The Emancipated

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Mrs. Spence also wrote to Cecily, the kind of letter to be expected
from her, delightful in the reading and pleasant in the memory. But
she said nothing significant concerning Miriam.

"Would they welcome us, if we went to see them?" Cecily asked, one
cheerless day this winter--it was Clarence's birthday.

"You can't take the child," answered Reuben, with some discontent.

"No; I should not dare to. And it is just as impossible to leave him
with any one. In another year, perhaps."

Mrs. Lessingham occasionally mentioned Miriam in her letters, and
always with a jest. "I strongly suspect she is studying Greek. Is
she, perchance, the author of that delightful paper on 'Modern
Paganism,' in the current _Fortnightly_? Something strange awaits
us, be sure of that."

The winter dragged to its end, and with the spring came Mrs.
Lessingham herself. Instantly the life of the Elgars underwent a
complete change. The vivacious lady from Paris saw in the twinkling
of an eye how matters stood; she considered the situation perilous,
and set to work most efficaciously to alter it. With what result,
you are aware. The first incident of any importance in the new life
was that which has already been related, yet something happened one
day at the Academy of which it is worth while speaking.

Cecily had looked in her catalogue for the name of a certain artist,
and had found it; he exhibited one picture only. Walking on through
the rooms with her husband, she came at length to the number she had
in mind, and paused before it.

"Whose is that?" Reuben inquired, looking at the same picture.

"Mr. Mallard's," she answered, with a smile, meeting his eyes.

"Old Mallard's? Really? I was wondering whether he had anything this
year."

He seemed to receive the information with genuine pleasure. A little
to Cecily's surprise, for the name was never mentioned between them,
and she had felt uneasy in uttering it. The picture was a piece of
coast-scenery in Norway, very grand, cold, desolate; not at all
likely to hold the gaze of Academy visitors, but significant enough
for the few who see with the imagination.

"Nobody looks at it, you notice," said Elgar, when they had stood on
the spot for five minutes.

"Nobody."

Yet as soon as they had spoken, an old and a young lady came in
front of them, and they heard the young lady say, as she pointed to
Mallard's canvas:

"Where is that, mamma?"

"Oh, Land's End, or some such place," was the careless reply. "_Do_
just look at that _sweet_ little creature playing with the dog! Look
at its collar! And that ribbon!"

Reuben turned away and muttered contemptuous epithets; Cecily cast a
haughty and angry glance at the speaker. They passed on, and for the
present spoke no more of Mallard; but Cecily thought of him, and
would have liked to return to the picture before leaving. There was
a man who _did_ something, and something worth the doing. Reuben
must have had a thought not unlike this, for he said, later in the
same day:

"I am sorry I never took up painting. I believe I could have made
something of it. To a certain extent, you see, it is a handicraft
that any man may learn; if one can handle the tools, there's always
the incentive to work and produce. By-the-bye, why do you never draw
nowadays?"

"I hold the opinion of Miss Denyer--I wonder what's become of her,
poor girl?--that it's no use 'pottering.' Strange how a casual
word can affect one. I've never cared to draw since she spoke of my
'pottering.'"

This day was the last on which Reuben was quite his wonted self.
Cecily, who was not studying him closely just now, did not for a
while observe any change, but in the end it forced itself upon her
attention. She said nothing, thinking it not impossible that he was
again dissatisfied with the fruitlessness of his life, and had been
made to feel it more strongly by associating with so many new
people. Any sign of that kind was still grateful to her.

She knew now how amiss was her interpretation. The truth she could
not accept as she would have done a year ago; it would then have
seemed more than pardonable, as proving that Reuben's love of her
could drive him into grotesque inconsistencies. But now she only
felt it an injury, and in sitting down to write her painful letter
to Mrs. Travis, she acted for the first time in deliberate
resentment of her husband's conduct.

When the reply from Mrs. Travis instructed him in what had been
done, Reuben left the house, and did not return till late at night.
Cecily stayed at home, idle. Visitors called in the afternoon, but
she received no one. After her solitary dinner, she spent weary
hours, now in one room, now in another, unable to occupy herself in
any way. At eleven o'clock she went down to the library, resolving
to wait there for Reuben's return.

She heard him enter, and heard the servant speaking with him. He
came into the room, closed the door, sauntered forwards, his hands
in his pockets.

"Why didn't you tell me you would be away all day?" Cecily asked,
without stress of remonstrance.

"I didn't know that I should be."

He took his favourite position on the corner of the table Examining
him, Cecily saw that his face expressed ennui rather than active
displeasure; there was a little sullenness about his lips, but the
knitting of his brows was not of the kind that threatens tempest.

"Where have you been, dear?"

"At the Museum, the club, and a music-hall."

"A music-hall?" she repeated, in surprise.

"Why not? I had to get through the time somehow. I was in a surly
temper; if I'd come home sooner, I should have raged at you. Don't
say anything to irritate me, Ciss; I'm not quite sure of myself yet"

"But I think the raging would have been preferable; I've had the
dreariest day I ever spent"

"I suppose some one or other called?"

"Yes, but I didn't see them. You have made me very uncertain of howl
ought to behave. I thought it better to keep to myself till we had
come to a clearer understanding."

"That is perversity, you know. And it was perversity that led you to
write in such a way to Mrs. Travis."

"You are quite right. But the provocation was great. And after all I
don't see that there is much difference between writing to her that
she mustn't come, and giving directions to a servant that she isn't
to be admitted."

"You said in the letter that _I_ had forbidden it?"

"Yes, I did."

"And so made me ridiculous!" he exclaimed petulantly.

"My dear, you _were_ ridiculous. It's better that you should see it
plainly."

"The letter will be shown to all sorts of people. Your aunt will see
it, of course. You are ingenious in revenging yourself."

Cecily bent her head, and could not trust herself to speak. All day
she had been thinking of this, and had repented of her foolish
haste. Yet confession of error was impossible in her present mood.

"As you make such a parade of obedience," he continued, with
increasing anger, "I should think it would be better to obey
honestly. I never said that I wished you to break with her in this
fashion."

"Anything else would be contemptible. I can't subdue myself to
that."

"Very well; then to be logical you must give up society altogether.
It demands no end of contemptible things."

"Will you explain to me why you think that letter will make you
ridiculous?"

Reuben hesitated.

"Is it ridiculous," she added, "for a man to forbid his wife to
associate with a woman of doubtful character?"

"I told you distinctly that I had no definite charge to bring
against her. Caution would have been reasonable enough, but to act
as you have represented me is sheer Philistinism."

"Precisely. And it _was_ Philistinism in you to take the matter as
you did. Be frank with me. Why should you wish to have a name for
liberal thinking among your acquaintances, and yet behave in private
like the most narrow of men?"

"That is your misrepresentation. Of course, if you refuse to
understand me--"

He broke off, and went to another part of the room.

"Shall I tell you what all this means, Reuben?" said Cecily, turning
towards him. "We have lived so long in solitude, that the common
circumstances of society are strange and disturbing to us. Solitary
people are theoretical people. You would never have thought of
forbidding me to read such and such a book, on the ground that it
took me into doubtful company; the suggestion of such intolerance
would have made you laugh scornfully. You have become an idealist of
a curious kind; you like to think of me as an emancipated woman, and
yet, when I have the opportunity of making my independence
practical, you show yourself alarmed. I am not sure that I
understand you entirely; I should be very sorry to explain your
words of the other night in the sense they would bear on the lips of
an ordinary man. Can't you help me out of this difficulty?"

Reuben was reflecting, and had no reply ready.

"If there is to be all this difference between theory and practice,"
Cecily continued, "it must either mean that you think otherwise than
you speak, or else that I have shown myself in some way very
untrustworthy. You say you have been angry with me; I have felt both
angry and deeply hurt. Suppose you had known certainly that Mrs.
Travis was not an honourable woman, even then it was wrong to speak
to me as you did. Even then it would have been inconsistent to
forbid me to see her. You put yourself and me on different levels.
You make me your inferior--morally your inferior. What should you
say if I began to warn you against one or other of the men you
know--if I put on a stern face, and told you that your morals were in
danger?"

"Pooh! what harm can a man take?"

"And pray what harm can a woman take, if her name happens to be
Cecily Elgar?"

She drew herself up, and stood regarding him with superb
self-confidence.

"Without meaning it, you insult me, Reuben. You treat me as a vulgar
husband treats a vulgar wife. What harm to me do you imagine? Don't
let us deal in silly evasions and roundabout phrases. Do you
distrust my honour? Do you think I can be degraded by association?
What woman living has power to make me untrue to myself?"

"You are getting rhetorical, Cecily. Then at this rate I should
_never_ be justified in interfering?"

"In interfering with mere command, never."

"Not if I saw you going to destruction?"

She smiled haughtily.

"When it comes to that, we'll discuss the question anew. But I see
that you think it possible. Evidently I have given proof of some
dangerous weakness. Tell me what it is, and I shall understand you
better."

"I'm afraid all this talk leads to nothing. You claim an
independence which will make it very difficult for us to live on the
old terms."

"I claim nothing more than your own theories have always granted."

"Then practice shows that the theories are untenable, as in many
another case."

"You refuse me the right to think for myself."

"In some things, yes. Because, as I said before, you haven't
experience enough to go upon."

Cecily cast down her eyes. She forced herself to keep silence until
that rush of indignant rebellion had gone by. Reuben looked at her
askance.

"If you still loved me as you once did," he said, in a lower voice,
"this would be no hardship. Indeed, I should never have had to utter
such words."

"I still do love you," she answered, very quietly. "If I did not, I
should revolt against your claim. But it is too certain that we no
longer live on the old terms."

They avoided each other's eyes, and after a long silence left the
room without again speaking.

CHAPTER IV

THE DENYERS IN ENGLAND

"There!" said Mrs. Denyer, laying money on the table. "There are
your wages, up to the end of April--notwithstanding your
impertinence to me this morning, you see. Once more I forgive you.
And new get on with your work, and let us have no more
unpleasantness."

It was in the back parlour of a small house at Hampstead, a room
scantily furnished and not remarkably clean. Mrs. Denyer sat at the
table, some loose papers before her. She was in mourning, but still
fresh of complexion, and a trifle stouter than when she lived at
Naples, two years and a half ago. Her words were addressed to a
domestic (most plainly, of all work), who without ceremony gathered
the coins up in both her hands, counted them, and then said with
decision:

"Now I'm goin', mum."

"Going? Indeed you are not, my girl! You don't leave this house
without the due notice."

"Notice or no notice, I'm a-goin'," said the other, firmly. "I never
thought to a' got even this much, an' now I've got it, I'm a-goin'.
It's wore me out, has this 'ouse; what with--"

The conflict lasted for a good quarter of an hour, but the domestic
was to be shaken neither with threats nor prayers. Resolutely did
she ascend to her bedroom, promptly did she pack her box. Almost
before Mrs. Denyer could realize the disaster that had befallen, her
house was servantless.

She again sat in the back parlour, gazing blankly at the table, when
there came the sound of the house-door opening, followed by a light
tread in the passage.

"Barbara!" called Mrs. Denyer.

Barbara presented herself. She also wore mourning, genteel but
inexpensive. Her prettiness endured, but she was pale, and had a
chronic look of discontent.

"Well, now, what do you think has happened? Shut the door. I paid
Charlotte the wages, and the very first thing she did was to pack
and go!"

"And you mean to say you let her? Why, you must be crazy!"

"Don't speak to me in that way!" cried her mother, hotly. "How could
I prevent her, when she was determined? I did my utmost, but nothing
could induce her to stay. Was ever anything so distracting? The very
day after letting our rooms! How are we to manage?"

"I shall have nothing to do with it. The girl wouldn't have gone if
I'd been here. You must manage how you can."

"It's no use talking like that, Barbara. You're bound to wait upon
Mrs. Travis until we get another girl."

"I?" exclaimed her daughter. "Wait on her yourself! I certainly
shall do nothing of the kind."

"You're a bad, cruel, undutiful girl!" cried Mrs. Denyer, her face
on fire. "Nether of your sisters ever treated me as you do. You're
the only one of the family that has never given the least help, and
you're the only one that day by day insults me and behaves with
heartless selfishness! I'm to wait on the lodger myself, am I? Very
well! I will do so, and see if anything in the world will shame you.
She shall know _why_ I wait on her, be sure of that!"

Barbara swept out of the room, and ascended the stairs to the second
floor. Here again she heard her name called, in a soft voice and
interrogatively in reply, she entered a small bedroom, saying
impatiently:

"What is it, Mad?"

It was seen at the first glance that this had long been a
sick-chamber. The arrangement of the furniture, the
medicine-bottles, the appliances for the use of one who cannot rise
from bed, all told their story. The air had a peculiar scent; an
unnatural stillness seemed to pervade it. Against the raised white
pillow showed a face hardly less white.

"Isn't it provoking, Barbara?" said the invalid, without moving in
the least. "Whatever shall you do?"

"As best we can, I suppose. I've to turn cook and housemaid and
parlour-maid, now. Scullery-maid too. I suppose I shall clean the
steps to-morrow morning."

"Oh, but you must go to the registry-office the very first thing.
Don't upset yourself about it. If you can just manage to get that
lady's dinner."

"It's all very well for you to talk! How would _you_ like to _wait_
on people, like a girl in a restaurant?"

"Ah, if only I could!" replied Madeline, with a little laugh that
was heart-breaking. "If only I could!"

In a month it would be two years since Madeline stood and walked
like other people; live as long as she might, she would never rise
from her bed. It came about in this way. Whilst the Denyers were
living in the second-class hotel at Southampton, and when Mr. Denyer
had been gone to Vera Cruz some five months, a little ramble was
taken one day in a part of the New Forest. Madeline was in
particularly good spirits; she had succeeded in getting an
engagement to teach some children, and her work was to begin the
next day. In a frolic she set herself to jump over a fallen tree;
her feet slipped on the dry grass beyond, and she fell with her back
upon the trunk.

This was pleasant news to send to her father! With him things were
going as well as he had anticipated, and before long he was able to
make substantial remittances, but his letters were profoundly sad.
In a year's time, the family quitted Southampton and took the house
at Hampstead; with much expense and difficulty Madeline was removed.
Mrs. Denyer and Barbara were weary of provincial life, and
considered nothing in their resolve to be within reach of London
amusements. Zillah was living as governess with a family in
Yorkshire.

They had been settled at Hampstead three weeks, when information
reached them that Mr. Denyer was dead of yellow fever.

On the day when this news came, the house received no less important
a visitor than Mr. Musselwhite. Long ago, Mrs. Denyer had written to
him from Southampton, addressing her letter to the club in London of
which he had spoken; she had received a prompt reply, dated from
rooms in London, and thenceforth the correspondence was established.
But Mr. Musselwhite never spoke of coming to Southampton; his
letters ended with "Sincere regards to Miss Denyer and the other
young ladies," but they contained nothing that was more to the
point. He wrote about the weather chiefly. Arrived in London, Mrs.
Denyer at once sent an invitation, and to her annoyance this
remained unanswered. To-day the explanation was forthcoming; Mr.
Musselwhite had been on a journey, and by some mistake the letter
had only come into his hands when he returned. He was most
gentlemanly in his expressions of condolement with the family in
their distress; he sat with them, moreover, much longer than was
permissible under the circumstances by the code of society. And on
going, he begged to be allowed to see them frequently--that was
all.

Barbara could not control herself for irritation; Mrs. Denyer was
indignant. Yet, after all, was it to be expected that the visitor
should say or do more on such an occasion as this? In any case, he
knew what their position was; all had been put before him, as though
he were a member of the family. If they succeeded in obtaining
whatever Mr. Denyer had died possessed of, it would certainly be
nothing more than a provision for the present. When they spoke of
taking a lodger for their first floor, Mr. Musselwhite agreed that
this was a good thought, whilst shaking his gentlemanly head over
the necessity.

He came again and again, always sadly sympathetic. He would sit in
the drawing-room for an hour, pulling his whiskers and moustaches
nervously, often glancing at Barbara, making the kindest inquiries
concerning Madeline, for whom he actually brought flowers. On one of
these occasions, he told them that his brother the baronet was very
ill, down at the "place in Lincolnshire." And after mentioning this,
he fell into abstraction.

As for Madeline, she still received letters from Clifford Marsh. On
first hearing of the accident, Clifford at once came to Southampton;
his distress was extreme. But it was useless for him to remain, and
business demanded his return to Leeds. Neither he nor Madeline was
yet aware of the gravity of what had happened; they talked of
recovery. Before long Madeline knew how her situation was generally
regarded, but she could not abandon hope; she was able to write, and
not a word in her letters betrayed a doubt of the possibility that
she might yet be well again. Clifford wrote very frequently for the
first year, with a great deal of genuine tenderness, with compassion
and encouragement. Never mind how long her illness lasted, let her
be assured of his fidelity; no one but Madeline should ever be his
wife. A considerable part of his letters was always occupied with
lamentation over the cursed fate that bound him to the Philistines,
though he took care to repeat that this was the result of his own
choice, and that he blamed no one--unless it were his gross-minded
step-father, who had driven him to such an alternative. These
bewailings grew less vehement as his letters became shorter and
arrived at longer intervals; there began to be a sameness in the
tone, even in the words. When his yearly holiday came round, he
promised to visit Southampton, but after all never did so. What was
the use? he wrote. It only meant keener misery to both. Instead of
coming south, he had gone into Scotland.

And Madeline no longer expressed a wish to see him. Her own letters
grew shorter and calmer, containing at length very little about
herself, but for the most part news of family affairs. Every now and
then Clifford seemed to rouse himself to the effort of repeating his
protestations, of affirming his deathless faith; but as a rule he
wrote about trifles, sometimes even of newspaper matters. So did the
second year of Madeline's martyrdom come to its close.

Quarrelling incessantly, Mrs. Denyer and Barbara prepared the
lodger's dinner between them. This Mrs. Travis was not exacting; she
had stipulated only for a cutlet, or something of the kind, with two
vegetables, and a milk pudding. Whatever was proposed seemed to suit
her. The Denyers knew nothing about her, except that she was able to
refer them to a lady who had a house in Mayfair; her husband, she
said, was abroad. She had brought a great deal of luggage, including
books to the number of fifty or so.

When the moment for decision came, Barbara snatched up the folded
white table-cloth, threw it with knives, forks, and plates upon a
tray, and ascended to the lodger's sitting-room. Her cheeks were
hot; her eyes flashed. She had donned the most elegant attire in her
possession, had made her hair magnificent. Her knock at the door was
meant to be a declaration of independence; it sounded peremptory.

Mrs. Travis was in an easy-chair, reading. She looked up absently;
then smiled.

"Good evening, Miss Denyer. How close it has been again!"

"Very. I must ask you to excuse me, Mrs. Travis, if I do these
things rather awkwardly. At a moment's notice, we have lost the
servant whose duty it was."

"Oh, I am only sorry that you should have the trouble. Let us lay
the table together. I've done it often enough for myself. No, that's
the wrong side of the cloth. I'll put these things in order, whilst
you go for the rest."

Barbara looked at Mrs. Travis with secret disdain. The girl's nature
was plebeian; a little arrogance would have constrained her to
respect, however she might have seemed to resent it. This
good-natured indifference made her feel that her preparations were
thrown away. She would have preferred to see herself as a martyr.

When dinner was over and the table being cleared, Mrs. Travis spoke
of Madeline.

"Does she sleep well at night?"

"Never till very late," replied Barbara.

"Does she like to be read to?"

"Oh yes--reading of certain kinds. I often read Italian poetry to
her."

Mrs. Travis had not now to learn for the first time of the family's
superior attainments; it had been Mrs. Denyer's care to impress upon
her that they were no ordinary letters of lodgings. Indeed, said
Mrs. Denyer, they were rather _depaysees_' here in England; they
had so long been accustomed to the larger intellectual atmosphere of
Continental centres. "The poor girls pine for Italy; they have
always adored Italy. My eldest daughter is far more Italian than
English."

"Well, I don't read Italian," said Mrs. Travis to Barbara, "but if
English would do, I should really like to sit with her for an hour
sometimes. I never sleep myself if I go to bed before midnight. Do
you think she would care for my company?"

"I am sure she would be grateful to you," answered Barbara, who felt
that she might now exhibit a little politeness.

"Then please ask her if I may come to-night."

This request was readily granted, and at about half-past nine Mrs.
Travis went into the sick-chamber, taking in her hand a volume of
Browning. Madeline had not yet seen the lodger; she returned her
greeting in a murmur, and examined her with the steady eyes of one
whom great suffering has delivered from all petty embarrassments.
Her face was not so calm as when Barbara came to speak to her in the
afternoon; lines of pain showed themselves on her forehead, and her
thin lips were compressed.

"It's very good of you to come," she said, when Mrs. Travis had
taken a seat by the bed. "But please don't read anything to-night. I
don't feel that I could take any interest. It is so sometimes."

"Naturally enough. But do you feel able to talk?"

"Yes; I had rather talk. Can you tell me something quite new and
different from what I'm accustomed to hear? Do you know any country
where I haven't been?"

"I haven't travelled much. Last autumn I was in Iceland for a few
weeks; would you care to hear of that?"

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