The Emancipated

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"Civilization is spreading among us," she replied, with a laugh.
"Once or twice it has been my privilege to introduce young
Frenchmen, who were studying our language, to English families
abroad, and in those cases I privately recommended to them a careful
study of Anthony Trollope's novels, that they might learn what is
permissible in conversation and what is not. But here and there in
London you will find it possible to discuss things that interest
reasonable beings."

At the door sounded the name of "Mr. Biekerdike," and there advanced
towards the hostess a tall, ugly young man, known by repute to all
the English people present. He was the author of a novel called "A
Crown of Lilies," which was much talked of just now, and excited no
less ridicule than admiration, On the one hand, it was lauded for
delicate purity and idealism; on the other, it was scoffed at for
artificiality and affected refinement. Mrs. Lessingham had met him
for the first time a week ago. Her invitation was not due to
approval of his book, but to personal interest which the author
moved in her; she was curious to discover how far the idealism of "A
Crown of Lilies" was a genuine fruit of the man's nature. Mr.
Bickerdike's countenance did not promise clarity of soul; his
features were distinctly coarse, and the glance he threw round the
room on entering made large demands.

Irene Delph was talking with a young married lady named Mrs. Travis;
they both regarded Mr. Bickerdike with close scrutiny.

"Who could have imagined such an author for the book!" murmured the
girl, in wonder.

"I could perfectly well," murmured back Mrs. Travis, with a smile
which revealed knowledge of humanity.

"I pictured a very youthful man, with a face of effeminate beauty--
probably a hectic colour in his cheeks."

"Such men don't write 'the novel of the season.' This gentleman is
very shrewd; he gauges the public. Some day, if he sees fit, he will
write a brutal book, and it will have merit."

Mr. Bickerdike unfortunately did not speak French, so M. Silvenoire
was unable to exchange ideas with him. The Parisian, having learnt
what this gentleman's claims were, regarded him through his
_pince-nez_ with a subtle smile. But in a few moments he had
something more interesting to observe.

"Mrs. Elgar," cried the voice at the door.

Cecily was met half-way by her aunt, "You are alone?"

"Reuben has a headache. Perhaps he will come to fetch me, but more
likely not."

All the eyes in the room had one direction. Alike those who
ingenuously admired and those who wished to seem indifferent paid
the homage of observation to Mrs. Elgar, as she stood exchanging
greetings with the friends who came forward. Yes, there was
something more than attractive features and a pleasant facility of
speech. In Cecily were blended a fresh loveliness and a grace as of
maidenhood with the perfect charm of wedded youth. The air about her
was charged with something finer than the delicate fragrance which
caressed the senses. One had but to hear her speak, were it only the
most ordinary phrase of courtesy, and that wonderful voice more than
justified profound interest. Strangers took her for a few years
older than she was, not judging so much by her face as the finished
ease of her manners; when she conversed, it was hard to think of her
as only one-and-twenty.

"She is a little pale this evening," said Irene to Mrs. Travis.

The other assented; then asked:

"Why don't you paint her portrait?"

"Heaven forbid! I have quite enough discouragement in my attempts at
painting, as it is."

M. Silvenoire was bowing low, as Mrs. Lessingham presented him. To
his delight, he heard his own language fluently, idiomatically
spoken; he remarked, too, that Mrs. Elgar had a distinct pleasure in
speaking it. She seated herself, and flattered him into ecstasies by
the respect with which she received his every word. She had seen it
mentioned in the _Figaro_ that a new play of his was in preparation;
when was it likely to be put on the stage? The theatre in London--
of course, he understood that no one took it _au serieux_?

The Parisian could do nothing but gaze about the room, following her
movements, when their dialogue was at an end. Mon Dieu! And who,
then, was Mr. Elgar? Might not one hope for an invitation to
madame's assemblies? A wonderful people, these English, after all.

Mr. Bickerdike secured, after much impatience, the desired
introduction. For reasons of his own, he made no mention of his
earlier acquaintance with Elgar. Did she know of it? In any case she
appeared not to, but spoke of things which did not interest Mr.
Bickerdike in the least. At length he was driven to bring forward
the one subject on which he desired her views.

"Have you, by chance, read my book, Mrs. Elgar?"

M. Silvenoire would have understood her smile; the Englishman
thought it merely amiable, and prepared for the accustomed
compliment.

"Yes, I have read it, Mr. Bickerdike. It seemed to me a charmingly
written romance."

The novelist, seated upon too low a chair, leaning forward so that
his knees and chin almost touched, was not in himself a very
graceful object; the contrast with his neighbour made him worse than
grotesque. His visage was disagree ably animal as it smiled with
condescension.

"You mean something by that," he remarked, with awkward attempt at
light fencing.

There was barely a perceptible movement of Cecily's brows.

"I try to mean something as often as I speak," she said, in an
amused tone.

"In this ease it is a censure. You take the side of those who find
fault with my idealism."

"Not so; I simply form my own judgment."

Mr. Bickerdike was nervous at all times in the society of a refined
woman; Mrs. Elgar's quiet rebuke brought the perspiration to his
forehead, and made him rub his hands together. Like many a better
man, he could not do justice to the parts he really possessed. save
when sitting in solitude with a sheet of paper before him. Though he
had a confused perception that Mrs. Elgar was punishing him for
forcing her to speak of his book, he was unable to change the topic
and so win her approval for his tact. In the endeavour to seem at
ease, he became blunt.

"And what has your judgment to say on the subject?"

"I think I have already told you, Mr. Bickerdike."

"You mean by a romance a work that is not soiled with the common
realism of to-day."

"I am willing to mean that."

"But you will admit, Mrs. Elgar, that my mode of fiction has as much
to say for itself as that which you prefer?"

"In asking for one admission you take for granted another. That is a
little confusing."

It was made sufficiently so to Mr. Bickerdike. He thrust out his
long legs, and exclaimed:

"I should be grateful to you if you would tell me what your view of
the question really is--I mean, of the question at issue between
the two schools of fiction."

"But will you first make clear to me the characteristics of the
school you represent?"

"It would take a long time to do that satisfactorily. I proceed on
the assumption that fiction is poetry, and that poetry deals only
with the noble and the pure."

"Yes," said Cecily, as he paused for a moment, "I see that it would
take too long. You must deal with so many prejudices--such, for
example, as that which supposes 'King Lear' and 'Othello' to be
poems."

Mr. Bickerdike began a reply, but it was too late; Mrs. Lessingham
had approached with some one else who wished to be presented to Mrs.
Elgar, and the novelist could only bite his lips as be moved away to
find a more reverent listener.

It was not often that Cecily trifled in this way. As a rule, her
manner of speech was direct and earnest. She had a very uncommon
habit of telling the truth whenever it was possible; rather than
utter smooth falsehoods, she would keep silence, and sometimes when
to do so was to run much danger of giving offence. Beautiful women
have very different ways of using the privilege their charm assures
them; Cecily chose to make it a protection of her integrity. She was
much criticized by acquaintances of her own sex. Some held her
presumptuous, conceited, spoilt by adulation; some accused her of
bad taste and blue-stockingism; some declared that she had no object
but to win men's admiration and outshine women. Without a thought of
such comments, she behaved as was natural to her. Where she felt her
superiority, she made no pretence of appearing femininely humble.
Yet persons like Mrs. Delph, who kept themselves in shadow and spoke
only with simple kindness, knew well how unassuming Cecily was, and
with what deference she spoke when good feeling dictated it. Or
again, there was her manner with the people who, by the very respect
with which they inspired her, gave her encouragement to speak
without false restraint; such as Mr. Bird, the art critic, a
grizzle-headed man with whom she sat for a quarter of an hour this
evening, looking her very brightest and talking in her happiest
vein, yet showing all the time her gratitude for what she learnt
from his conversation.

It was nearly twelve o'clock when Mrs. Travis, who had made one or
two careless efforts to draw near to Cecily, succeeded in speaking a
word aside with her.

"I hope you didn't go to see me yesterday? I left home in the
morning, and am staying with friends at Hampstead, not far from
you."

"For long?"

"I don't know. I should like to talk to you, if I could. Shall you
be driving back alone?"

"Yes. Will you come with me?"

"Thank you. Please let me know when you are going."

And Mrs. Travis turned away. In a few minutes Cecily went to take
leave of her aunt.

"How is Clarence?" asked Mrs. Lessingham.

"Still better, I believe. I left him to-night without uneasiness."

"Oh, I had a letter this morning from Mrs. Spence. No talk of
England yet. In the autumn they are going to Greece, then for the
winter to Sicily."

"Miriam with them?"

"As though it were a matter of course."

They both smiled. Then Cecily took leave of two or three other
people, and quitted the room. Mrs. Travis followed her, and in a few
minutes they were seated in the brougham.

Mrs. Travis had a face one could not regard without curiosity. It
was not beautiful in any ordinary sense, but strange and striking
and rich in suggestiveness. In the chance, flickering light that
entered the carriage, she looked haggard, and at all times her
thinness and pallor give her the appearance of suffering both in
body and mind. Her complexion was dark, her hair of a rich brown;
she had very large eyes, which generally wandered in an absent,
restless, discontented way. If she smiled, it was with a touch of
bitterness, and her talk was wont to be caustic. Cecily had only
known her for a few weeks, and did not feel much drawn to her, but
she compassionated her for sorrows known and suspected. Though only
six and twenty, Mrs. Travis had been married seven years, and had
had two children; the first died at birth, the second was carried
off by diphtheria. Her husband Cecily had never seen, but she heard
disagreeable things of him, and Mrs. Travis herself had dropped
hints which signified domestic unhappiness.

After a minute or two of silence, Cecily was beginning to speak on
some indifferent subject, when her companion interrupted her.

"Will you let me tell you something about myself?"

"Whatever you wish, Mrs. Travis," Cecily answered, with sympathy.

"I've left my husband. Perhaps you thought of that?"

"No."

The sudden disclosure gave her a shock. She had the sensation of
standing for the first time face to face with one of the sterner
miseries of life.

"I did it once before," pursued the other, "two years ago. Then I
was foolish enough to be wheedled back again. That shan't happen
this time."

"Have you really no choice but to do this?" Cecily asked, with much
earnestness.

"Oh, I could have stayed if I had chosen. He doesn't beat me. I have
as much of my own way as I could expect. Perhaps you'll think me
unreasonable. A Turkish woman would."

Cecily sat mute. She could not but resent the harsh tone in which
she was addressed, in spite of her pity.

"It's only that I suffer in my self-respect--a little," Mrs.
Travis continued. "Of course, this is no reason for taking such a
step, except to those who have suffered in the same way. Perhaps you
would like to stop the carriage and let me leave you?"

"Your suffering makes you unjust to me," replied Cecily, much
embarrassed by this strange impulsiveness. "Indeed I sympathize with
you. I think it quite possible that you are behaving most rightly."

"You don't maintain, then, that it is a wife's duty to bear every
indignity from her husband?"

"Surely not. On the contrary, I think there are some indignities
which no wife _ought_ to bear."

"I'm glad to hear that. I had a feeling that you would think in this
way, and that's why I wanted to talk to you. Of course you have only
the evidence of my word for believing me."

"I can see that you are very unhappy, and the cause you name is
quite sufficient."

"In one respect, I am very lucky. I have a little money of my own,
and that enables me to go and live by myself. Most women haven't
this resource: many are compelled to live in degradation only for
want of it. I should like to see how many homes would be broken up,
if all women were suddenly made independent in the same way that I
am. How I should enjoy that! I hate the very word 'marriage'!"

Cecily averted her face, and said nothing. After a pause, her
companion continued in a calm voice:

"You can't sympathize with that, I know. And you are comparing my
position with your own."

No answer was possible, for Mrs. Travis had spoken the truth.

"In the first year of my marriage, I used to do the same whenever I
heard of any woman who was miserable with her husband."

"Is there no possibility of winning back your husband?" Cecily
asked, in a veiled voice.

"Winning him back? Oh, he is affectionate enough. But you mean
winning him back to faithfulness. My husband happens to be the
average man, and the average man isn't a pleasant person to talk
about, in this respect."

"Are you not too general in your condemnation, Mrs. Travis?"

"I am content you should think so. You are very young still, and
there's no good in making the world ugly for you as long as it can
seem rosy."

"Please don't use that word," said Cecily, with emphasis. It annoyed
her to be treated as immature in mind. "I am the last person to take
rosy views of life. But there is something between the distrust to
which you are driven by misery and the optimism of foolish people."

"We won't argue about it. Every woman must take life as she finds
it. To me it is a hateful weariness. I hope I mayn't have much of it
still before me; what there is, I will live in independence. You
know Mrs. Calder?"

"Yes."

"Her position is the same as mine has been, but she has more
philosophy; she lets things take their course, just turning her eyes
away."

"That is ignoble, hateful!" exclaimed Cecily.

"So I think, but women as a rule don't. At all events, they are
content to whine a little, and do nothing. Poor wretches, what _can_
they do, as I said?"

"They can go away, and, if need be, starve."

"They have children."

Cecily became mute.

"Will you let me come and see you now and then?" Mrs. Travis asked
presently.

"Come whenever you feel you would like to," Cecily answered, rousing
herself from reverie.

The house in which Mrs. Travis now lived was a quarter of an hour's
drive beyond that of the Elgars; she would have alighted and walked,
making nothing of it, but of course Cecily could not allow this. The
coachman was directed to make the circuit. When Cecily reached home,
it was after one o'clock.

CHAPTER II

THE PROPRIETIES DEFENDED

The house was in Belsize Park. Light shone through the blind of one
of the upper windows, but the rest of the front was lifeless.
Cecily's ring at the bell sounded distinctly; it was answered at
once by a maid-servant, who said that Mr. Elgar was still in the
library. Having spoken a few words, ending with a kind good night,
Cecily passed through the hall and opened the library door.

A reading-lamp made a bright sphere on the table, but no one sat
within its rays. After a fruitless glance round the room, Cecily
called her husband's name. There was a sound of moving, and she saw
that Reuben was on a sofa which the shadow veiled.

"Have you been asleep?" she asked merrily, as she approached him.

He stood up and stretched himself, muttering.

"Why didn't you go to bed, poor boy? I'm dreadfully late; I went out
of my way to take some one home."

"Who was that?" Elgar inquired, coming forward and seating himself
on the corner of the writing-table.

"Mrs. Travis. She has come to stay with friends at Hampstead. But to
bed, to bed! You look like Hamlet when he came and frightened
Ophelia. Have you had an evil dream?"

"That's the truth; I have."

"What about?"

"Oh, a stupid jumble." He moved the lamp-shade, so that the light
fell suddenly full upon her. "Why have you made such friends all at
once with Mrs. Travis?"

"How is your headache?"

"I don't know--much the same. Did she ask you to take her home?"

"Yes, she did--or suggested it, at all events."

"Why has she come to Hampstead?"

"How can I tell, dear? Put the lamp out, and let us go."

He sat swinging his leg. The snatch of uncomfortable sleep had left
him pale and swollen-eyed, and his hair was tumbled.

"Who was there to-night?"

"Several new people. Amedee Silvenoire--the dramatist, you know;
an interesting man. He paid me the compliment of refraining from
compliments on my French. Madame Jacquelin, a stout and very plain
woman, who told us anecdotes of George Sand; remind me to repeat
them to-morrow. And Mr. Bickerdike, the pillar of idealism."

"Bickerdike was there?" Elgar exclaimed, with an air of displeasure.

"He didn't refer to his acquaintance with you. I wonder why not?"

"Did you talk to the fellow?"

"Rather pertly, I'm afraid. He was silly enough to ask me what I
thought of his book, though I hadn't mentioned it. I put on my
superior air and snubbed him; it was like tapping a frog on the head
each time it pokes up out of the water. He will go about and say
what an insufferable person that Mrs. Elgar is."

Reuben was silent for a while.

"I don't like your associating with such people," he said suddenly.
"I wish you didn't go there. It's all very well for a woman like
your aunt to gather about her all the disreputable men and women who
claim to be of some account, but they are not fit companions for
you. I don't like it at all."

She looked at him in astonishment, with bewildered eyes, that were
on the verge of laughter.

"What _are_ you talking about, Reuben?"

"I'm quite serious." He rose and began to walk about the room. "And
it surprised me that you didn't think of staying at home this
evening. I said nothing, because I wanted to see whether it would
occur to you that you oughtn't to go alone."

"How should such a thing occur to me? Surely I am as much at home in
aunt's house as in my own? I can hardly believe that you mean what
you say."

"You will understand it if you think for a moment. A year ago you
wouldn't have dreamt of going out at night when I stayed at home.
But you find the temptation of society irresistible. People admire
you and talk about you and crowd round you, and you enjoy it--
never mind who the people are. Presently we shall be seeing your
portrait in the shop-windows. I noticed what a satisfaction it was
to you when your name was mentioned among the other people in that
idiotic society journal."

Cecily laughed, but not quite so naturally as she wished it to
sound.

"This is too absurd Your dream has unsettled your wits, Reuben. How
could I imagine that you had begun to think of me in such a light?
You used to give me credit for at least average common sense. I
can't talk about it; I am ashamed to defend myself."

He had not spoken angrily, but in a curiously dogged tone, with
awkward emphasis, as if struggling to say what did not come
naturally to his lips. Still walking about, and keeping his eyes on
the floor, he continued in the same half-embarrassed way:

"There's no need for you to defend yourself. I don't exactly mean to
blame you, but to point out a danger."

"Forgetting that you degrade my character in doing so."

"Nothing of the kind, Cecily. But remember how young you are. You
know very little of the world, and often see things in an ideal
light. It is your tendency to idealize. You haven't the experience
necessary to a woman who goes about in promiscuous society."

Cecily knitted her brows.

"Instead of using that vague, commonplace language--which I never
thought to hear from _you_--I wish you would tell me exactly what
you mean. What things do I see in an ideal light? That means, I
suppose, that I am childishly ignorant of common evils in the world.
You couldn't speak otherwise if I had just come out of a convent.
And, indeed, you don't believe what you say. Speak more simply,
Reuben. Say that you distrust my discretion."

"To a certain extent, I do."

"Then there is no more to be said, dear. Please to tell me in future
exactly what you wish me to do, and what to avoid. I will go to
school to your prudence."

The clock ticked very loudly, and, before the silence was again
broken, chimed half-past one.

"Let me give you an instance of what I mean," said Elgar, again
seating himself on the table and fingering his watch-chain
nervously. "You have been making friends with Mrs. Travis. Now, you
are certainly quite ignorant of her character. You don't know that
she left home not long ago."

Cecily asked in a low voice:

"And why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because I don't choose to talk with you about such disagreeable
things."

"Then I begin to see what the difficulty is between us. It is not I
who idealize things, but you. Unless I am much mistaken, this is the
common error of husbands--of those who are at heart the best. They
wish their wives to remain children, as far as possible. Everything
'disagreeable' must be shunned--and we know what the result often
is. But I had supposed all this time that you and I were on other
terms. I thought you regarded me as not quite the everyday woman. In
some things it is certain you do; why not in the most important of
all? Knowing that I was likely to see Mrs. Travis often, it was your
duty to tell me what you knew of her."

Elgar kept silence.

"Now let me give you another version of that story," Cecily
continued. "To-night she has been telling me about herself. She says
that she left home because her husband was unfaithful to her. I
think the reason quite sufficient, and I told her so. But there is
something more. She has again been driven away. She has come to live
at Hampstead because her home is intolerable, and she says that
nothing will ever induce her to return."

"And this has been the subject of your conversation as you drove
back? Then I think such an acquaintance is very unsatisfactory, and
it must come to an end."

"Please to tell me why you spoke just now as if Mrs. Travis were to
blame."

"I have heard that she was."

"Heard from whom?"

"That doesn't matter. There's a doubt about it, and she's no
companion for you."

"As you think it necessary to lay commands on me, I shall of course
obey you. But I believe Mrs. Travis is wronged by the rumours you
have heard; I believe she acted then, and has done now, just as it
behoved her to."

"And you have been encouraging her?"

"Yes, on the assumption that she told me the truth. She asked if she
might come and see me, and I told her to do so whenever she wished.
I needn't say that I shall write and withdraw this invitation."

Elgar hesitated before replying.

"I'm afraid you can't do that. You have tact enough to end the
acquaintance gradually."

"Indeed I have not, Reuben. I either condemn her or pity her; I
can't shuffle contemptibly between the two."

"Of course you prefer to pity her!" he exclaimed impatiently. "There
comes in the idealism of which I was speaking. The vulgar woman's
instinct would be to condemn her; naturally enough, you take the
opposite course. You like to think nobly of people, with the result
that more often than not you will be wrong. You don't know the
world."

"And I am very young; pray finish the formula. But why do you prefer
to take the side of 'the vulgar woman' of whom you speak? I see that
you have no evidence against Mrs. Travis; why lean towards
condemnation?"

"Well, I'll put it in another way. A woman who lives apart from her
husband is always amid temptations, always in doubtful
circumstances. Friends who put faith in her may, of course, keep up
their intimacy; but a slight acquaintance, and particularly one in
your position, will get harm by associating with her. This is simple
and obvious enough."

"If you knew for certain that she was blameless, you would speak in
the same way?"

"If it regarded you, I should. Not if Mrs. Lessingham were in
question."

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