The Emancipated

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Her instruction had been rigidly sectarian. Whatever she studied was
represented to her from the point of view of its relation to
Christianity as her teachers understood it. The Christian faith was
alone of absolute significance; all else that the mind of man could
contain was of more or less importance as more or less connected
with that single interest. To the time of her marriage, her outlook
upon the world was incredibly restricted. She had never read a book
that would not pass her mother's censorship; she had never seen a
work of art; she had never heard any but "sacred" music; she had
never perused a journal; she had never been to an entertainment--
unless the name could be given to a magic-lantern exhibition of
views in Palestine, or the like. Those with whom she associated had
gone through a similar training, and knew as little of life.

She had heard of "infidelity;" yes. Live as long as she might, she
would never forget one dreadful day when, in a quarrel with his
mother, Reuben uttered words which signified hatred and rejection of
all he had been taught to hold divine Mrs. Elgar's pallid,
speechless horror; the severe chastisement inflicted on the lad by
his father;--she could never look back on it all without sickness
of heart. Thenceforth, her brother and his wild ways embodied for
her that awful thing, infidelity. At the age which Cecily Doran had
now attained, Miriam believed that there were only a few men living
so unspeakably wicked as to repudiate Christianity; one or two of
these, she had learnt from the pulpit, were "men of science," a term
which to this day fell on her ears with sinister sound.

Thus prepared for the duties of wife, mother, and leader in society,
she shone forth upon Bartles. Her husband, essentially a coarse man,
did his utmost, though unconsciously, to stimulate her pride and
supply her with incentives to unworthy ambition. He was rich, and
boasted of it vulgarly; he was ignorant, and vaunted the fact,
thanking Heaven that for him the purity of religious conviction had
never been endangered by the learning that leads astray; be was
proud of possessing a young and handsome wife, and for the first
time evoked in her a personal vanity. Day by day was it--most
needlessly--impressed upon Miriam that she must regard herself as
the chief lady in Bartles, and omit no duty appertaining to such a
position. She had an example to set; she was chosen as a support of
religion.

Most happily, the man died. Had he remained her consort for ten
years, the story of Miriam's life would have been one of those that
will scarcely bear dwelling upon, too repulsive, too heart-breaking;
a few words of bitterness, of ruth, and there were an end of it. His
death was like the removal of a foul burden that polluted her and
gradually dragged her down. Nor was it long before she herself
understood it in this way, though dimly and uncertainly. She found
herself looking on things with eyes which somehow had a changed
power of vision. With remarkable abruptness, certain of her habits
fell from her, and she remembered them only with distaste, even with
disgust. And one day she said to herself passionately that never
would she wed again--never, never! She was experiencing for the
first time in her life a form of liberty.

Not that her faith had received any shock. To her undeveloped mind
every tenet in which she had been instructed was still valid. This
is the point to note. Her creed was a habit of the intellect; she
held it as she did the knowledge of the motions of the earth. She
had never reflected upon it, for in everything she heard or read
this intellectual basis was presupposed. With doctrinal differences
her reasoning faculty was familiar, and with her to think of
religion was to think of the points at issue between one church and
another--always, moreover, with pre-judgment in favour of her own.

But the external results of her liberty began to be of importance.
She came into frequent connection with her cousin Eleanor; she saw
more than hitherto of the Bradshaws' family life; she had business
transactions; she read newspapers; she progressed slowly towards
some practical acquaintance with the world.

Miriam knew the very moment when the thought of making great
sacrifices to build a new chapel for Bartles had first entered her
mind. One of her girl friends had just married, and was come to live
in the neighbourhood. The husband, Welland by name, was wealthier
and of more social importance than Mr. Baske had been; it soon
became evident that Mrs. Welland, who also aspired to prominence in
religious life, would be a formidable rival to the lady of Redbeck
House. On the occasion of some local meeting, Miriam felt this
danger keenly; she went home in dark mood, and the outcome of her
brooding was the resolve in question.

She had not inherited all her husband's possessions; indeed, there
fell to her something less than half his personal estate. For a
time, this had not concerned her; now she was beginning to think of
it occasionally with discontent, followed by reproach of conscience.
Like reproach did she suffer for the jealousy and envy excited in
her by Mrs. Welland's arrival. A general uneasiness of mind was
gradually induced, and the chapel-building project, with singular
confusion of motives, represented to her at once a worldly ambition
and a discipline for the soul. It was a long time before she spoke
of it, and in the interval she suffered more and more from a vague
mental unrest.

Letters were coming to her from Cecily. Less by what they contained
than by what they omitted, she knew that Cecily was undergoing a
great change. Miriam put at length certain definite questions, and
the answers she received were unsatisfactory, alarming. The
correspondence became a distinct source of trouble. Not merely on
Cecily's account; she was led by it to think of the world beyond her
horizon, and to conceive dissatisfactions such as had never taken
form to her.

Her physical health began to fall off; she had seasons of
depression, during which there settled upon her superstitious fears.
Ascetic impulses returned, and by yielding to them she established a
new cause of bodily weakness. And the more she suffered, the more
intolerable to her grew the thought of resigning her local
importance. Her pride, whenever irritated, showed itself in ways
which exposed her to the ridicule of envious acquaintances. At
length Bartles was surprised with an announcement of what had so
long been in her mind; a newspaper paragraph made known, as if with
authority, the great and noble work Mrs. Baske was about to
undertake. For a day or two Miriam enjoyed the excitement this
produced--the inquiries, the felicitations, the reports of gossip.
She held her head more firmly than ever; she seemed of a sudden to
be quite re-established in health.

Another day or two, and she was lying seriously ill--so ill that
her doctor summoned aid from Manchester.

What a distance between those memories, even the latest of them, and
this room in Villa Sannazaro! Its foreign aspect, its brightness,
its comfort, the view from the windows, had from the first worked
upon her with subtle influences of which she was unconscious. By
reason of her inexperience of life, it was impossible for Miriam to
analyze her own being, and note intelligently the modifications it
underwent. Introspection meant to her nothing but debates held with
conscience--a technical conscience, made of religious precepts.
Original reflection, independent of these precepts, was to her very
simply a form of sin, a species of temptation for which she had been
taught to prepare herself. With anxiety, she found herself slipping
away from that firm ground whence she was won't to judge all within
and about her; more and more difficult was it to keep in view that
sole criterion in estimating the novel impressions she received. To
review the criterion itself was still beyond her power. She suffered
from the conviction that trials foreseen were proving too strong for
her. Whenever her youth yielded to the allurement of natural joys,
there followed misery of penitence. Not that Miriam did in truth
deem it a sin to enjoy the sunshine and the breath of the sea and
the beauty of mountains (though such delights might become
excessive, like any other, and so veil temptation), but she felt
that for one in her position of peril there could not be too strict
a watch kept upon the pleasures that were admitted. Hence she could
never forget herself in pleasure; her attitude must always be that
of one on guard.

The name of Italy signified perilous enticement, and she was
beginning to feel it. The people amid whom she lived were all but
avowed scorners of her belief, and yet she was beginning to like
their society. Every letter she wrote to Bartles seemed to her
despatched on a longer journey than the one before; her paramount
interests were fading, fading; she could not exert herself to think
of a thousand matters which used to have the power to keep her
active all day long. The chapel-plans were hidden away; she durst
not go to the place where they would have met her eye.

She suffered in her pride. On landing at Naples, she had imagined
that her position among the Spences and their friends would not be
greatly different from that she had held at Bartles. They were not
"religious" people; all the more must they respect her, feeling
rebuked in her presence. The chapel project would enhance her
importance. How far otherwise had it proved! They pitied her,
compassionated her lack of knowledge, of opportunities. With the
perception of this, there came upon her another disillusion In
classing the Spences with people who were not "religious," she had
understood them as lax in the observance of duties which at all
events they recognized as such. By degrees she learnt that they were
very far from holding the same views as herself concerning religious
obligation; they were anything but conscience-smitten in the face of
her example. Was it, then, possible that persons who lived in a
seemly manner could be sceptics, perhaps "infidels"? What of Cecily
Doran? She had not dared to ask Cecily face to face how far her
disbelief went; the girl seemed to have no creed but that of worldly
delight. How had she killed her conscience in so short a time?
Obviously, her views were those of Mrs. Lessingham; probably those
of Mr. Mallard. Were these people strange and dreadful exceptions,
or did they represent a whole world of which she had not suspected
the existence?

Yes, she was beginning to feel the allurement of Italy. Instead of
sitting turned away from her windows when musing, she often passed
an hour with her eyes on the picture they framed, content to be
idle, satisfied with form and colour, not thinking at all. Habits of
personal idleness crept upon her; she seldom cared to walk, but
found pleasure in the motion of a carriage, and lay back on the
cushions, instead of sitting quite upright as at first. She began to
wish for music; the sound of Eleanor's piano would tempt her to make
an excuse for going into the room, and then she would remain,
listening. The abundant fruits of the season became a temptation to
her palate; she liked to see shops and stalls overflowing with the
vineyard's delicious growth.

She knew for the first time the seduction of books. From what
unutterable weariness had she been saved when she assented to
Eleanor's proposal and began to learn Italian! First there was the
fear lest she should prove slow at acquiring, suffer yet another
fall from her dignity; but this apprehension was soon removed. She
had a brain, and could use it; Eleanor's praise fell upon her ears
delightfully. Then there was that little volume of English verse
which Eleanor left on the table; its name, "The Golden Treasury,"
made her imagine it of a religious tone; she was undeceived in
glancing through it. Poetry had hitherto made no appeal to her; she
did not care much for the little book. But one day Cecily caught it
up in delight, and read to her for half an hour; she affected
indifference, but had in reality learnt something, and thereafter
read for herself.

The two large mirrors in her room had, oddly enough, no unimportant
part among the agencies working for her development. It was almost
inevitable that, in moving about, she should frequently regard her
own figure. From being something of an annoyance, this necessity at
length won attractiveness, till she gazed at herself far oftener
than she need have done. As for her face she believed it pas sable,
perhaps rather more than that; but the attire that had possessed
distinction at Bartles looked very plain, to say the least, in the
light of her new experience. One day she saw herself standing side
by side with Cecily, and her eyes quickly turned away.

To what was she sinking!

But Dante lay unopened, together with the English books. Miriam had
spent a day or two of alternate languor and irritableness, unable to
attend to anything serious. Just now she had in her hand Cecily's
letter, the letter which told of what had happened. There was no
reason for referring to it again; this afternoon Cecily herself had
been here. But Miriam read over the pages, and dwelt upon the

At dinner, no remark was made on the subject that occupied the minds
of all three. Afterwards they sat together, as usual, and Eleanor
played. In one of the silences, Miriam turned to Spence and asked
him if he had seen Mr. Mallard.

"Yes; I found him after a good deal of going about," replied the
other, glad to have done with artificial disregard of the subject.

"Does he know that they are going to Capri!"

"He evidently hadn't heard of it. I suppose he'll have a note from
Mrs. Lessingham this evening or to-morrow."

Miriam waited a little, then asked:

"What is his own wish? What does he think ought to be arranged?"

"Just what Cecily told you," interposed Eleanor, before her husband
could reply.

"I thought he might have spoken more freely to Edward."

"Well," answered Spence, "he is strongly of opinion that Reuben
ought to go to England very soon. But I suppose Cecily told you that
as well?"

"She seemed to be willing. But why doesn't Mr. Mallard speak to her
himself?"

"Mallard isn't exactly the man for this delicate business," said
Spence, smiling.

Miriam glanced from him to Eleanor. She would have said no more, had
it been in her power to keep silence; but an involuntary
persistence, the same in kind as that often manifested by
questioning children--an impulsive feeling that the next query
must elicit something which would satisfy a vague desire, obliged
her to speak again.

"Is it his intention not to see Cecily at all?"

"I think very likely it is, Miriam," answered Eleanor, when her
husband showed that he left her to do so.

"I understand."

To which remark Eleanor, when Miriam was gone, attached the
interrogative, "I wonder whether she does?" The Spences did not feel
it incumbent upon them to direct her in the matter; it were just as
well if she followed a mistaken clue.

Two days later, Mrs. Lessingham and her niece, accompanied by Reuben
Elgar, departed for Capri. The day after that, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw
in very deed said good-bye to Naples and travelled northwards. They
purposed spending Christmas in Rome, and thence by quicker stages
they would return to the land of civilization. Spence went to the
station to see them off, and at lunch, after speaking of this and
other things, he said to Miriam:

"Mallard wishes to see you. I told him I thought five o'clock this
afternoon would be a convenient time."

Miriam assented, but not without betraying surprise and uneasiness.
Subsequently she just mentioned to Eleanor that she would receive
the visitor in her own sitting-room. There, as five o'clock drew
near, she waited in painful agitation. What it was Mallard's purpose
to say to her she could not with any degree of certainty conjecture.
Had Reuben told him of the part she had played in connection with
that eventful day at Pompeii? What would be his tone? Did he come to
ask for particulars concerning her brother? Intend what he might,
she dreaded the interview. And yet--fact of which she made no
secret to herself--she had rather he came than not. When it was a
few minutes past five, and no foot had yet sounded in the corridor,
all other feeling was lost in the misgiving that he might have
changed his mind. Perhaps he had decided to write instead, and her
heart sank at the thought. She felt an overpowering curiosity as to
the way in which this event had affected the strange man. Reports
were no satisfaction to her; she desired to see him and hear him
speak.

The footsteps at last! She trembled, went hot and cold, had a
parched throat. Mallard entered, and she did not offer him her hand;
perhaps he might reject it. In consequence there was an absurdly
formal bow on both sides.

"Please sit down, Mr. Mallard."

She saw that he was looking at the "St. Cecilia," but with what
countenance her eyes could not determine. To her astonishment, he
spoke of the picture, and in an unembarrassed tone.

"An odd thing that this should be in your room."

"Yes. We spoke of it the first time Cecily came."

Her accents were not firm. At once he fixed his gaze on her, and did
not remove it until her temples throbbed and she cast down her eyes
in helpless abashment.

"I have had a long letter from your brother, Mrs. Baske. It seems he
posted it just before they left for Capri. I can only reply to it in
one way, and it gives me so much pain to do so that I am driven to
ask your help. He writes begging me to take another view of this
matter, and permit them to be married before very long. The letter
is powerfully written; few men could plead their cause with such
eloquence and force. But it cannot alter my determination. I must
reply briefly and brutally. What I wish to ask you is, whether with
sincerity you can urge my arguments upon your brother, and give me
this assistance in the most obvious duty?"

"I have no influence with him, Mr. Mallard."

Again he looked at her persistently, and said with deliberation:

"I think you must have some. And this is one of the cases in which a
number of voices may possibly prevail, though one or two are
ineffectual. But--if you will forgive me my direct words--your
voice is, of course, useless if you cannot speak in earnest."

She was able now to return his look, for her pride was being
aroused. The face she examined bore such plain marks of suffering
that with difficulty she removed her eyes from it. Nor could she
make reply to him, so intensely were her thoughts occupied with what
she saw.

"Perhaps," he said, "you had rather not undertake anything at once."
Then, his voice changing slightly, "I have no wish to seem a
suppliant, Mrs. Baske. My reasons for saying that this marriage
shall not, if I can prevent it, take place till Miss Doran is of
age, are surely simple and convincing enough; I can't suppose that
it is necessary to insist upon them to you. But I feel I had no
right to leave any means unused. By speaking to you, I might cause
you to act more earnestly than you otherwise would. That was all."

"I am very willing to help you," she replied, with carefully
courteous voice.

"After all, I had rather we didn't put it in that way," Mallard
resumed, with a curious doggedness, as if her tone were distasteful
to him. "My own part in the business is accidental. Please tell me:
is it, or not, your own belief that a delay is desirable?"

The reply was forced from her.

"I certainly think it is."

"May I ask you if you have reasoned with your brother about it?"

"I haven't had any communication with him since--since we knew of
this." She paused; but, before Mallard had shown an intention to
speak, added abruptly, "I should have thought that Miss Doran might
have been trusted to understand and respect your wishes."

"Miss Doran knows my wishes," he answered drily, "but I haven't
insisted upon them to her, and am not disposed to do so."

"Would it not be very simple and natural if you did?"

The look he gave her was stern all but to anger.

"It wouldn't be a very pleasant task to me, Mrs. Baske, to lay
before her my strongest arguments against her marrying Mr. Elgar.
And if I don't do that, it seems to me that it is better to let her
know my wishes through Mrs. Lessingham. As you say, it is to be
hoped she will understand and respect them."

He rose from his chair. For some reason, Miriam could not utter the
words that one part of her prompted. She wished to assure him that
she would do her best with Reuben, but at the same time she resented
his mode of addressing her, and the conflict made her tongue-tied.

"I won't occupy more of your time, Mrs. Baske."

She would have begged him to resume his seat. The conversation had
been so short; she wanted to hear him speak more freely. But her
request, she knew, would be disregarded With an effort, she
succeeded in holding out her hand Mallard held it lightly for an
instant.

"I will write to him," fell from her lips, when already he had
turned to the door. "If necessary, I will go and see him."

"Thank you," he replied with civility, and left her.

CHAPTER XIV

ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING

"I cannot answer your long letter; to such correspondence there is
no end. Come and spend a day here with us; I promise to listen
patiently, and you shall hear how things are beginning to shape
themselves in my mind, now I have had leisure to reflect. Cecily
sends a line. Do come. Take the early boat on Monday; Spence will
give you all particulars, and see you off at Santa Lucia. We really
have some very sober plans, not unapproved by Mrs. Lessingham. Will
meet you at the Marina."

Miriam received this on Sunday morning, and went to her own room to
read it. The few lines of Cecily's writing which were enclosed, she
glanced over with careless eye; yet not with mere carelessness
either, but as if something of aversion disinclined her to peruse
them attentively. That sheet she at once laid aside; Reuben's note
she still held in her hand, and kept re-reading it.

She went to the window and looked over towards Capri. A slight mist
softened its outlines this morning; it seemed very far away, on the
dim borders of sea and sky. For a long time she had felt the luring
charm of that island, always before her eyes, yet never more than a
blue mountainous shape. Lately she had been reading of it, and her
fancy, new to such picturings, was possessed by the mysterious dread
of its history in old time, the grandeur of its cliffs, the
loveliness of its green hollows, and the wonder of its sea-caves.
Her childhood had known nothing of fairyland, and now, in this tardy
awakening of the imaginative part of her nature, she thought
sometimes of Capri much as a child is wont to think of the enchanted
countries, nameless, regionless, in books of fable.

What thoughts for Sunday! But Miriam was far on the way of those who
recognize themselves as overmastered by temptation, and grow almost
reckless in the sins they cannot resist. So long it was since she
had been able to attend the accustomed public worship, and now its
substitute in the privacy of her room had become irksome. She
blushed to be practising hypocrisy; the Spences were careful to
refrain from interfering with her to-day, and here, withdrawn from
their sight, she passed the hours in wearisome idleness--in worse
than that.

She could not look again at Cecily's letter. More; she could not let
her eyes turn to Raphael's picture. But before the mirrors she
paused often and long, losing herself in self regard.

Early on the morrow, she drove down with Spence to Santa Lucia, and
went on board the Capri boat. There were few passengers, a handful
of Germans and an English family--father, mother, two daughters,
and two sons Sitting apart, Miriam cast many glances at her country
people, and not without envy. They were comely folk, in the best
English health, refined in bearing, full of enjoyment. Now and then
a few words of their talk fell upon her ears, and it was merry,
kindly, intimate talk, the fruit of a lifetime of domestic
happiness. It made her think again of what her own home-life had
been. Such companionship of parents and children was inconceivable
in her experience. The girls observed her, and, she believed, spoke
of her. Must she not look strange in their eyes? Probably they felt
sorry for her, as an invalid whose countenance was darkened by
recent pain.

The boat made first of all for Sorrento, where a few more persons
came on board. Miriam was by this time enjoying the view of the
coast. From this point she kept her gaze fixed on Capri. One more
delay on the voyage; the steamer stopped near the Blue Grotto, that
such of the passengers as wished might visit it before landing.
Miriam kept her place, and for the present was content to watch the
little boats, as they rocked for a few moments at the foot of the
huge cliff and then suddenly disappeared through the entrance to the
cavern. When the English family returned, she listened to their
eager, wondering conversation. A few minutes more, and she was
landing at the Marina, where Reuben awaited her.

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