The Emancipated

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Yet none the less he thought of Madeline with affection. He was
piqued that she made no effort to bring him back to her feet. To be
sure, her mother's behaviour probably implied Madeline's desire of
reconciliation, but he wished her to make personal overtures; he
would have liked to see her approach him with humble eyes, not
troubling himself to debate how he should act in that event. With
Mrs. Denyer he was once more on terms of apparent friendliness,
though he held no private dialogue with her; he was willing that she
should suppose him gradually coming over to her views. Barbara and
Zillah showed constraint when he spoke with them, but this he
affected not to perceive. Only with Madeline he did not converse.
Her air of unconcernedness at length proved too much for his
patience, and so it came about that Madeline received by post a
letter addressed in Clifford's hand. She took it to her bedroom, and
broke the envelope with agitation.

"Your behaviour is heartless. Just when I am in deep distress, and
need all possible encouragement in the grave struggle upon which I
have entered--for I need not tell you that I am resolved to remain
an artist--you desert me, and do your best to show that you are
glad at being relieved of all concern on my account. It is well for
me that I see the result of this test, but, I venture to think, not
every woman would have chosen your course. I shall very shortly
leave Naples. It will no doubt complete your satisfaction to think
of me toiling friendless in London. Remember this as my farewell.--
C. M."

The next morning Clifford received what he expected, a reply, also
sent by post. It was written in the clearest and steadiest hand, on
superfine paper.

"I am sorry you should have repeated your insult in a written form;
I venture to think that not every man would have followed this
course. For myself, it is well indeed that I see the result of the
test to which you have been exposed. But I shall say and think no
more of it. As you leave soon, I would suggest that we should be on
the terms of ordinary acquaintances for the remaining time; the
present state of things is both disagreeable and foolish. It will
always seem to me a very singular thing that you should have
continued to live in this house; but that, of course, was in your
own discretion.--M. D."

This was on the morning when Cecily and her companions went to
Pompeii. Towards luncheon-time, Clifford entered the drawing-room,
and there found Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with Madeline. The
former looked towards him in a way which seemed to invite his
approach.

"Another idle morning, Mr. Marsh?" was her greeting.

"I had a letter at breakfast that disturbed me," he replied, seating
himself away from Madeline.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Mr. Marsh is very easily disturbed," said Madeline, in a light tone
of many possible meanings.

"Yes," admitted Clifford, leaning back and letting his head droop a
little; "I can seldom do anything when I am not quite at ease in
mind. Rather a misfortune, but not an uncommon one with artists."

The conversation turned on this subject for a few minutes, Madeline
taking part in it in a way that showed her resolve to act as she had
recommended in her note. Then Mrs. Lessingham rose and left the two
together. Madeline seemed also about to move; she followed the
departing lady with her eyes, and at length, as though adding a
final remark, said to Clifford:

"There are several things you have been so kind as to lend me that I
must return before you go, Mr. Marsh. I will make a parcel of them,
and a servant shall take them to your room.

"Thank you."

Since the quarrel, Madeline had not worn her ring of betrothal, but
this was the first time she had spoken of returning presents.

"I am sorry you have had news that disturbed you," she continued, as
if in calm friendliness. "But I dare say it is something you will
soon forget. In future you probably won't think so much of little
annoyances."

"Probably not."

She smiled, and walked away, stopping to glance at a picture before
she left the room. Clifford was left with knitted brows and uneasy
mind; he had not believed her capable of this sedateness. For some
reason, Madeline had been dressing herself with unusual care of late
(the result, in fact, of frequent observation of Cecily), and just
now, as he entered, it had struck him that she was after all very
pretty, that no one could impugn his taste in having formerly chosen
her. His reference to her letter was a concession, made on the
moment's impulse. Her rejecting it so unmistakably looked serious.
Had she even ceased to be jealous?

In the course of the afternoon, one of Mrs. Gluck's servants
deposited a parcel in his chamber. When he found it, he bit his
lips. Indeed, things looked serious at last. He passed the hours
till dinner in rather comfortless solitude.

But at dinner he was opposite Cecily, and he thought he had never
seen her so brilliant. Perhaps the day in the open air--there was
a fresh breeze--had warmed the exquisite colour of her cheeks and
given her eyes an even purer radiance than of wont. The dress she
wore was not new to him, but its perfection made stronger appeal to
his senses than previously. How divine were the wreaths and
shadowings of her hair! With what gracile loveliness did her neck
bend as she spoke to Mrs. Lessingham! What hand ever shone with more
delicate beauty than hers in the offices of the meal? It pained him
to look at Madeline and make comparison.

Moreover, Cecily met his glance, and smiled--smiled with adorable
frankness. From that moment he rejoiced at what had taken place
to-day. It had left him his complete freedom. Good; he had given
Madeline a final chance, and she had neglected it. In every sense he
was at liberty to turn his thoughts elsewhither, and now he felt
that he had even received encouragement.

"We had an unexpected meeting with Mr. Elgar," were Cecily's words,
when she spoke to her aunt of the day's excursion.

Mrs. Lessingham showed surprise, and noticed that Cecily kept
glancing over the columns of a newspaper she had carelessly taken
up.

"At Pompeii?"

"Yes; in the Street of Tombs. For some reason, he had delayed on his
journey."

"I'm not surprised."

"Why?"

"Delay is one of his characteristics, isn't it?" returned the elder
lady, with unaccustomed tartness. "A minor branch of the root of
inefficiency."

"I am afraid so."

Cecily laughed, and began to read aloud an amusing passage from the
paper. Her aunt put no further question; but after dinner sought
Mrs. Bradshaw, and had a little talk on the subject. Mrs. Bradshaw
allowed herself no conjectures; in her plain way she merely
confirmed what Cecily had said, adding that Elgar had taken leave of
them at the railway-station.

"Possibly Mrs. Baske knew that her brother would be there?" surmised
Mrs. Lessingham, as though the point were of no moment.

"Oh no! not a bit. She was astonished."

"Or seemed so," was Mrs. Lessingham's inward comment, as she smiled
acquiescence. "He has impressed me agree ably," she continued, "but
there's a danger that he will never do justice to himself."

"I don't put much faith in him myself," said Mrs. Bradshaw, meaning
nothing more by the phrase than that she considered Reuben a
ne'er-do-well. The same words would have expressed her lack of
confidence in a servant subjected to some suspicion.

Mrs. Lessingham was closely observant of her niece this evening, and
grew confirmed in distrust, in solicitude. Cecily was more than ever
unlike herself--whimsical, abstracted, nervous; she flushed at an
unexpected sound, could not keep the same place for more than a few
minutes. Much before the accustomed hour, she announced her
retirement for the night.

"Let me feel your pulse," said Mrs. Lessingham, as if in jest, when
the girl approached her.

Cecily permitted it, half averting her face.

"My child, you are feverish."

"A little, I believe, aunt. It will pass by the morning."

"Let us hope so. But I don't like that kind of thing at Naples. I
trust you haven't had a chill?"

"Oh dear, no! I never was better in my life!"

"Yet with fever? Go to bed. Very likely I shall look into your room
in the night.--Cecily!"

It stopped her at her door. She turned, and took a step back. Mrs.
Lessingham moved towards her.

"You haven't forgotten anything that you wished to say to me?"

"Forgotten? No, dear aunt."

"It just come back to my mind that you were on the point of saying
something a little while ago, and I interrupted you."

"No. Good night."

Mrs. Lessingham did enter the girl's room something after midnight,
carrying a dim taper. Cecily was asleep, but lay as though fatigue
had overcome her after much restless moving upon the pillow. Her
face was flushed; one of her hands, that on the coverlet, kept
closing itself with a slight spasm. The visitor drew apart and
looked about the chamber. Her eyes rested on a little writing-desk,
where lay a directed envelope. She looked at it, and found it was
addressed to a French servant of theirs in Paris, an excellent woman
who loved Cecily, and to whom the girl had promised to write from
Italy. The envelope was closed; but it could contain nothing of
importance--was merely an indication of Cecily's abiding kindness.
By this lay a small book, from the pages of which protruded a piece
of white paper. Mrs. Lessingham took up the volume--it was
Shelley--and found that the paper within it was folded about a spray
of maidenhair, and bore the inscription "House of Meleager Pompeii.
Monday, December 8, 1878." Over this the inquisitive lady mused,
until a motion of Cecily caused her to restore things rapidly to
their former condition.

A movement, and a deep sigh; but Cecily did not awake. Mrs.
Lessingham again drew softly near to her, and, without letting the
light fall directly upon her face, looked at her for a long time.
She whispered feelingly, "Poor girl! poor child!" then, with a sigh
almost as deep as that of the slumberer, withdrew.

In the morning, Cecily was already dressed when a servant brought
letters to the sitting-room. There were three, and one of them,
addressed to herself, had only the Naples postmark. She went back to
her bedroom with it.

After breakfast Mrs. Lessingham spoke for a while of news contained
in her correspondence; then of a sudden asked:

"You hadn't any letters?"

"Yes, aunt; one."

"My child, you are far from well this morning. The fever hasn't
gone. Your face burns."

"Yes."

"May I ask from whom the letter was?"

"I have it here--to show you." A choking of her voice broke the
sentence. She held out the letter. Mrs. Lessingham found the
following lines:--

"DEAR CECILY,

"I have, of course, returned to Naples, and I
earnestly hope I may see you between ten and eleven to-morrow
morning. I must see you alone. You cannot reply I will come and send
my name in the ordinary way.

"Yours ever,

"R. ELGAR."

Mrs. Lessingham looked up. Cecily, who was standing before her, now
met her gaze steadily.

"The meaning of this is plain enough," said her aunt, with careful
repression of feeling. "But I am at a loss to understand how it has
come about."

"I cannot tell you, aunt. I cannot tell myself."

Cecily's true accents once more. It was as though she had recovered
all her natural self-command now that the revelation was made. The
flush still possessed her cheeks, but she had no look of
embarrassment; she spoke in a soft murmur, but distinctly, firmly.

"I am afraid that is only too likely, dear. Come and sit down,
little girl, and tell me, at all events, something about it."

"Little girl?" repeated Cecily, with a sweet, affectionate smile.
"No; that has gone by, aunt."

"I thought so myself the other day; but--I suppose you have met
Mr. Elgar several times at his sister's, and have said nothing to me
about it?"

"That would not have been my usual behaviour, I hope. When did I
deceive you, aunt?"

"Never, that I know. Where have you met then?"

"Only at the times and places of which you know."

"Where did you give Mr. Elgar the right to address you in this
manner?"

"Only yesterday. I think you mustn't ask me more than that, aunt."

"I'mafraid your companions were rather lacking in discretion," said
the other, in a tone of annoyance.

"No; not in the sense you attach to the words. But, aunt, you are
speaking as if I _were_ a little girl, to be carefully watched at
every step."

Mrs. Lessingham mused, looking absently at the letter. She paid no
heed to her niece's last words, but at length said with decision:

"Cecily, this meeting cannot take place."

The girl replied with a look of uttermost astonishment.

"It is impossible, dear. Mr. Elgar should not have written to you
like this. He should have addressed himself to other people."

"Other people? But you don't understand, aunt. I cannot explain to
you. I expected this letter; and we must see each other."

Her voice trembled, failed.

"Shall you not treat my wish with respect, Cecily?"

"Will you explain to me all that you do wish, aunt?"

"Certainly. It is true that you are not a French girl, and I have no
desire to regard you as though we were a French aunt and niece
talking of this subject in the conventional way. But you are very
young, dear, and most decidedly it behoved Mr. Elgar to bear in mind
both his and your position. You have no parents, unhappily, but you
know that Mr. Mallard is legally appointed the guardian of your
interests, and I trust you know also that I am deeply concerned in
all that affects you. Let us say nothing, one way or another, of
what has happened. Since it _has_ happened, it was Mr. Elgar's duty
to address himself to me, or to Mr. Mallard, before making private
appointments with you."

"Aunt, you can see that this letter is written so as to allow of my
showing it to you."

"I have noticed that, of course. It makes Mr. Elgar's way of
proceeding seem still more strange to me. He is good enough to ask
you to relieve him of what he thinks--"

"You misunderstand him, aunt, entirely. I cannot explain it to you.
Only trust me, I beg, to do what I know to be right. It is necessary
that I should speak with Mr. Elgar; do not pain me by compelling me
to say more. Afterwards, he will wish to see you, I know."

"Please to remember, dear--it astonishes me that you forget it--
that I have a responsibility to Mr. Mallard. I have no legal charge
of you. With every reason, Mr. Mallard may reproach me if I
countenance what it is impossible for him to approve."

Cecily searched the speaker's face.

"Do you mean," she asked gravely, "that Mr. Mallard will disapprove--what
I have done?"

"I can say nothing on that point. But I am very sure that he would
not approve of this meeting, if he could know what was happening. I
must communicate with him at once. Until he comes, or writes, it is
your duty, my dear, to decline this interview. Believe me, it is
your duty."

Mrs. Lessingham spoke more earnestly than she ever had done to her
niece. Indeed, earnest speech was not frequent upon her lips when
she talked with Cecily. In spite of the girl's nature, there had
never existed between them warmer relations than those of fondness
and interest on one side, and gentleness with respect on the other.
Cecily was well aware of this something lacking in their common
life; she had wished, not seldom these last two years, to supply the
want, but found herself unable, and grew conscious that her aunt
gave all it was in her power to bestow. For this very reason, she
found it impossible to utter herself in the present juncture as she
could have done to a mother--as she could have done to Miriam;
impossible, likewise, to insist on her heart's urgent desire, though
she knew not how she should forbear it. To refuse compliance would
have been something more than failure in dutifulness; she would have
felt it as harshness, and perhaps injustice, to one with whom she
involuntarily stood on terms of ceremony.

"May I write a reply to this letter?" she asked, after a silence.

"I had rather you allowed me to speak for you to Mr. Elgar. To write
and to see him are the same thing. Surely you can forget yourself
for a moment, and regard this from my point of view."

"I don't know how far you may be led by your sense of
responsibility. Remember that you have insisted to me on your
prejudice against Mr. Elgar."

"Vainly enough," returned the other, with a smile. "If you prefer
it, I will myself write a line to be given to Mr. Elgar when he
calls. Of course, you shall see what I write."

Cecily turned away, and stood in struggle with herself. She had not
foreseen a conflict of this kind. Surprise, and probably vexation,
she was prepared for; irony, argument, she was quite ready to face;
but it had not entered her mind that Mrs. Lessingham would invoke
authority to oppose her. Such a step was alien to all the habits of
their intercourse, to the spirit of her education. She had deemed
herself a woman, and free; what else could result from Mrs.
Lessingham's method of training and developing her? This disillusion
gave a shock to her self-respect; she suffered from a sense of
shame; with difficulty she subdued resentment and impulses yet more
rebellious. It was ignoble to debate in this way concerning that of
which she could not yet speak formally with her own mind; to contend
like an insubordinate school-girl, when the point at issue was the
dearest interest of her womanhood.

"I think, aunt," she said, in a changed voice, speaking as though
her opinion had been consulted in the ordinary way, "it will be
better for you to sec Mr. Elgar--if you are willing to do so."

"Quite."

"But I must ask you to let him know exactly why I have not granted
his request. You will tell him, if you please, just what has passed
between us. If that does not seem consistent with your duty, or
dignity, then I had rather you wrote."

"Neither my duty nor my dignity is likely to suffer, Cecily,"
replied her aunt, with an ironical smile. "Mr. Elgar shall know the
simple state of the case. And I will forthwith write to Mr.
Mallard."

"Thank you."

There was no further talk between them. Mrs. Lessingham sat down to
write. With the note-paper before her, and the pen in hand, she was
a long time before she began; she propped her forehead, and seemed
lost in reflection. Cecily, who stood by the window, glanced towards
her several times, and in the end went to her own room.

Mrs. Lessingham's letter was not yet finished when a servant
announced Elgar's arrival. He was at once admitted. On seeing who
was to receive him, he made an instant's pause before coming
forward; there was merely a bow on both sides.

Elgar knew well enough in what mood this lady was about to converse
with him. He did not like her, and partly, no doubt, because he had
discerned her estimate of his character, his faculties. That she
alone was in the room gave him no surprise, though it irritated him
and inflamed his impatience. He would have had her speak immediately
and to the point, that he might understand his position. Mrs.
Lessingham, quite aware of his perfervid state of mind, had pleasure
in delaying. Her real feeling towards him was anything but
unfriendly; had it been possible, she would have liked to see much
of him, to enjoy his talk. Young men of this stamp amused her, and
made strong appeal to certain of her sympathies. But those very
sympathies enabled her to judge him with singular accuracy, aided as
she was by an outline knowledge of his past. Her genuine affection
for Cecily made her, now that the peril had declared itself, his
strenuous adversary. For Cecily to marry Reuben Elgar would be a
catastrophe, nothing less. She was profoundly convinced of this, and
the best elements of her nature came out in the resistance she was
determined to make.

A less worthy ground of vexation against Elgar might probably be
attributed to her. Skilful in judging men, she had not the same
insight where her own sex was concerned, and in the case of Cecily
she was misled, or rather misled herself, with curious persistence.
Possibly some slight, vague fear had already touched her when she
favoured Mrs. Spence with the description of her "system;" not
impossibly she felt the need of reassuring herself by making clear
her attitude to one likely to appreciate it. But at that time she
had not dreamt of such a sudden downfall of her theoretic edifice;
she believed in its strength, and did not doubt of her supreme
influence with Cecily. It was not to be wondered at that she felt
annoyed with the man who, at a touch, made the elaborate structure
collapse like a bubble. She imagined Mrs. Spence's remarks when she
came to hear of what had happened, her fine smile to her husband.
The occurrence was mortifying.

"Miss Doran has put into my hands a letter she received from you
this morning, Mr. Elgar."

Reuben waited. Mrs. Lessingham had not invited him to sit down; she
also stood.

"You probably wished me to learn its contents?"

"Yes; I am glad you have read it."

"It didn't occur to you that Miss Doran might find the task you
imposed upon her somewhat trying?"

Elgar was startled. Just as little as Cecily had he pondered the
details of the situation; mere frenzy possessed him, and he acted as
desire bade. Had Cecily been embarrassed? Was she annoyed at his not
proceeding with formality? He had never thought of her in the light
of conventional obligations, and even now could not bring himself to
do so.

"Did Miss Doran wish me to be told that?" he asked, bluntly, in
unconsidered phrase.

"Miss Doran's wish is, that no further step shall be taken by either
of you until her guardian, Mr. Mallard, has been communicated with."

"She will not see me?"

"She thinks it better neither to see you nor to write. I am bound to
tell you that this is the result of my advice. Her own intention was
to do as you request in this letter."

"What harm would there have been in that, Mrs. Lessingham? Why
mayn't I see her?"

"I really think Miss Doran must be allowed to act as seems best to
her. It is quite enough that I tell you what she has decided."

"But that is not her decision," broke out Elgar, moving impetuously.
"That is simply the result of your persuasion, of your authority.
Why may I not see her?"

"For reasons which would be plain enough to any but a very
thoughtless young gentleman. I can say no more."

Her caustic tone was not agreeable. Elgar winced under it, and had
much ado to restrain himself from useless vehemence.

"Do you intend to write to Mr. Mallard to-day?" he asked.

"I will write to-day."

Expostulation and entreaty seemed of no avail; Elgar recognized the
situation, and with a grinding of his teeth kept down the horrible
pain he suffered. His only comfort was that Mallard would assuredly
come post-haste; he would arrive by to-morrow evening. But two days
of this misery! Mrs. Lessingham was gratified with his look as he
departed; she had supplied him with abundant matter for speculation,
yet had fulfilled her promise to Cecily.

She finished her letter, then went to Cecily's room. The girl sat
unoccupied, and listened without replying. That day she took her
meals in private, scarcely pretending to eat. Her face kept its
flush, and her hands remained feverishly hot. Till late at night she
sat in the same chair, now and then opening a book, but unable to
read; she spoke only a word or two, when it was necessary.

The same on the day that followed. Seldom moving, seldomer speaking;
she suffered and waited.

CHAPTER XI

THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY

"Hic intus homo verus certus optumus recumbo, Publius Octavius
Rufus, decuno."

Mallard stood reading this inscription, graven on an ancient
sarcophagus preserved in the cathedral of Amalfi. A fool, probably,
that excellent Rufus--he said to himself,--but what a happy
fool! Unborn as yet, or to him unknown, the faith that would have
bidden him write himself a miserable sinner; what he deemed himself
in life, what perchance his friends and neighbours deemed him, why
not declare it upon the marble when be rested from all his virtues?

"Here lie I, Ross Mallard; who can say no good of myself, yet have
as little right to say ill; who had no faith whereby to direct my
steps, yet often felt that some such was needful; who spent all my
strength on a task which I knew to be vain; who suffered much and
joyed rarely; whose happiest day was his last."

Somehow like that would it run, if he were to write his own epitaph
at present.

The quiet of the dim sanctuary was helpful to such self-communing.
He relished being alone again, and after an hour's brooding had
recovered at all events a decent balance of thought, a respite from
madness in melancholy.

But he could not employ himself, could not even seek the relief of
bodily exertion; his mind grew sluggish, and threw a lassitude upon
his limbs. The greater part of the day he spent in his room at the
hotel, merely idle. This time he had no energy to attack himself
with adjurations and sarcasms; body and soul were oppressed with
uttermost fatigue, and for a time must lie torpid. Fortunately he
was sure of sleep to-night; the bell of the cathedral might clang
its worst, and still not rob him of the just oblivion.

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