternoon
with Miriam. She was restless, and could not take pleasure in Mrs.
Lessingham's conversation. Possibly her arrival at the villa would
be anything but welcome; but she must see Miriam.

She drove up by herself, and first of all saw the Spences. From them
she learnt that Miriam, as usual on Sunday, was keeping her own
room.

"Do you think I may venture, Mrs. Spence?"

"Go and announce yourself, my dear. If you are bidden avaunt, come
back and cheer us old people with your brightness."

So Cecily went with light step along the corridor, and with light
fingers tapped at Miriam's room. The familiar voice bade her enter.
Miriam was sitting near the window, on her lap a closed book.

"May I--?"

"Of course you may," was the quiet answer.

Cecily closed the door, came forward, and bent to kiss her friend.
Then she glanced at the "St. Cecilia;" then examined herself for a
moment in one of the mirrors; then took off her hat, mantle, and
gloves.

"I want to stay as long as your patience will suffer me."

"Do so."

"You avoid saying how long that is likely to be."

"How can I tell?"

"Oh, you have experience of me. You know how trying you find me in
certain moods. To-day I am in a very strange mood indeed; very
malicious, very wicked. And it is Sunday."

Miriam did not seem to resent this. She looked away at the window,
but smiled. Could Cecily have been aware how her face had changed
when the door opened, she would not have doubted whether she was
truly welcome.

"What book is that, Miriam?"

Cecily had been half afraid to ask; to her surprise it proved to be
Dante.

"Do you read this on Sunday?"

Miriam deigned no reply. The other, sitting just in front of her,
took up the volume and rustled its leaves.

"How far have you got? This pencil mark? 'Amor ch'a null' amato amar
perdona.'"

She read the line in an undertone, slowly towards the close.
Miriam's face showed a sudden and curious emotion. Glancing at the
book, she said abruptly:

"No; that's an old mark--a difficulty I had. I'm long past that."

"So am I. 'Amor ch'a null'--'"

Miriam stretched out her hand and took the volume with impatience.

"I'm at the end of this canto," she said, pointing. "Never mind it
now. I should have thought you would have gone somewhere such a fine
afternoon."

"That sounds remarkably like a hint that patience is near its end."

"I didn't mean it for that."

"Then let us get a carriage and drive somewhere together, we two
alone."

Miriam shook her head.

"Because it is Sunday?" asked Cecily, with a mischievous smile,
leaning her head aside.

"There is an understanding between us, Cecily. Don't break it."

"But I told you my mood was wicked. I feel disposed to break any and
every undertaking. I should like to fret and torment and offend you.
I should like to ask you why _I_ am allowed to enjoy the sunshine,
and you not? _Oggi e festa_! What a dreadful sound that must have in
your ears Miriam!"

"But they don't apply it to Sunday," returned the other, who seemed
to resign herself to this teasing.

"Indeed they do!" With a sudden change of subject, Cecily added,
"Your brother came to see us yesterday, to say good-bye."

"Did he?"

"It doesn't interest you. You care nothing where he goes, or what he
does--nothing whatever, Miriam. He told me so; but I knew it
already."

"He told you so?" Miriam asked, with cold surprise.

"Yes. You are unkind; you are unnatural."

"And you, Cecily, are childish. I never knew you so childish as
to-day."

"I warned you. He and I had a long talk before aunt came home."

"I'm sorry he should have thought it necessary to talk about
himself."

"What more natural, when he is beginning a new portion of life?
Never mind; we won't speak of it. May I play you a new piece I have
learnt?"

"Do you mean, of sacred music?"

"Sacred? Why, all music is sacred. There are tunes and jinglings
that I shouldn't call so; but neither do I call them music, just as
I distinguish between bad or foolish verse, and poetry. Everything
worthy of being called art is sacred. I shall keep telling you that
till in self-defence you are forced to think about it. And now I
shall play the piece whether you like it or not."

She opened the piano. What she had in mind was one of the "Moments
Musicaux" of Schubert--a strain of exquisite melody, which ceased
too soon. Cecily sat for a few moments at the key-board after she
had finished, her head bent; then she came and stood before Miriam.

"Do you like it?"

There was no answer. She looked steadily at the trouble a ace, and,
as it still kept averted from her, she laid her arms softly, half
playfully, about Miriam's neck.

"Why must there always be such a distance between us, Miriam dear?
Even when I seem so near to you as this, what a deep black gulf
really separates us!"

"You were once on my side of it" said Miriam, her voice softened.
"How did you pass to the other?"

"How could I tell you? No one read me lectures, or taught me hard
arguments. The change came insensibly, like passing out of a dream
into the light of morning. I followed where my nature led, and my
thoughts about everything altered. I don't know how it might have
been if I had lived on with you. But my happiness was not there."

"Happiness!" murmured the other, scornfully.

"A word you don't, won't understand. Yet to me it means much. Who
knows? Perhaps there may come a day when I shall look back upon it,
and see it as empty of satisfaction as it now seems to you. But more
likely that I shall live to look back in sorrow for its loss."

The dialogue became such as they had held more than once of late,
fruitless it seemed, only saddening to both. And Cecily was to-day
saddened by it beyond her wont; her excessive gaiety yielded to a
dejection which passed indeed, but for a while made her very unlike
herself, silent, with troubled eyes.

"I had one valid excuse for coming to see you to-day," she said,
when gaiety and dejection had both gone by. "Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw
seriously think of going to Rome at the end of next week, and they
wish to have another day at Pompeii. They would like it so much if
you would go with them. If you do, I also will; we shall make four
for a carriage, and drive there, and come back by train."

"What day?"

"To-morrow, if it be fine. Let me take them your assent."

Miriam agreed.

On Monday morning, as arranged, she was driving down to the
Mergellina, when, with astonishment, she saw her brother standing by
the roadside, beckoning to her. The carriage stopped, and he came up
to speak.

"Where are you off to?" he asked.

"You are still here?"

"I haven't been well. Didn't feel able to go yesterday. I was just
coming to see you."

"Not well, Reuben? Why didn't you come before?"

"I couldn't. I want to speak to you. Where are you going?"

She told him the plan for the day. Elgar turned aside, and
meditated.

"I'll see you there--at Pompeii somewhere. It'll be on my way."

"I had rather not go at all. I'll ask them to excuse me; Mrs.
Lessingham will perhaps take my place, and--"

"No! I'll see you at Pompeii. I shall have no difficulty you."

Miriam looked at him anxiously.

"I don't wish you to meet us there, Reuben."

"And I _do_ wish! Let me have my way, Miriam. Say nothing about me,
and let the meeting seem by chance."

"I can't do that. You make yourself ridiculous, after--"

"Let me judge for myself. Go on, or you'll be late."

She half rose, as if about to descend from the carriage. Elgar laid
his hand on her arm, and clutched it so strongly that she sank back
and regarded him with a look of anger.

"Miriam! Do as I wish, dear. Be kind to me for this once. If you
refuse, it will make no difference. Have some feeling for me. This
one day, Miriam."

Again she looked at him, and reflected. On account of the driver,
though of course he could not understand them, they had subdued
their voices, and Reuben's sudden action had not been noticeable.

"This one piece of sisterly kindness," he pleaded.

"It shall be as you wish," Miriam replied, her face cast down.

"Thank you, a thousand times. Avanti, cocchiere!"

Scrutiny less keen than Miriam's could perceive that Cecily had not
her usual pleasure in to-day's expedition. Even Mrs. Bradshaw,
sitting over against her in the carriage, noticed that the girl's
countenance lacked its natural animation, wore now and then a tired
look; the lids hung a little heavily over the beautiful eyes, and
the cheeks were a thought pale. When she forgot herself in
conversation, Cecily was the same as ever; mirthful, brightly
laughing, fervent in expressing delight; but her thoughts too often
made her silent, and then one saw that she was not heart and soul in
the present. It was another Cecily than on that day at Baiae. "She
has been over-exciting herself since she came here," was Mrs.
Bradshaw's mental remark. Miriam, anxiously observant, made a
different interpretation, and was harassed with a painful conflict
of thoughts.

Jacob Bush Bradshaw had no eyes for these trivialities. He sat in
the squared posture of a hearty Englishman, amusing himself with
everything they passed on the road self-congratulant on the
knowledge and experience he had been storing, joking as often as he
spoke.

"The lad Marsh would have uncommonly liked an invitation to come
with us to-day," he said, about midway in the drive. "What precious
mischief we could have made by asking him, Hannah!"

"There's no room for him, fortunately."

"Oh yes; up on the box."

His eye twinkled as he looked at Cecily. She questioned him.

"Where would be the mischief, Mr. Bradshaw?"

"He talks nonsense, my dear," interposed Mrs. Bradshaw. "Pay no
attention to him."

Miriam had heard now and then of Clifford Marsh. She met Jacob's
smile, and involuntarily checked it by her gravity.

"We might have asked the Denyers as well," said Cecily, "and have
had another carriage, or gone by train."

Mr. Bradshaw chuckled for some minutes at this proposal, but his
wife would not allow him to pursue the jest.

They lunched at the Hotel Diomede before entering the precincts of
the ruins. Mr. Bradshaw had invariably a splendid appetite, and was
by this time skilled in ordering the meals that suited him. The few
phrases of Italian which he had appropriated were given forth _ore
rotundo_, with Anglo-saxon emphasis on the _o_'s, and accompanied
with large gestures. His mere appearance always sufficed to put
landlords and waiters into their most urbane mood; they never failed
to take him for one of the English nobility--a belief confirmed by
the handsomeness of his gratuities. Mrs. Bradshaw was not, perhaps,
the ideal lady of rank, but the fine self-satisfaction on her
matronly visage, the good-natured disdain with which she allowed
herself to be waited upon by foolish foreigners, her solid disregard
of everything beyond the circle of her own party, were impressive
enough, and exacted no little subservience.

Strong in the experience of two former visits, Mr. Bradshaw would
have no guide to-day. Murray in hand, he knew just what he wished to
see again, and where to find it.

As Miriam was at Pompeii for the first time, he took her especially
under his direction, and showed her the city much as he might have
led her over his silk-mill in Manchester. Unimbued with history and
literature, he knew nothing of the scholar's or the poet's
enthusiasm; his gratification lay in exercising his solid
intelligence on a lot of strange and often grotesque facts. Here men
had lived two thousand years ago. There was no mistake about it; you
saw the deep ruts of their wheels along the rugged street; nay, you
saw the wearing of their very feet on the comically narrow
pavements. And their life had been as different as possible from
that of men in Manchester. Everything excited him to merriment.

"Now, this is the house of old Pansa--no doubt an ancestor of
friend Sancho"--with a twinkle in his eye. "We'll go over this
carefully, Mrs. Baske; it's one of the largest and completest in
Pompeii. Here we are in what they called the atrium."

Cecily spoke seldom. Of course, she would have preferred to be alone
here with Miriam; best of all--or nearly so--if they could have
made the same party as at Baiae. At times she lingered a little
behind the others, and seemed deep in contemplation of some object;
or she stood to watch the lizards darting about the sunny old walls.
When all were enjoying the view from the top of Jupiter's Temple,
she gazed long towards the Sorrento promontory, the height of St.
Angelo.

"Amalfi is over on the far side," she said to Miriam. "They are both
working there now."

Miriam replied nothing.

When they were in the Street of Tombs, Cecily again paused, by the
sepulchre of the Priestess Mamia, whence there is a clear prospect
across the bay towards the mountains. Turning back again, she heard
a voice that made her tremble with delighted surprise. A wall
concealed the speaker from her; she took a few quick steps, and saw
Reuben Elgar shaking hands with the Bradshaws. He looked at her, and
came forward. She could not say any thing, and was painfully
conscious of the blood that rushed to her face; never yet had she
known this stress of heart-beats that made suffering of joy, and
the misery of being unable to command herself under observant eyes.

It was years since Elgar and the Bradshaws had met. As a boy he had
often visited their house, but from the time of his leaving home at
sixteen to go to a boarding-school, his acquaintance with them, as
with all his other Manchester friends, practically ceased. They had
often heard of him--too often, in their opinion. Aware of his
arrival at Naples, they had expressed no wish to see him. Still, now
that he met them in this unexpected way, they could not but assume
friendliness. Jacob, not on the whole intolerant, was willing enough
to take "the lad" on his present merits; Reuben had the guise and
manners of a gentleman, and perhaps was grown out of his reprobate
habits. Mr. Bradshaw and his wife could not but notice Cecily's
agitation at the meeting; they exchanged wondering glances, and
presently found an opportunity for a few words apart. What was going
on? How had these two young folks become so intimate? Well, it was
no business of theirs. Lucky that Mrs. Baske was one of the company.

And why should Cecily disguise that now only was her enjoyment of
the day begun--that only now had the sunshine its familiar
brightness, the ancient walls and ways their true enchantment? She
did not at once become more talkative, but the shadow had passed
utterly from her face, and there was no more listlessness in her
movements.

"I have stopped here on my way to join Mallard," was all Reuben
said, in explanation of his presence.

All kept together. Mr. Bradshaw resumed his interest in antiquities,
but did not speak so freely about them as before.

"Your brother knows a good deal more about these things than I do,
Mrs. Baske," he remarked. "He shall give us the benefit of his
Latin."

Miriam resolutely kept her eyes alike from Reuben and from Cecily.
Hitherto her attention to the ruins had been intermittent, but
occasionally she had forgotten herself so far as to look and ponder;
now she saw nothing. Her mind was gravely troubled; she wished only
that the day were over.

As for Elgar, he seemed to the Bradshaws singularly quiet, modest,
inoffensive. If he ventured a suggestion or a remark, it was in a
subdued voice and with the most pleasant manner possible. He walked
for a time with Mrs. Bradshaw, and accommodated himself with much
tact to her way of regarding foreign things, whether ancient or
modern. In a short time all went smoothly again.

Not since they shook hands had Elgar and Cecily encountered each
other's glance. They looked at each other often, very often, but
only when the look could not be returned; they exchanged not a
syllable. Yet both knew that at some approaching moment, for them
the supreme moment of this day, their eyes must meet. Not yet; not
casually, and whilst others regarded them. The old ruins would be
kind.

It was in the house of Meleager. They had walked among the coloured
columns, and had visited the inner chamber, where upon the wall is
painted the Judgment of Paris. Mr. Bradshaw passed out through the
narrow door. way, and his voice was dulled; Miriam passed with him,
and, close after her, Mrs. Bradshaw. Reuben seemed to draw aside for
Cecily, but she saw his hand extended towards her--it held a spray
of maidenhair that he had just gathered. She took it, or would have
taken it, but her hand was closed in his.

"I have stayed only to see you again," came panting from his lips.
"I could not go till I had seen you again!"

And before the winged syllables had ceased, their eyes met; nor
their eyes alone, for upon both was the constraint of passion that
leaps like flame to its desire--mouth to mouth and heart to heart
for one instant that concentrated all the joy of being.

What hand, centuries ago crumbled into indistinguishable dust,
painted that parable of the youth making his award to Love? What
eyes gazed upon it, when this was a home of man and woman warm with
life, listening all day long to the music of uttered thoughts?
Dark-buried whilst so many ages of history went by, thrown open for
the sunshine to rest upon its pallid antiquity, again had this
chamber won a place in human hearts, witnessed the birth of joy and
hope, blended itself with the destiny of mortals. He who pictured
Paris dreamt not of these passionate lips and their unborn language,
knew not that he wrought for a world hidden so far in time. Though
his white-limbed goddess fade ghostlike, the symbol is as valid as
ever. Did not her wan beauty smile youthful again in the eyes of
these her latest worshippers?

And they went forth among the painted pillars, once more shunning
each other's look. It was some minutes before Cecily knew that her
fingers still crushed the spray of maidenhair; then she touched it
gently, and secreted it within her glove. It must be dead when she
reached home, but that mattered nothing; would it not remain the
sign of something deathless?

She believed so. In her vision the dead city had a new and wonderful
life; it lay glorious in the light of heaven, its strait ways fit
for the treading of divinities, its barren temples reconsecrate with
song and sacrifice. She believed there was that within her soul
which should survive all change and hazard--survive, it might be,
even this warm flesh that it was hard not to think immortal.

She sought Miriam's side, took her hand, held it playfully as they
walked on together.

"Why do you look at me so sadly, Miriam?"

"I did not mean to."

"Yet you do. Let me see you smile once to-day."

But Miriam's smile was sadder than her grave look.

CHAPTER X

THE DECLARATION

It was true enough that Clifford Marsh would have relished an
invitation to accompany that party of four to Pompeii. For one
thing, he was beginning to have a difficulty in passing his days; if
the present state of things prolonged itself, his position might
soon resemble that of Mr. Musselwhite. But chiefly would he have
welcomed the prospect of spending some hours in the society of Miss
Doran, and under circumstances which would enable him to shine.
Clifford had begun to nurse a daring ambition. Allowing his vanity
to caress him into the half-belief that he was really making a noble
stand against the harshness of fate, he naturally spent much time in
imagining how other people regarded him--above all, what figure he
made in the eyes of Miss Doran. There could be no doubt that she
knew, at all events, the main items of his story; was it not certain
that they must make some appeal to her sympathies? His air of
graceful sadness could not but lead her to muse as often as she
observed it; he had contemplated himself in the mirror, and each
time with reassurance on this point. Why should the attractions
which had been potent with Madeline fail to engage the interest of
this younger and more emotional girl? Miss Doran was far beyond
Madeline in beauty, and, there was every reason to believe, had the
substantial gifts of fortune which Madeline altogether lacked. It
was a bold thing to turn his eye to her with such a thought,
circumstances considered; but the boldness was characteristic of
Marsh, with whom at all times self-esteem had the force of an
irresistible argument.

He was incapable of passion. Just as he had made a pretence of
pursuing art, because of a superficial cleverness and a liking for
ease and the various satisfactions of his vanity in such a career,
so did he now permit his mind to be occupied with Cecily Doran, not
because her qualities blinded him to all other considerations, but
in pleasant yielding to a temptation of his fancy, which made a
lively picture of many desirable things, and flattered him into
thinking that they were not beyond his reach. For the present he
could do nothing but wait, supporting his pose of placid martyrdom.
Wait, and watch every opportunity; there would arrive a moment when
seeming recklessness might advance him far on the way to triumph.

And yet he never for a moment regarded himself as a schemer
endeavouring to compass vulgar ends by machination. He had the
remarkable faculty of viewing himself in an ideal light, even whilst
conscious that so many of his claims were mere pretence. Men such as
Clifford Marsh do not say to themselves, "What a humbug I am!" When
driven to face their conscience, it speaks to them rather in this
way: "You are a fellow of fine qualities, altogether out of the
common way of men. A pity that conditions do not allow you to he
perfectly honest; but people in general are so foolish that you
would get no credit for your superiority if you did not wear a
little tinsel, practise a few harmless affectations. Some day your
difficulties will be at an end, and then you can afford to show
yourself in a simpler guise." When he looked in the glass, Clifford
admired himself without reserve; when he talked freely, he applauded
his own cleverness, and thought it the most natural thing that other
people should do so. When he meditated abandoning Madeline, his
sincere view of the matter was that she had proved herself unworthy:
however sensible her attitude, a girl had no right to put such
questions to her lover as she had done, to injure his self-love.
When he plotted with himself to engage Cecily's interest, he said
that it was the course any lover would have pursued. And in the end
he really persuaded himself that he was in love with her.

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