The Emancipated

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The next day he strayed into the hills, and there in solitude faced
the enemy in his heart, bidding misery do its worst. In imagination
he followed Reuben Elgar to Naples, saw him speed to Villa
Sannazaro, where as likely as not he would meet Cecily. Mallard had
no tangible evidence of its being Reuben's desire to see Cecily, but
he was none the less convinced that for no other reason had his
companion set forth. And jealousy tormented him sorely. It was his
first experience of this cruellest passion: what hitherto had been
only a name to him, and of ignoble sound, became a disease clutching
at his vitals. It taught him fierceness, injustice, base suspicion,
brutal conjecture; it taught him that of which all these are
constituents--hatred.

But it did not constrain him to any unworthy action. The temptation
that passed through his mind when he looked from the balcony on the
carriage that was to convey Elgar, did not return--or only as a
bitter desire, impossible of realization. Distant from Naples he
must remain, awaiting whatsoever might happen.

Ah, bright, gentle, sweet-faced Cecily! Inconceivable to her this
suffering that lay upon her friend. How it would pain her if she
knew of it! With what sad, wondering tenderness her eyes would
regard him! How kindly would she lay her soft hand in his, and
entreat him to be comforted!

If he asked her, would she not give him that hand, to be his always?
Perhaps, perhaps; in her gentleness she would submit to this change,
and do her best to love him. And in return he would give her gruff
affection, removal from the life to which she was accustomed,
loneliness, his uncertain humours, his dubious reputation. How often
most he picture these results, and convince himself of the
impossibility of anything of the kind?

He knew her better than did Mrs. Lessingham; oh, far better! He had
detected in her deep eyes the sleeping passion, some day to awake
with suddenness and make the whole world new to her. He knew how far
from impossible it was that Reuben Elgar should be the prince to
break her charmed slumber. There was the likeness and the
unlikeness; common to both that temperament of enthusiasm. On the
one hand, Cecily with her unsullied maidenhood; and on the other,
Elgar with his reckless experiences--contrasts which so commonly
have a mutual attraction. There was the singularity of their meeting
after years, and seeing each other in such a new light; the
interest, the curiosity inevitably resulting. What likelihood that
any distrust would mingle with Cecily's warmth of feeling, were that
feeling once excited? He knew her too well.

How Mrs. Lessingham regarded Elgar he did not know. He had no
confidence in that lady's discretion; he thought it not improbable
that she would speak of Reuben to Cecily in the very way she should
not, making him an impressive figure. Then again, what part was Mrs.
Baske likely to have in such a situation? Could she be relied upon
to rep resent her brother unfavourably, with the right colour of
unfavourableness? Or was it not rather to be feared that the thought
of Cecily's influence might tempt her to encourage what otherwise
she must have condemned? He retraced in memory that curious dialogue
he had held with Miriam on the drive back from Baiae; could he
gather from it any hints of her probable behaviour?. . . .

By a sudden revulsion of mind, Mallard became aware that in the long
fit of brooding just gone by he had not been occupied with Cecily at
all. Busying his thoughts with Mrs. Baske, he had slipped into a
train of meditation already begun on the evening in question, after
the drive with her. What was Mrs. Baske's true history? How had she
come to marry the man of whom Elgar's phrases had produced such a
hateful image? What was the state, in very deed, of her mind at
present? What awaited her in the future?

It was curious that Mrs. Baske's face was much more recoverable by
his mind's eye than Cecily's. In fact, to see Miriam cost him no
effort at all; equally at will. he heard the sound of her voice.
There were times when Cecily, her look and utterance, visited him
very clearly; but this was when he did not wish to be reminded of
her. If he endeavoured to make her present, as a rule the picturing
faculty was irresponsive.

Welcome reverie! If only he could continue to busy himself with idle
speculation concerning the strange young Puritan, and so find relief
from the anguish that beset him. Suppose now, he set himself to
imagine Miriam in unlikely situations. What if she somehow fell into
poverty, was made absolutely dependent on her own efforts? Suppose
she suffered cruelly what so many women have to suffer--toil,
oppression, solitude; what would she become? Not, he suspected, a
meek martyr; anything but that, Miriam Baske. And how magnificent to
see her flash out into revolt against circumstances! Then indeed she
would be interesting.

Nay, suppose she fell in love--desperately, with grim fate against
her? For somehow this came more easilyto the fancy than the thought
of her loving obstacle. Presumably she had never loved; her husband
was out of the question. Would she pass her life without that
experience? One thing could be affirmed with certainty; if she lost
her heart to a man, it would not be to a Puritan. He could conceive
her being attracted by a strong and somewhat rude fellow, a despiser
of conventionalities, without religion, a man of brains and blood;
one whose look could overwhelm her with tumultuous scorn, and whose
hand, if need be, could crush her life out at a blow. Why not,
however, a highly polished gentleman, critical, keen of speech,
deeply read, brilliant in conversation, at once man of the world and
scholar? Might not that type have power over her? In a degree, but
not so decidedly as the intellectual brute.

Pshaw! what brain-sickness was this! What was he fallen to! Yet it
did what nothing else would, amused him for a few minutes in his
pain. He recurred to it several times, and always successfully.

Sunday came. This evening would see Elgar back again.

No doubt of his return had yet entered his mind. Whether Reuben
would in reality settle to some kind of work was a different
question; but of course he would come back, if it were only to say
that he had kept his promise, but found he must set off again to
some place or other. Mallard dreaded his coming. News of some kind
he would bring, and Mallard's need was of silence. If he indeed
remained here, the old irritation would revive and go on from day to
day. Impossible that they should live together long.

It was pretty certain by what train he would journey from Naples to
Salerno; easy, therefore, to calculate the probable hour of his
arrival at Amalfi. When that hour drew near, Mallard set out to walk
a short distance along the road, to meet him. Unlike the Sorrento
side of the promontory, the mountains here rise suddenly and boldly
out of the sea, towering to craggy eminences, moulded and cleft into
infinite variety of slope and precipice, bastion and gorge. Cut upon
the declivity, often at vast sheer height above the beach, the road
follows the curving of the hills. Now and then it makes a deep loop
inland, on the sides of an impassable chasm; and set in each of
these recesses is a little town, white-gleaming amid its orchard
verdure, with quaint and many-coloured campanile, with the semblance
of a remote time. Far up on the heights are other gleaming specks,
villages which seem utterly beyond the traffic of man, solitary for
ever in sun or mountain mist.

Mallard paid little heed to the things about him; he walked on and
on, watching for a vehicle, listening for the tread of horses.
Sometimes he could see the white road-track miles away, and he
strained his eyes in observing it. Twice or thrice he was deceived;
a carriage came towards him, and with agitation he waited to see its
occupants, only to be disappointed by strange faces.

There are few things more pathetic than persistency in hope due to
ignorance of something that has befallen beyond our ken. It is one
of those instances of the irony inherent in human fate which move at
once to tears and bitter laughter; the waste of emotion, the involuntary
folly, the cruel deception caused by limit of faculties--how
they concentrate into an hour or a day the essence of life itself!

He walked on and on; as well do this as go back and loiter fretfully
at the hotel. He got as far as the Capo d' Orso, the headland
half-way between Amalfi and Salerno, and there sat down by the
wayside to rest. From this point Salerno was first visible, in the
far distance, between the sea and the purple Apennines.

Either Elgar was not coming, or he had lingered long between the two
portions of his journey.

Mallard turned back; if the carriage came, it would overtake him. He
plodded slowly, the evening falling around him in still loveliness,
fragrance from the groves of orange and lemon spread on every motion
of the air.

And if he did not come? That must have some strange meaning. In any
case, he must surely write. And ten to one his letter would be a
lie. What was to be expected of him but a lie?

Monday, Tuesday, and now Wednesday morning. Hitherto not even a
letter.

When it was clear that Elgar had disregarded his promise, and, for
whatever reason, did not even seek to justify or excuse himself,
there came upon Mallard a strong mood of scorn, which for some hours
enabled him to act as though all his anxiety were at an end. He set
himself a piece of work; a flash of the familiar energy traversed
his mind. He believed that at length his degradation was over, and
that, come what might, he could now face it sturdily. Mere
self-deception, of course. The sun veiled itself, and hope was as
far as ever.

Never before had he utterly lost the power of working. In every
struggle he had speedily overcome, and found in work the one
unfailing resource. If he were robbed of this, what stay had life
for him henceforth? He could not try to persuade himself that his
suffering would pass, sooner or later, and time grant him
convalescence; the blackness ahead was too profound. He fell again
into torpor, and let the days go as they would; he cared not.

But this morning brought him a letter. At the first glance he was
surprised by a handwriting which was not Elgar's; recollecting
himself, he knew it for that of Mrs. Lessingham.

"DEAR MR. MALLARD,--

"It grieves me to be obliged to send you
disquieting news so soon after your departure from Naples, but I
think you will agree with me that I have no choice but to write of
something that has this morning come to my knowledge. You have no
taste for roundabout phrases, so I will say at once in plain words
that Cecily and Mr. Elgar have somehow contrived to fall in love
with each other--or to imagine that they have done so, which, as
regards results, unfortunately amounts to the same thing. I cannot
learn by what process it came about, but I am assured by Cecily, in
words of becoming vagueness, that they plighted troth, or some thing
of the kind, yesterday at Pompeii. There was a party of four: Mr.
and Mrs. Bradshaw, Cecily, and Mrs. Baske. At Pompeii they were
unexpectedly (so I am told) joined by Mr. Elgar--notwithstanding
that he had taken leave of us on Saturday, with the information that
he was about to return to you at Amalfi, and there devote himself to
literary work of some indefinite kind. Perhaps you have in the
meantime heard from him. This morning Cecily received a letter, in
which he made peremptory request for an inter view; she showed this
to me. My duty was plain. I declared the interview impossible, and
Cecily gave way on condition that I saw Mr. Elgar, told him why she
herself did not appear, and forthwith wrote to you. Our young
gentleman was disconcerted when he found that his visit was to be
wasted on my uninteresting self. I sent him about his business--
only that, unhappily, he has none--bidding him wait till we had
heard from you.

"I fancy this will be as disagreeable to you as it is to me. The
poor child is in a sad state, much disposed, I fear, to regard me as
her ruthless enemy, and like to fall ill if she be kept long in idle
suspense. Do you think it worth while to come to Naples? It is very
annoying that your time should be wasted by foolish children. I had
given Cecily credit for more sense. For my own part, I cannot think
with patience of her marrying Mr. Elgar; or rather, I cannot think
of it without dread. We must save her from becoming wise through
bitter sorrow, if it can in any way b" managed. I hope and trust
that nothing may happen to prevent your receiving this letter
to-morrow, for I am very uneasy, and not likely to become less so as
time goes on.

"Believe me, dear Mr. Mallard,
"Sincerely yours,

"EDITH LESSINGHAM."

At seven o'clock in the evening, Mallard was in Naples. He did not
go to Casa Rolandi, but took a room in one of the musty hotels which
overlook the port. When he felt sure that Mrs. Gluck's guests must
have dined, he presented himself at the house and sent his name to
Mrs. Lessingham.

She took his hand with warm welcome.

"Thank you for coming so promptly. I have been getting into such a
state of nervousness. Cecily keeps her room, and looks ill; I have
several times been on the point of sending for the doctor, though it
seemed absurd."

Mallard seated himself without invitation; indeed, he had a
difficulty in standing.

"Hasn't she been out to-day?" he asked, in a voice which might have
signified selfish indifference.

"Nor yesterday. Mrs. Spence was here this morning, but Cecily would
not see her. I made excuses, and of course said nothing of what was
going on. I asked the child if she would like to see Mrs. Baske, but
she refused."

Mallard sat as if he had nothing to say, looking vaguely about the
room.

"Have you heard from Mr. Elgar?" Mrs. Lessingham inquired.

"No. I know nothing about him. I haven't been to Casa Rolandi, lest
I should meet him. It was better to see you first."

"You were not prepared for this news?"

"His failure to return made me speculate, of course. I suppose they
have met several times at Mrs. Baske's?"

"That at once occurred to me, but Cecily assures me that is not so.
There is a mystery. I have no idea how they saw each other privately
at Pompeii on Monday. But, between ourselves, Mr. Mallard, I can't
help suspecting that he had learnt from his sister the particulars
of the excursion."

"You think it not impossible that Mrs. Baske connived at their
meeting in that way?"

"One doesn't like to use words of that kind, but--"

"I suppose one must use the word that expresses one's meaning," said
Mallard, bluntly. "But I didn't think Mrs. Baske was likely to aid
her brother for such a purpose. Have you any reason to think the
contrary?"

"None that would carry any weight."

Mallard paused; then, with a restless movement on his chair
exclaimed:

"But what has this to do with the matter? What has happened has
happened, and there's an end of it. The question is, what ought to
be done now? I don't see that we can treat Miss Doran like a child."

Mrs. Lessingham looked at him. She was resting one arm on a table by
which she sat, and supporting her forehead with her hand.

"You propose that things should take their natural course?"

"They will, whether I propose it or not."

"And if our next information is that they desire to be married as
soon as conveniently may be?"

"That is another matter. They will have no consent of mine to
anything of the kind."

"You relieve me."

Mallard looked at her frowningly.

"Miss Doran," he continued, "will not marry Elgar with my consent
until she be one-and-twenty. Then, of course, she may do as she
likes."

"You will see Mr. Elgar, and make this clear to him?"

"Very clear indeed," was the grim reply. "As for any thing else,
why, what can we do? If they insist upon it, I suppose they must see
each other--of course, under reason able restrictions. You cannot
make yourself a duenna of melodrama, Mrs. Lessingham."

"Scarcely. But I think our stay at Naples may reasonably be
shortened--unless, of course, Mr. Elgar leaves."

"You take it for granted, I see, that Miss Doran will be guided by
our judgment," said Mallard, after musing on the last remark.

"I have no fear of that," replied Mrs. Lessingham with confidence,
"if it is made to appear only a question of postponement. This will
be a trifle compared with my task of yesterday morning. You can
scarcely imagine how astonished she was at the first hint of
opposition."

"I can imagine it very well," said the other, in his throat. "What
else could be expected after--" He checked himself on the point
of saying something that would have revealed his opinion of Mrs.
Lessingham's "system"--his opinion accentuated by unreasoning
bitterness. "From all we know of her," were the words he
substituted.

"She is more like her father than I had supposed," said Mrs.
Lessingham, meditatively.

Mallard stood up.

"You will let her know that I have been here?"

"Certainly."

"She has expressed no wish to see me?"

"None. I had better report to her simply that you have no objection
to Mr. Elgar's visits."

"That is all I would say at present. I shall see Elgar tonight. He
is still at Casa Rolandi, I take it?"

"That was the address on his letter."

"Then, good-night. By-the-bye, I had better give you my address." He
wrote it on a leaf in his pocket-book. "I will see you again in a
day or two, when things have begun to clear up."

"It's too bad that you should have this trouble, Mr. Mallard."

"I don't pretend to like it, but there's no help."

And he left Mrs. Lessingham to make her comment on his candour.

Yes, Signor Elgar was in his chamber; he had entered but a quarter
of an hour since. The signor seemed not quite well, unhappily--
said Olimpia, the domestic, in her chopped Neapolitan. Mallard
vouchsafed no reply. He knocked sharply at the big solid door. There
was a cry of "Avanti!" and he entered.

Elgar advanced a few steps. He did not affect to smile, but looked
directly at his visitor, who--as if all the pain of the interview
were on him rather than the other--cast down his eyes.

"I was expecting you," said Reuben, without offering his hand.

"So was I you--three days ago."

"Sit down, and let us talk. I'm ashamed of myself, Mallard. I ought
at all events to have written."

"One would have thought so."

"Have you seen Mrs. Lessingham?"

"Yes."

"Then you understand everything. I repeat that I am ashamed of my
behaviour to you. For days--since last Saturday--I have been
little better than a madman. On Saturday I went to say good-bye to
Mrs. Lessingham and her niece; it was _bona fide_, Mallard."

"In your sense of the phrase. Go on."

"I tell you, I then meant to leave Naples," pursued Elgar, who had
repeated this so often to himself, by way of palliation, that he had
come to think it true. "It was not my fault that I couldn't when
that visit was over. It happened that I saw Miss Doran alone--sat
talking with her till her aunt returned."

Mrs. Lessingham had made no mention of this little matter. Hearing
of it, Mallard ejaculated mentally, "Idiot!"

"It was all over with me. I broke faith with you--as I should have
done with any man; as I should have done if the lives of a hundred
people had depended on my coming. I didn't write, because I
preferred not to write lies, and if I had told the truth, I knew you
would come at once. To be sure, silence might have had the same
result, but I had to risk something, and I risked that."

"I marvel at your disinclination to lie."

"What do you mean by saying that?" broke out Elgar, with natural
warmth.

"I mean simply what I say. Go on."

"After all, Mallard, I don't quite know why you should take this
tone with me. If a man falls in love, he thinks of nothing but how
to gain his end; I should think even you can take that for granted.
My broken promise is a trifle in view of what caused it."

"Again, in _your_ view. In mine it is by no means a trifle. It
distinguishes you from honourable men, that's all; a point of some
moment, I should think, when your character is expressly under
discussion."

"You mean, of course, that I am not worthy of Cecily. I can't grant
any such conclusion."

"Let us leave that aside for the present," said Mallard. "Will you
tell me how it came to pass that you met Miss Doran and her
companions at Pompeii?"

Elgar hesitated; whereupon the other added quickly:

"If it was with Miss Doran's anticipation, I want no details."

"No, it wasn't."

Their looks met.

"By chance, then, of course?" said Mallard, sourly.

Elgar spoke on an impulse, leaning forward.

"Look, I won't lie to you. Miriam told me they were going. I met her
that morning, when I was slinking about, and I compelled her to give
me her help--sorely against her will. Don't think ill of her for
it, Mallard. I frightened he! by my violent manner. I haven't seen
her since; she can't know what the result has been. None of them at
Pompeii suspected--only a moment of privacy; there's no need to
say any more about it."

Mallard mused over this revelation. He felt inclined to scorn Elgar
for making it. It affected him curiously, and at once took a place
among his imaginings of Miriam.

"You shall promise me that you won't betray your knowledge of this,"
added Reuben. "At all events, not now. Promise me that. Your word is
to be trusted, I know."

"It's very unlikely that I should think of touching on the matter to
your sister. I shall make no promise."

"Have you seen Cecily herself?" Elgar asked, leaving the point aside
in his eagerness to come to what concerned him more deeply.

"No."

"I have waited for your permission to visit her. Do you mean to
refuse it?"

"No. If you call to-morrow morning, you will be admitted. Mrs.
Lessingham is willing that you should see her niece in private."

"Hearty thanks for that, Mallard! We haven't shaken hands yet, you
remember. Forgive me for treating you so ill."

He held out his band cordially, and Mallard could not refuse it,
though he would rather have thrust his fingers among red coals than
feel that hot pressure.

"I believe I can be grateful," pursued Elgar, in a voice that
quivered with transport. "I will do my best to prove it."

"Let us speak of things more to the point. What result do you
foresee of this meeting to-morrow!"

The other hesitated.

"I shall ask Cecily when she will marry me."

"You may do so, of course, but the answer cannot depend upon herself
alone."

"What delay do you think necessary?"

"Until she is of age, and her own mistress," replied Mallard, with
quiet decision.

"Impossible! What need is there to wait all that time?"

"Why, there is this need, Elgar," returned the other, more
vigorously than he had yet spoken. "There is need that you should
prove to those who desire Miss Doran's welfare that you are
something more than a young fellow fresh from a life of waste and
idleness and everything that demonstrates or tends to
untrustworthiness. It seems to me that a couple of years or so is
not an over-long time for this, all things considered."

Elgar kept silent.

"You would have seen nothing objectionable in immediate marriage?"
said Mallard.

"It is useless to pretend that I should."

"Not even from the point of view of Mrs. Lessingham and myself?"

"You yourself have never spoken plainly about such things in my
hearing; but I find you in most things a man of your time. And it
doesn't seem to me that Mrs. Lessingham is exactly conventional in
her views."

"You imagine yourself worthy of such a wife at present?"

"Plainly, I do. It would be the merest hypocrisy if I said anything
else. If Cecily loves me, my love for her is at least as strong. If
we are equal in that, what else matters? I am not going to cry
_Peccavi_ about the past. I have lived, and you know what that means
in my language. In what am I inferior as a man to Cecily as a woman?
Would you have me snivel, and talk about my impurity and her angelic
qualities? You know that you would despise me if I did--or any
other man who used the same empty old phrases."

"I grant you that," replied Mallard, deliberately. "I believe I am
no more superstitious with regard to these questions than you are,
and I want to hear no cant. Let us take it on more open ground. Were
Cecily Doran my daughter, I would resist her marrying you to the
utmost of my power--not simply because you have lived laxly, but
because of my conviction that the part of your life is to be a
pattern of the whole. I have no faith in you--no faith in your
sense of honour, in your stability, not even in your mercy. Your
wife will be, sooner or later, one of the unhappiest of women.
Thinking of you in this way, and being in the place of a parent to
Cecily, am I doing my duty or not in insisting that she shall not
marry you hastily, that even in her own despite she shall have time
to study you and herself, that she shall only take the irrevocable
step when she clearly knows that it is done on her own
responsibility? You may urge what you like; I am not so foolish as
to suppose you capable of consideration for others in your present
state of mind. I, however, shall defend myself from the girl's
reproaches in after-years. There will be no marriage until she is
twenty-one."

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