The Emancipated

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"I have had to see to a lot of things in a hurry. Unexpectedly, we
have to leave Naples to-morrow; we are going to England."

"Indeed? You don't say so! Really, I'm very sorry to hear that, Miss
Denyer."

"I am sorry too--to have to leave Italy for such a climate at this
time of the year." She shuddered. "But my father has just arrived
from Alexandria, and--for family reasons--wishes us to travel on
with him."

Mr. Musselwhite seemed to reflect anxiously. He curled his
moustaches, he plucked his whiskers, he looked about the room with
wide eyes.

"How lonely it will be at the dinner-table!" he said at length. "So
many have gone of late. But I hoped there was no danger of your
going, Miss Denyer."

"We had no idea of it ourselves till to-day."

A long silence, during which Mr. Musselwhite's reflections grew
intense.

"You are going to London?" he asked mechanically.

"Not at first. I hardly know. I think we shall be for some time with
friends at Southampton."

"Indeed? How odd! I also have friends at Southampton. A son of Sir
Edward Mull; he married a niece of mine."

Barbara could have cried with mortification. She muttered she knew
not what. Then again came a blank in the dialogue.

"I trust we may meet again," was Mr. Musselwhite's next sentence. It
cost him an effort; he reddened a little, and moved his feet about.

"There is no foreseeing. I--we--I am sorry to say my father has
brought us rather unpleasant news."

She knew not whether it was a stroke of policy, or grossly
imprudent, to make this confession. But it came to her lips, and she
uttered it half in recklessness. It affected Mr. Musselwhite
strangely. His countenance fell, and a twinge seemed to catch one of
his legs; at the same time it made him fluent.

"I grieve to hear that, Miss Denyer; I grieve indeed. Your departure
would have been bad enough, but I really grieve to think you should
have cause of distress."

"Thank you for your sympathy, Mr. Musselwhite."

"But perhaps we may meet again in England, for all that? Will you
permit me to give you my London address--a--a little club that I
belong to, and where my friends often send letters? I mean that I
should be so very glad if it were ever possible for me to serve you
in any trifle. As you know, I don't keep any--any establishment in
England at present; but possibly--as you say, there is no
anticipating the future. I should be very happy indeed if we chanced
to meet, there or abroad."

"You are very kind, Mr. Musselwhite."

"If I might ask you for your own probable address?"

"It is so uncertain. But I am sure mamma would have pleasure in
sending it, when we arc settled."

"Thank you so very much." He looked up after long meditation. "I
really do _not_ know what I shall do when you are gone, Miss
Denyer."

And then, without warning, he said good-night and walked away.
Barbara, who had thought that the conversation was just about to
become interesting, felt her heart sink into unfathomable depths.
She went back to her bedroom and cried wretchedly for a long time.

In consequence of private talk with his wife, when the family
conclave had broken up, Mr. Denyer went in search of Clifford Marsh.
They had met only once hitherto, six months ago, when Mr. Denyer
paid a flying visit to London, and had just time to make the
acquaintance of his prospective son-in-law. This afternoon they
walked together for an hour about the Chiaia, with the result that
an understanding of some kind seemed to be arrived at between them,

Mr. Denyer returned to the _pension_, and, when dinnertime
approached, surprised Madeline with the proposal that she should
come out and dine with him at a restaurant.

"The fact is," he whispered to her, with a laugh, "my appearance is
not quite up to the standard of your dinner-table. I'm rather too
careless about these things; it's doubtful whether I possess a
decent suit. Let us go and find a quiet corner somewhere--if a
fashionable young lady will do me so much honour."

Through Madeline's mind there passed a suspicion, but a
restaurant-dinner hit her taste, and she accepted the invitation
readily. Before long, they drove into the town. Perhaps in
recognition of her having taken his part against idle reproaches,
her father began, as soon as they were alone, to talk in a grave,
earnest way about his affairs; and Madeline, who liked above all
things to be respectfully treated, entered into the subject with
dutiful consideration. He showed her exactly how his misfortunes had
accumulated, how this and that project had been a failure, what
unadvised steps he had taken in fear of impending calamity Snugly
seated at the little marble table, they grew very confidential
indeed. Mr. Denyer avowed his hope--the hope ever-retreating,
though sometimes it had seemed within reach--of being able some
day to find rest for the sole of his foot, to settle down with his
family and enjoy a quiet close of life. Possibly this undertaking at
Vera Cruz would be his last exile; he explained it in detail, and
dwelt on its promising aspects. Madeline felt compassionate and
remorseful.

Of her own intimate concerns no word was said, but it happened
strangely enough, just as they had finished dinner, that Clifford
Marsh came strolling into the restaurant. He saw them, and with
expressions of surprise explained that he had just turned in for a
cup of coffee. Mr. Denyer invited him to sit down with them, and
they had coffee together. Clifford kept up a flow of characteristic
talk, never directly addressing Madeline, nor encountering her look.
He referred casually to his meeting with Mr. Denyer that afternoon.

"I shall be going back myself very shortly. It is probable that
there will be something of a change in my circumstances; I may
decide to give up a few hours each day to commercial pursuits. It
all depends on--on uncertain things."

"You won't come out with me to Vera Cruz?" said Mr. Denyer,
jocosely.

"No; I am a man of the old world. I must live in the atmosphere of
art, or I don't care to live at all."

Madeline's slight suspicion was confirmed. When they were about to
leave the restaurant, Mr. Denyer said that he must go to the
railway-station, to make a few inquiries. There was no use in
Madeline's going such a distance; would Clifford be so good as to
see her safely home? Madeline made a few objections--she would
really prefer to accompany her father; she would not trouble Mr.
Marsh--but in the end she found herself seated by Clifford in a
carriage, passing rapidly through the streets.

Now was Clifford's opportunity; he had prepared for it.

"Madeline--you must let me call you by that name again, even if it
is for the last time--I have heard what has happened."

"Happily it does not affect you, Mr. Marsh."

"Indeed it does. It affects me so far, that it alters the whole
course of my life. In spite of everything that has seemed to come
between us, I have never allowed myself to think of our engagement
as at an end. The parcel you sent me the other day is unopened; if
you do not open it yourself no one ever shall. Whatever _you_ may
do, I cannot break faith. You ought to know me better than to
misinterpret a few foolish and hasty words, and appearances that had
a meaning you should have understood. The time has come now for
putting an end to those misconceptions."

"They no longer concern me. Please to speak of something else."

"You must, at all events, understand my position before we part.
This morning I was as firmly resolved as ever to risk everything, to
renounce the aid of my relatives if it must be and face poverty for
the sake of art. Now all is changed. I shall accept my step-father's
offer, and all its results becoming, if it can't be helped, a mere
man of business. I do this because of my sacred duties to _you_. As
an artist, there's no telling how long it might be before I could
ask you again to be my wife; as a man of business, I may soon be in
a position to do so. Don't interrupt me, I entreat! It is no matter
to me if you repulse me now, in your anger. I consider the
engagement as still existing between us, and, such being the ease,
it is plainly my duty to take such steps as will enable me to offer
you a home. By remaining an artist, I should satisfy one part of my
conscience, but at the expense of all my better feelings; it might
even he supposed--though, I trust, not by you--that I made my
helplessness an excuse for forgetting you when most you needed
kindness. I shall go back to England, and devote myself with energy
to the new task, however repulsive it may prove. Whether you think
of me or not, I do it for your sake; you cannot rob me of that
satisfaction. Some day I shall again stand before you, and ask you
for what you once promised. If then you refuse--well, I must bear
the loss of all my hopes."

"You may direct your life as you choose," Madeline replied
scornfully, "but you will please to understand that I give you no
encouragement to hope anything from me. I almost believe you capable
of saying, some day, that you took this step because I urged you to
it. I have no interest whatever in your future; our paths are
separate. Let this be the end of it."

But it was very far from the end of it. When the carriage stopped at
Mrs. Gluck's, mutual reproaches were at their height.

"You shall not leave me yet, Madeline," said Clifford, as he
alighted. "Come to the other side of the road, and let us walk along
for a few minutes. You shall not go in, if I have to hold you by
force."

Madeline yielded, and in the light of the moon they walked side by
side, continuing their dialogue.

"You are heartless! You have played with me from the first."

"If so, I only treated you as you thought to treat me."

"That you can attribute such baseness to me proves how incapable you
are of distinguishing between truth and falsehood. How wretchedly I
have been deceived in you!"

From upbraiding, he fell to lamentation. His life was wrecked; he
had lost his ideals; and all through her unworthiness. Then, as
Madeline was still unrelenting, he began to humble himself. He
confessed his levity; he had not considered the risk he ran of
losing her respect; all he had done was in pique at her treatment of
him. And in the end he implored her forgiveness, besought her to
restore him to life by accepting his unqualified submission. To part
from her on such terms as these meant despair; the consequences
would be tragic. And when he could go no further in amorous
supplication, when she felt that her injured pride had exacted the
uttermost from his penitence, Madeline at length relented.

"Still," she said, after his outburst of gratitude, "don't think
that I ask you to become a man of business. You shall never charge
me with that. It is your nature to reproach other people when
anything goes wrong with you; I know you only too well. You must
decide for yourself; I will take no responsibility."

Yes, he accepted that; it was purely his own choice. Rather than
lose her, he would toil at any most ignoble pursuit, amply repaid by
the hope she granted him.

They had walked some distance, and were out of sight of the
Mergellina, on the ascending road of Posillipo, all the moonlit
glory of the bay before them.

"It will be long before we see it again," said Madeline, sadly.

"We will spend our honeymoon here," was Clifford's hopeful reply.

CHAPTER XVI

LETTERS

On the thirteenth day after the flight from Capri, Edward Spence,
leaving the villa for his afternoon walk, encountered the postman
and received from him three letters. One was addressed to Ross
Mallard, Esq., care of Edward Spence, Esq.; another, to Mrs. Spence;
the third, to Mrs. Baske. As he reascended the stairs, somewhat more
quickly than his wont, Spence gave narrow attention to the
handwriting on the envelopes. He found Eleanor where he had left her
a few minutes before, at the piano, busy with a difficult passage of
Brahms. She looked round in surprise, and on seeing the letters
started up eagerly.

"Do you know Elgar's hand?" Spence asked. "These two from London are
his, I should imagine. This for you is from Mrs. Lessingham, isn't
it?"

"Yes; I think this is the news, at last," said Eleanor, inspecting
Mrs. Baske's letter, not without feminine emotion. "I'll take it to
her. Shall you go over with the other?"

"He'll he here after dinner; the likelihood is that I shouldn't find
him."

"Occasionally--very occasionally--you lack tact, my husband. He
would hardly care to open this and read it in our presence."

"More than occasionally, my dear girl, you remind me of the woman
whose price is above rubies. I'll go over and leave it for him at
once. Just to show the male superiority, however, I shall be careful
to make my walk a few minutes longer than usual--a thing of which
you would be quite incapable whilst the contents of Miriam's letter
were unknown to you."

Alone again, Eleanor sent the letter to Miriam's room by a servant,
and with uncertain fingers broke the envelope of that addressed to
herself. Already she had heard once from Mrs. Lessingham, who ten
days ago left Naples to join certain friends in Rome; the first
hurried glance over the present missive showed that it contained no
intelligence. She had scarcely begun to read it attentively, when
the door opened and Miriam came in.

Her face was pale with agitation, and her eyes had the strangest
light in them; to one who knew nothing of the circumstances, she
would have appeared exultant. Eleanor could not but gaze at her
intently.

"From Reuben!"

"Yes." Miriam suppressed her voice, and held out the sheet of
note-paper, which fluttered. "Read it."

The body of the letter was as follows:--

"I hope we have caused you no anxiety; from the first moment when
our departure was known, you must have understood that we had
resolved to put an end to useless delay. We travelled to London as
brother and sister, and to-day have become man and wife. The above
will be our address for a short time; we have not yet decided where
we shall ultimately live.

"By this same post I write to Mallard, addressed to him at the
villa. I hope he has had the good sense to wait quietly for news.

"Cecily sends her love to you--though she half fears that you will
reject it. I cannot see why you should. We have done the only
sensible thing, and of course in a month or two it will he just the
same, to everybody concerned, as if we had been married in the most
foolish way that respectability can contrive. Let us hear from you
very soon, dear sister. We talk much of you, and hope to have many a
bright day with you yet--more genuinely happy than that we spent
in tracking out old Tiberius."

Eleanor looked up, and again was struck with the singular light in
her cousin's eyes.

"Well, it only tells us what we anticipated. Of course he made false
declarations. If Mr. Mallard were really as grim as he sometimes
looks, the result to both of them might be unpleasant."

"But the marriage could not be undone?" Miriam asked quickly.

"Oh no. Scarcely desirable that it should be."

Miriam took the letter, and in a few minutes went back again to her
room.

At nine o'clock in the evening, the Spences, who sat alone, received
the foreseen visit from Mallard. They welcomed him silently. As he
sat down, he had a smile on his face; he drew a letter deliberately
from his pocket, and, without preface, began to read it aloud, still
in a deliberate manner.

"Let me first of all make a formal announcement. We have this
morning been married by registrar's licence. We intend to live for a
few weeks at this present address, where we have taken some
furnished rooms until better arrangements can be made. I lose no
time in writing to you, for of course there is business between us
that you will desire to transact as soon as may be.

"In obtaining the licence, I naturally gave false information
regarding Cecily's age; this was an inevitable consequence of the
step we had taken. You know my opinions on laws and customs: for the
multitude they are necessary, and an infraction of them by the
average man is, logically enough, called a sin against society; for
Cecily and myself, in relation to such a matter as our becoming man
and wife, the law is idle form. Personally, I could have wished to
dispense with the absurdity altogether, but, as things are, this
involves an injustice to a woman. I told my falsehoods placidly, for
they were meaningless in my eyes. I have the satisfaction of knowing
that you cannot, without inconsistency, find fault with me.

"And now I speak as one who would gladly be on terms of kindness
with you. You know me, Mallard; you must be aware how impossible it
was for me to wait two years. As for Cecily, her one word, again and
again repeated on the journey, was, 'How unkind I shall seem to
them!' and I know that it was the seeming disrespect to you which
most of all distressed her. For her sake, I make it my petition that
you will let the past be past. She cannot yet write to you, but is
sad in the thought of having incurred your displeasure. Whatever you
say to me, let it be said privately; do not hurt Cecily. I mentioned
'business; the word and the thing are equally hateful to me. I most
sincerely wish Cecily had nothing, that the vile question of money
might never arise. Herein, at all events, you will do me justice; I
am no fortune-hunter.

"If you come to London, send a line and appoint a place of meeting.
But could not everything be done through lawyers? You must judge;
but, again I ask it, do not give Cecily more pain."

The listeners were smiling gravely. After a silence, the letter was
discussed, especially its second paragraph. Mallard was informed of
the note which Miriam had received.

"I shall go to-morrow," he said, "and 'transact my business.' On the
whole, it might as well be done through lawyers, but I had better be
in London."

"And then?" asked Eleanor.

"I shall perhaps go and spend a week with the people at Sowerby
Bridge. But you shall hear from me."

"Will you speak to Mrs. Baske?"

"I don't think it is necessary. She has expressed no wish that I
should?"

"No; but she might like to be assured that her brother won't be
prosecuted for perjury."

"Oh, set her mind at ease!"

"Show Mallard the. letter from Mrs. Lessingham," said Spence, with a
twinkle of the eyes.

"I will read it to him."

She did so. And the letter ran thus:

"Still no news? I am uneasy, though there can be no rational doubt
as to what form the news will take when it comes. The material
interests in question are enough to relieve us from anxiety. But I
wish they would be quick and communicate with us.

"One reconciles one's self to the inevitable, and, for my own part,
the result of my own reflections is that I am something more than
acquiescent. After all, granted that these two must make choice of
each other, was it not in the fitness of things that they should act
as they have done? For us comfortable folk, life is too humdrum;
ought we not to be grateful to those who supply us with a strong
emotion, and who remind us that there is yet poetry in the world? I
should apologize for addressing such thoughts to _you_, dear
Eleanor, for you have still the blessing of a young heart, and
certainly do not lack poetry. I speak for myself, and after all I am
much disposed to praise these young people for their unconventional
behaviour.

"What if our darkest anticipations were fulfilled? Beyond all doubt
they are now sincerely devoted to each other, and will remain so for
at least twelve months. Those twelve months will be worth a
life-time of level satisfaction. We shall be poor creatures in
comparison when we utter our 'Didn't I tell you so?'

"Whilst in a confessing mood, I will admit that I had formed rather
a different idea of Cecily; I was disposed to think of her as the
modern woman who has put unreasoning passion under her feet, and
therefore this revelation was at first a little annoying to me. But
I see now that my view of her failed by incompleteness. The modern
woman need by no means be a mere embodied intellect; she will choose
to enjoy as well as to understand, and to enjoy greatly she will
sacrifice all sorts of things that women have regarded as supremely
important. Indeed, I cannot say that I am disappointed in Cecily;
rightly seen, she has justified the system on which I educated her.
My object was to teach her to think for herself, to be self-reliant.
The _jeune fille_, according to society's pattern, is my abhorrence:
an ignorant, deceitful, vain, immoral creature. Cecily is as unlike
that as possible; she has behaved independently and with sincerity.
I really admire her very much, and hope that her life may not fall
below its beginning.

"Let me hear as soon as a word reaches you. I am with charming
people, and yet I think longingly of the delightful evenings at
Villa Sannazaro, your music and your talk. You and your husband have
a great place in my heart; you are of the salt of the earth. Spare
me a little affection, for I am again a lonely woman."

This letter also was discussed, and its philosophy appreciated.
Mallard spoke little; he had clasped his hands behind his head, and
listened musingly.

There was no effusion in the leave-taking, though it might be for a
long time. Warm clasping of hands, but little said.

"A good-bye for me to Mrs. Baske," was Mallard's last word.

And his haggard but composed face turned from Villa Sannazaro.

VOLUME TWO

CHAPTER I

A CORNER OF SOCIETY

In a London drawing-room, where the murmur of urbane colloquy rose
and fell, broken occasionally by the voice of the nomenclator
announcing new arrivals, two ladies, seated in a recess, were
exchanging confidences. One was a novelist of more ability than
repute; the other was a weekly authority on musical performances.

"Her head is getting turned, poor girl. I feel sorry for her."

"Such ridiculous flattery! And really it is difficult to understand.
She is pretty, and speaks French; neither the one thing nor the
other is uncommon, I believe. Do you see anything remarkable in
her?"

"Well, she is rather more than pretty; and there's a certain
cleverness in her talk. But at her age this kind of thing is
ruinous. I blame Mrs. Lessingham. She should bid her stay at home
and mind her baby."

"By-the-bye, what truth is there in that story? The Naples affair,
you know?"

"_N'en sais rien_. But I hear odd things about her husband. Mr.
Bickerdike knew him a few years ago. He ran through a fortune, and
fell into most disreputable ways of life. Somebody was saying that
he got his living as 'bus-conductor, or something of the kind."

"I could imagine that, from the look of him."

It was Mrs. Lessingham's Wednesday evening. The house at Craven Hill
opened its doors at ten o'clock, and until midnight there was no
lack of company. Singular people, more or less; distinguished from
society proper by the fact that all had a modicum of brains. Some
came from luxurious homes, some from garrets. Visitors from Paris
were frequent; their presence made a characteristic of the salon.
This evening, for instance, honour was paid by the hostess to M.
_Amedeee_ Silvenoire, whose experiment in unromantic drama had not
long ago gloriously failed at the Odeon; and Madame Jacquelin, the
violinist, was looked for.

Mrs. Lessingham had. not passed a season in London for several
years. When, at the end of April, she took this house, there came to
live with her the widow and daughter of a man of letters who had
died in poverty. She had known the Delphs in Paris, in the days when
Cecily was with her and in the winter just past she had come upon
Irene Delph copying at the Louvre; the girl showed a good deal of
talent but was hard beset by the difficulty of living whilst she
worked. In the spirit of her generous brother, Mrs. Lessingham
persuaded the two to come and live with her through the season; a
room in the house was a studio for Irene, who took to portraits.
Mrs. Delph, a timid woman whose nerves had failed under her
misfortunes, did not appear on formal occasions like the present,
but Irene was becoming an ornament of the drawing-room. To be sure,
but for her good looks and her artistic aptitude, she would not have
been here-no reason, perhaps, for stinted praise of her friend's
generosity.

An enjoyable thing to see Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with one
of her French guests. She threw off full fifteen years, and looked
thirty at most. Her handsome features had a vivid play of expression
in harmony with the language she was speaking; her eyes were radiant
as she phrased a thought which in English would have required many
words for the--blunting of its point. M. Silvenoire, who--with
the slight disadvantage of knowing no tongue but his own--was
making a study of English social life, found himself at ease this
evening for the first time since he had been in London. Encouraged
to talk his best, he frankly and amusingly told Mrs. Lessingham of
the ideas he had formed regarding conversation in the drawing-rooms
of English ladies.

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