The Emancipated

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He had a carriage ready for the drive up the serpent road to the
hotel where Mrs. Lessingham and her niece were staying. His own
quarters were elsewhere--at the Pagano, dear to artists.

"Well, have you enjoyed the voyage? What did you think of Sorrento?
We watched the steamer across from there; we were up on the road to
Anacapri, yonder. You don't look so well as when I saw you last--
nothing like."

He waited for no reply to his questions, and talked with nervous
brokenness. Seated in the carriage, he could not keep still from one
moment to the next. His eyes had the unquiet of long-continued
agitation, the look that results from intense excitement when it has
become the habit of day after day.

"Mallard has been talking to you," he said suddenly.

"Why do you say that?"

"I know he has, from your letter.--Look at the views!"

"What plans did you speak of?"

"Oh, we'll talk about it afterwards. But Mallard _has_ been talking
you over?"

Miriam had no resolve by which to guide herself. She knew not
distinctly why she had come to Capri. Her familiar self-reliance and
cold disregard of anything but a few plain rules in regulating her
conduct, were things of the past. She felt herself idly swayed by
conflicting influences, unable even to debate what course she should
take; the one emotion of which she was clearly conscious was of so
strange and disturbing a kind that, so far from impelling her to
act, it seemed merely to destroy all her customary motives and leave
her subject to the will of others. It was the return of weakness
such as had possessed her mind when she lay ill, when she was
ceaselessly troubled with a desire for she knew not what, and,
unable to utter it had no choice but to admit the suggestions and
biddings of those who cared for her. She could not even resent this
language of Reuben's, to which formerly she would have opposed her
unyielding pride; his proximity infected her with nervousness, but
at the same time made her flaccid before his energy.

"He came and spoke to me about you," she admitted. "But he left me
to do as I saw fit."

"After putting the case against me as strongly as it could be put. I
know; you needn't tell me anything about the conversation. Let us
leave it till afterwards.--You see how this road winds, so that
the incline may be gentle enough for carriages. There are stony
little paths, just like the beds of mountain streams, going straight
down to the Marina. I lost myself again and again yesterday among
the gardens and vineyards. Look back over the bay to Naples!"

But in a minute or two the other subject was resumed, again with a
suddenness that told of inability to keep from speaking his
thoughts.

"You understand, I dare say, why Mallard is making such a fuss?"

"How could I help understanding?"

"But _do_ you understand?"

"What do you mean?" she asked irritably.

"Does he speak like a man who is disinterested?"

"It is not my business to discuss Mr. Mallard's motives."

"It certainly is mine--and yours too, if you care anything for
me."

They reached the hotel without further debate of this subject. It
was not much after one o'clock; all lunched together in private,
talking only of Capri. Later they walked to the villa of Tiberius.
Elgar kept up an appearance of light-hearted enjoyment; Cecily was
less able to disguise her preoccupation. Mrs. Lessingham seemed to
have accepted the inevitable. Her first annoyance having passed, she
was submitting to that personal charm in Elgar which all women
sooner or later confessed; her behaviour to him was indulgent, and
marked only with a very gentle reserve when he talked too much
paradox.

Elgar went to his hotel for dinner, and left the others to
themselves through the evening. The next day was given to. wandering
about the island. On the return at sunset, Miriam and Reuben had a
long talk together, in which it was made manifest that the "plans"
were just as vague as ever. Reuben had revived the mention of
literary work, that was all, and proposed to make his head-quarters
in Paris, in order that he might not be too far from Cecily, who
would, it was presumed, remain on the Continent. This evening he
dined with the ladies. Afterwards Cecily played. When Miriam and
Mrs. Lessingham chanced to be conversing together, Elgar stepped up
to the piano, and murmured:

"Will you come out into the garden for a few minutes? There's a full
moon; it's magnificent."

Cecily let her fingers idle upon the keys, then rose and went to
where her aunt was sitting. There was an exchange of words in a low
tone, and she left the room. Elgar at once approached Mrs.
Lessingham to take leave of her.

"The Grotta Azzurra to-morrow," he said gaily. "Perhaps you won't
care to go again? My grave sister will make a very proper chaperon."

"Let us discuss that when to-morrow comes. Please to limit your
moon-gazing to five minutes."

"At the utmost."

From the hotel garden opened a clear prospect towards Naples, which
lay as a long track of lights beyond the expanse of deep blue. The
coast was distinctly outlined against the far sky glowed
intermittently the fire of Vesuvius. Above the trees of the garden
shone white crags, unsubstantial, unearthly in the divine moonlight.
There was no sound, yet to intense listening the air became full of
sea-music. It was the night of Homer, the island-charm of the
Odyssey.

"Answer me quickly, Cecily; we have only a few minutes, and I want
to say a great deal. You have talked with Miriam?"

"Yes."

"You know that she repeats what Mallard has instructed her to say?
Their one object now is to get me at a distance from you. You see
how your aunt has changed--in appearance; her policy is to make me
think that she will be my friend when I am away. I can speak with
certainty after observing her for so long; in reality she is as firm
against me as ever. Don't you notice, too, something strange in
Miriam's behaviour?"

"She is not like herself."

"As unlike as could be. Mallard has influenced her strongly. Who
knows what he told her?"

"Of you?

"Perhaps of himself."

"Dear, he could not speak to her in that way!"

"A man in love--and in love with Cecily Doran--can do anything.
The Spences are his close friends; they too have been working on
Miriam."

"But why, why do you return to this? We have spoken of the worst
they can do. To fear anything from their' persuasions is to distrust
me."

"Cecily, I don't distrust you, but I can't live away from you. I
might have gone straight from Naples, but I can't go now; every hour
with you has helped to make it impossible. In talking to your aunt
and to Miriam, I have been consciously false. Come further this way,
into the shadow. Who is over there?"

"Some one we don't know."

Her voice had sunk to a whisper. Elgar led her by the hand into a
further recess of the garden; the hand was almost crushed between
his own as he continued:

"You must come with me, Cecily. We will go away together, and be
married at once."

She panted rather than breathed.

"You must! I can't leave you! I had rather throw myself from these
Capri rocks than go away with more than two years of solitude before
me."

Cecily made no answer.

"If you think, you will see this is best in every way. It will be
kindest to poor Mallard, putting an end at once to any hopes he may
have."

"We can't be married without his consent," Cecily whispered.

"Oh yes; I can manage that. I have already thought of everything. Be
up early to-morrow morning, and leave the hotel at half-past seven,
as if you were going for a walk. Neither your aunt nor Miriam will
be stirring by then. Go down the road as far as beyond the next
turning, and I will be there with a carriage. At the Marina I will
have a boat ready to take us over to Sorrento; we will drive to
Castellamare, and there take train direct for Caserta and onwards,
so missing Naples altogether. You shall travel as my sister. We will
go to London, and be married there. Of course you can't bring
luggage, but what does that matter? We can stop anywhere and buy
what things you need. I have quite enough money for the present."

"But think of the shock to them all!" she pleaded, trembling through
her frame. "How ill I should seem to repay their long kindness! I
can't do this, my dearest; oh, I can't do this! I will see Mr.
Mallard, as I wished--"

"You shall not see him!" he interrupted violently. "I couldn't bear
it. How do I know--"

"How cruel to speak like that to me!"

"Of your own cruelty you never think. You have made me mad with love
of you, and have no right to refuse to marry me when I show you the
way. If I didn't love you so much, I could bear well enough to let
you speak with any one. Your love is very different from mine, or
you couldn't hesitate a moment."

"Let me think! I can't answer you to-night."

"To-night, or never!--Oh yes, I understand well enough, all your
reasons for hesitating. It would mean relinquishing the
wedding-dress and the carriages and all the rest of the show that
delights women. You are afraid of Mrs. Grundy crying shame when it
is known that you have travelled across Europe with me. You feel it
will be difficult to resume your friendships afterwards. I grant all
these things, but I didn't think they would have meant so much to
Cecily."

"You know well that none of these reasons have any weight with me.
It is only in joking that you can speak of them. But the unkindness
to them all, dear! Think of it!"

"Why say 'to them all'? Wouldn't it be simpler to say 'the
unkindness to Mallard'?"

She looked up into his face.

"Why does love make a man speak so bitterly and untruthfully?
Nothing could make me do _you_ such a wrong."

"Because you are so pure of heart and mind that nothing but truth
can be upon your lips. If I were not very near madness, I could
never speak so to you. My own dear love, think only of what I suffer
day after day! And what folly is it that would keep us apart!
Suppose they had none but conscientious motives; in that case, these
people take upon themselves to say what is good for us, what we may
be allowed and what not; they treat us as children. Of course, it is
all for _your_ protection. I am not fit to be your husband, my
beautiful girl! Tell me--who knows me better, Mallard or
yourself?"

"No one knows you as I do, dearest, nor ever will."

"And do you think me too vile a creature to call you my wife?"

"I need not answer that. You are as much nobler than I am as your
strength is greater than mine."

"But they would remind you that you are an heiress. I have not made
so good a use of my own money as I might have done, and the
likelihood is that I shall squander yours, bring you to beggary. Do
you believe that?"

"I know it is not true."

"Then what else can they oppose to our wish? Here are all the
objections, and all seem to be worthless. Yet there might be one
more. You are very young--how I rejoice in knowing it, sweet
flower!--perhaps your love of me is a mere illusion. It ought to
be tested by time; very likely it may die away, and give place to
something truer."

"If so let me die myself sooner than survive such happiness!"

"Why, then what have they to say for themselves? Their opposition is
mistake, stubborn error. And are we to sacrifice two whole years,
the best time of our lives, to such obstinacy? Either of us may die,
Cecily. Suppose it to be my lot, what would be your thoughts then?"

His head bent to hers, and their faces touched.

"Dare you risk that, my love?"

"I dare not."

Her answer trembled upon his hearing as though it came upon the
night air from the sea.

"You will come with me to-morrow?"

"I will."

He sought her offered lips, and for a few instants their whispering
in the shadow ceased. Then he repeated rapidly the directions he had
already given her.

"Put on your warmest cloak; it will be cold on the water. Now I can
say good-night. Kiss me once more, and once more promise."

She pressed her arms about him.

"I am giving you my life. If I had more, I would give it. Be
faithful to me!"

"Then, you do doubt me?"

"Never! But say it to-night, to give me strength."

"I will be faithful to you whilst I have life."

She issued from shadows into broad moonlight, looked once round,
once at the gleaming crags, and passed again into gloom.

"I think it very unlikely," Mrs. Lessingham was saying to Miriam, in
her pleasantest voice of confidence, "that Mr. Mallard will insist
on the whole term."

"No doubt that will much depend on the next year," Miriam replied,
trying to seem impartial.

"No doubt whatever. I am glad we came here. They are both much
quieter and more sensible. In a few days I think your brother will
have made up his mind."

"I hope so."

"Cecily lost her head a little at first, but I see that her
influence is now in the sober direction, as one would have
anticipated. When Mr. Elgar has left us, no doubt Mr. Mallard will
come over, and we shall have quiet talk, What an odd man he is! How
distinctly I could have foreseen his action in these circumstances!
And I know just how it will be, as soon as things have got into a
regular course again. Mr. Mallard hates disturbance and agitation.
Of course he has avoided seeing Cecily as yet; imagine his
exasperated face if he became involved in a 'scene'!"

And Mrs. Lessingham laughed urbanely.

A short and troubled sleep at night's heaviest; then long waiting
for the first glimmer of dawn. Row unreal the world seemed to her!
She tried to link this present morning with the former days, but her
life had lost its continuity; the past was past in a sense she had
never known; and as for the future, it was like gazing into darkness
that throbbed and flashed. It meant nothing to her to say that this
was Capri--that the blue waves and the wind of morning would
presently bear her to Sorrento; the familiar had no longer a
significance; her consciousness was but a point in space and
eternity. She had no regret of her undertaking, no fear of what lay
before her, but a profound sadness, as though the burden of all
mortal sorrows were laid upon her soul.

At seven o'clock she was ready. A very few things that could be
easily carried she would take with her; her cloak would hide them.
Now she must wait for the appointed moment. It seemed to be very
cold; she shivered.

A minute or two before the half-hour, she left her room silently. On
the stairs a servant passed her, and looked surprised in giving the
"Buon giorno." She walked quickly through the garden, and was on the
firm road. At the place indicated stood Elgar beside the carriage,
and without exchanging a word they took their seats.

At the Marina, they had but to step from the carriage to the boat.
Elgar's luggage was thrown on board, and the men pushed off from the
quay.

Bitterly cold, but what a glorious sunrise! Against the flushed sky,
those limestone heights of Capri caught the golden radiance and
shone wondrously. The green water, gently swelling but unbroken, was
like some rarer element, too limpid for this world's shores. With
laughter and merry talk between themselves, the boatmen hoisted
their sail.

And the gods sent a fair breeze from the west, and it smote upon the
sail, and the prow cleft its track of foam, and on they sped over
the back of the barren sea.

CHAPTER XV

"WOLF!"

It was a case of between two stools, and Clifford Marsh did not like
the bump. From that dinner with Elgar he came home hilariously
dismayed; when his hilarity had evaporated with the wine that was
its cause, dismay possessed him wholly. Miss Doran was not for him,
and in the meantime he had offended Madeline beyond forgiveness.
With what countenance could he now turn to her again? Her mother
would welcome his surrender--and it was drawing on towards the day
when submission even to his stepfather could no longer be postponed--but
he suspected that Madeline's resolve to have done with him
was strengthened by resentment of her mother's importunities. To be
sure, it was some sort of consolation to know that if indeed he went
his way for good, bitterness and regrets would be the result to the
Denyer family, who had no great facility in making alliances of this
kind; in a few years time, Madeline would be wishing that she had
not let her pride interfere with a chance of marriage. But, on the
other hand, there was the awkward certainty that he too would lament
making a fool of himself. He by no means liked the thought of
relinquishing Madeline; he had not done so, even when heating his
brain with contemplation of Cecily Doran. In what manner could he
bring about between her and himself a drama which might result in
tears and mutual pardon?

But whilst he pondered this, fate was at work on behalf. On the day
which saw the departure of the Bradshaws, there landed at Naples,
from Alexandria, a certain lean, wiry man, with shoulders that
stooped slightly, with grizzled head and parchment visage; a man who
glanced about him in a keen, anxious way, and had other nervous
habits. Having passed the custom-house, he hired a porter to take
his luggage--two leather bags and a heavy chest, all much the
worse for wear--to that same hotel at which Mallard was just now
staying. There he refreshed himself, and, it being early in the
afternoon, went forth again, as if on business; for decidedly he was
no tourist. When he had occasion to speak, his Italian was fluent
and to the point; he conducted himself as one to whom travel and
intercourse with every variety of men were life-long habits.

His business conducted him to the Mergellina, to the house of Mrs.
Gluck, where he inquired for Mrs. Denyer. He was led upstairs, and
into the room where sit Mrs. Denyer and her daughters. The sight of
him caused commotion. Barbara, Madeline, and Zillah pressed around
him, with cries of "Papa!" Their mother rose and looked at him with
concern.

When the greetings were over, Mr. Denyer seated himself and wiped
his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He was ominously grave. His
eyes avoided the faces before him, as if in shame. He looked at his
boots, which had just been blacked, but were shabby, and then
glanced at the elegant skirts of his wife and daughters; he looked
at his shirt-cuffs, which were clean but frayed, and then gathered
courage to lift his eyes as far as the dainty hands folded upon laps
in show of patience.

"Madeline," he began, in a voice which was naturally harsh, but
could express much tenderness, as now, "what news of Clifford?"

"He's still here, papa," was the answer, in a very low voice.

"I am glad of that. Girls, I've got something to tell you. I wish it
was something pleasant."

His parchment cheek showed a distinct flush. The attempt to keep his
eyes on the girls was a failure; he seemed to be about to confess a
crime.

"I've brought you bad news, the worst I ever brought you yet. My
dears, I can hold out no longer; I'm at the end of my means. If I
could have kept this from you, Heaven knows I would have done, but
it is better to tell you all plainly."

Mrs. Denyer's brows were knitted; her lips were compressed in angry
obstinacy; she would not look up from the floor. The girls glanced
at her, then at one another. Barbara tried to put on a sceptical
expression, but failed; Madeline was sunk in trouble; Zillah showed
signs of tearfulness.

"I can only hope," Mr. Denyer continued, "that you don't owe very
much here. I thought, after my last letter"--he seemed more
abashed than ever--"you might have looked round for something a
little--" He glanced at the ornaments of the room, but at the
same time chanced to catch his wife's eye, and did not finish the
sentence. "But never mind that; time enough now that the necessity
has come. You know me well enough, Barbara, and you Maddy, and you,
Zillah, my child, to be sure that I wouldn't deny you anything it
was in my power to give. But fortune's gone against me this long
time. I shall have to make a new start, new efforts. I'm going out
to Vera Cruz again."

He once more wiped his forehead, and took the opportunity to look
askance at Mrs. Denyer, dubiously, half reproachfully.

"And what are _we_ to do?" asked his wife, with resentful
helplessness.

"I am afraid you must go to England," Mr. Denyer replied
apologetically, turning his look to the girls a gain. "After
settling here, and paying the expenses of the journey, I shall have
a little left, very little indeed. But I'm going to Vera Cruz on a
distinct engagement, and I shall soon be able to send you something.
I'm afraid you had better go to Aunt Dora's again; I've heard from
her lately, and she has the usual spare rooms."

The girls exchanged looks of dismay. The terrible silence was broken
by Zillah, who spoke in quavering accents.

"Papa dear, I have made up my mind to get a place as a nursery
governess. I shall very soon be able to do so."

"And I shall do the same, papa--or something of the kind," came
abruptly from Madeline.

"You, Maddy?" exclaimed her father, who had received the youngest
girl's announcement with a look of sorrowful resignation, but was
shocked at the other's words.

"I am no longer engaged to Mr. Marsh," Madeline proceeded, casting
down her eyes. "Please don't say anything, mamma. I have made up my
mind. I shall look for employment."

Her father shook his head in distress. He had never enjoyed the
control or direction of his daughters, and his long absences during
late years had put him almost on terms of ceremony with them. In
time gone by, their mother had been to him an object of veneration;
it was his privilege to toil that she might live in luxury; but his
illusions regarding her had received painful shocks, and it was to
the girls that he now sacrificed himself. Their intellect, their
attainments, at once filled him with pride and made him humble in
their presence. But for his reluctance to impose restraints upon
their mode of life, he might have avoided this present catastrophe;
he had cried "Wolf!" indeed, in his mild way, but took no energetic
measures when he found his cry disregarded--all the worse for him
now that he could postpone the evil day no longer.

"You are the best judge of your own affairs, Madeline," he replied
despondently. "I'm very sorry, my girl."

"All I can say is," exclaimed Mrs. Denyer, as if with dignified
reticence, "that I think we should have had longer warning of this!"

"My dear, I have warned you repeatedly for nearly a year."

"I mean _serious_ warning. Who was to imagine that things would come
to such a pass as this?"

"You never told us there was danger of absolute beggary, papa,"
remarked Barbara, in a tone not unlike her mother's.

"I ought to have spoken more plainly," was her father's meek answer.
"You are quite right, Barbara. I feel that I am to blame."

"I don't think you are at all," said Madeline, with decision. "Your
letters were plain enough, if we had chosen to pay any attention to
them."

Her father looked up apprehensively, deprecating defence of himself
at the cost of family discord. But he was powerless to prevent the
gathering storm. Mrs. Denyer gazed sternly at her recalcitrant
daughter, and at length discharged upon the girl's head all the
wrath with which this situation inspired her. Barbara took her
mother's side. Zillah wept and sobbed words of reconciliation. The
unhappy cause of the tumult took refuge at the window, sunk in
gloom.

However, there was no doubt about it this time; trunks must be
packed, bills must he paid, indignities must be swallowed. The Aunt
Dora of whom Mr. Denyer had spoken was his own sister, the wife of a
hotel-keeper at Southampton. Some seven years ago, in a crisis of
the Denyers' fate, she had hospitably housed them for several
months, and was now willing to do as much again, notwithstanding the
arrogance with which Mrs. Denyer had repaid her. To the girls it had
formerly mattered little where they lived; at their present age, it
was far otherwise. The hotel was of a very modest description;
society would become out of the question in such a retreat. Madeline
and Zillah might choose, as the less of two evils, the lot for which
they declared themselves ready; but Barbara had no notion of turning
governess. She shortly went to her bedroom, and spent a very black
hour indeed.

They were to start to-morrow morning. With rage Barbara saw the
interdiction of hopes which were just becoming serious. Another
month of those after-dinner colloquies in the drawing-room, and who
could say what point of intimacy Mr. Musselwhite might have reached.
He was growing noticeably more articulate; he was less absentminded.
Oh, for a month more!

This evening she took her usual place, and at length had the
tormenting gratification of seeing Mr. Musselwhite approach in the
usual way. Though sitting next to him at dinner, she had said
nothing of what would happen on the morrow; the present was a better
opportunity.

"You have no book this evening, Miss Denyer!"

"No."

"No headache, I hope?"

"Yes, I have a little headache."

He looked at her with gentlemanly sympathy.

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