The Emancipated

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To aggravate his dulness, the sky had clouded over, and presently it
began to rain. He had no umbrella. Quite unable to determine whither
he should go if he took a cab, he turned aside to the shelter of an
archway. Some one was already standing there, but in his abstraction
he did not know whether it was man or woman, until a little cough,
twice or thrice repeated, made him turn his eyes. Then he saw that
his companion was a girl of about five-and-twenty, with a pretty,
good-natured face, which wore an embarrassed smile. He gazed at her
with a look of surprised recognition.

"Well, it really _is_ you!" she exclaimed, laughing and looking
down.

"And it is really _you_!"

They shook hands, again examining each other.

"I thought you didn't mean to know me."

"I hadn't once looked at you. But you have changed a good deal."

"Not more than you have, I'm sure."

"And what are you doing? You look much more cheerful than you used
to."

"I can't say the same of you."

"Have you been in London all the time?"

"Oh no. Two years ago I went back to Liverpool, and had a place
there for nearly six months. But I got tired of it. In a few days
I'm going to Brighton; I've got a place in a restaurant. Quite time,
too; I've had nothing for seven weeks."

"I've often thought about you," said Elgar, after a pause.

"But you never came to see how I was getting on."

"Oh, I supposed you were married long since."

She laughed, and shook her head.

"You are, though, I suppose?" she asked.

"Not I!"

They talked with increasing friendliness until the rain stopped,
then walked away together in the direction of the City.

About dinner-time, Cecily received a telegram. It was from her
husband, and informed her that he had left town with a friend for a
day or two.

This was the first instance of such a proceeding on Reuben's part.
For a moment, it astonished her. Which of his friends could it be?
But when the surprise had passed, she reflected more on his reasons
for absenting himself, and believed that she understood them. He
wished to punish her; he thought she would be anxious about him, and
so come to adopt a different demeanour when he returned. Ever so
slight a suspicion of another kind occurred to her once or twice,
but she had no difficulty in dismissing it. No; this was merely one
of his tactics in the conflict that had begun between them

And his absence was a relief. She too wanted to think for a while,
undisturbed. When she had seen the child bed and asleep, she moved
about the house with a strange sense of freedom, seeming to breathe
more naturally than for several days. She went to the piano, and
played some favourite pieces, among them one which she had learnt
long ago in Paris. It gave her a curiously keen pleasure, like a
revival of her girlhood; she lingered over it, and nursed the
impression. Then she read a little--not continuously, but dipping
into familiar books. It was holiday with her. And when she lay down
to rest, the sense of being alone was still grateful. Sleep came
very soon, and she did not stir till morning.

On the third day Elgar returned, at noon. She heard the cab that
brought him. He lingered in the hall, opened the library door; then
came to the drawing-room, humming an air. His look was as different
as could be from that she had last seen on his face; he came towards
her with his pleasantest smile, and first kissed her hand, then
embraced her in the old way.

"You haven't been anxious about me, Ciss?"

"Not at all," she replied quietly, rather permitting his caresses
than encouraging them.

"Some one I hadn't met for several years. He was going down to
Brighton, and persuaded me to accompany him. I didn't write
because--well, I thought it would be better if we kept quite apart
for a day or two. Things were getting wrong, weren't they?"

"I'm afraid so. But how are they improved?"

"Why, I had a talk with your aunt about Mrs. Travis. I quite believe
I was misled by that fellow that talked scandal. She seems very much
to be pitied, and I'm really sorry that I caused you to break with
her."

Cecily watched him as he spoke, and he avoided her eyes. He was
holding her hands and fondling them; now he bent and put them to his
lips. She said nothing.

"Suppose you write to her, Ciss, and say that I made a fool of
myself. You're quite at liberty to do so. Tell her exactly how it
was, and ask her to forgive us."

She did not answer immediately.

"Will you do that?"

"I feel ashamed to. I know very well how _I_ should receive such a
letter."

"Oh, you! But every one hasn't your superb arrogance!" He laughed.
"And it's hard to imagine you in such a situation."

"I hope so."

"Aunt tells me that the poor woman has very few friends."

"It's very unlikely that she will ever make one of me. I don't see
how it is possible, after this."

"But write the letter, just to make things simpler if you meet
anywhere. As a piece of justice, too."

Not that day, but the following, Cecily decided herself to write.
She could only frame her excuse in the way Reuben had suggested;
necessarily the blame lay on him. The composition cost her a long
time, though it was only two pages of note-paper; and when it was
despatched, she could not think without hot cheeks of its recipient
reading it She did not greatly care for Mrs. Travis's intimacy, but
she did desire to remove from herself the imputation of
censoriousness.

There came an answer in a day or two.

"I was surprised that you (or Mr. Elgar) should so readily believe
ill of me, but I am accustomed to such judgments, and no longer
resent them. A wife is always in the wrong; when a woman marries,
she should prepare herself for this. Or rather, her friends should
prepare her, as she has always been kept in celestial ignorance by
their care. Pray let us forget what has happened. I won't renew my
request to be allowed to visit you; if that is to be, it will
somehow come to pass naturally, in the course of time. If we meet at
Mrs. Lessingham's, please let us speak not a word of this affair. I
hate scenes."

In a week's time, the Elgars' life had resumed the course it held
before that interruption--with the exception that Reuben, as often
as it was possible, avoided accompanying his wife when she went from
home. His own engagements multiplied, and twice before the end of
July he spent Saturday and Sunday out of town. Cecily made no close
inquiries concerning his employment of his time; on their meeting
again, he always gave her an account of what he had been doing, and
she readily accepted it. For she had now abandoned all hope of his
doing serious work; she never spoke a word which hinted regret at
his mode of life. They were on placid terms, and she had no such
faith in anything better as would justify her in endangering the
recovered calm.

It became necessary at length to discuss what they should do with
themselves during the autumn. Mrs. Lessingham was going with friends
to the Pyrenees. The Delphs would take a short holiday in Sussex;
Irene could not spare much time from her work.

"I don't care to be away long myself," Reuben said, when Cecily
mentioned this. "I feel as if I should be able to get on with my
Puritanic pursuits again when we return."

Cecily looked at him, to see if he spoke in earnest. In spite of his
jesting tone, he seemed to be serious, for he was pacing the floor,
his head bent as if in meditation.

"Make your own plans," was her reply. "But we won't go into
Cornwall, I think."

"No, not this year."

They spent a month at Eastbourne. Some agreeable people whom they
were accustomed to meet at Mrs. Lessingham's had a house there, and
supplied them with society. Towards the end of the month, Reuben
grew restless and uncertain of temper; he wandered on the downs by
himself, and when at home kept silence. The child, too, was
constantly ailing, and its cry irritated him.

"The fact of the matter is," he exclaimed one evening, "I don't feel
altogether well! I ought to have had more change than this. If I go
back and settle to work, I shall break down."

"What kind of change do you wish for?" Cecily asked.

"I should have liked to take a ramble in Germany, or, Norway--some
new part. But nothing of that is possible. Clarence makes slaves of
us."

Cecily reflected.

"There's no reason why he should hinder you from going."

"Oh, I can't leave you alone," he returned impatiently.

"I think you might, for a few weeks--if you feel it necessary. I
don't think Clarence ought to leave the seaside till the middle of
September. The Robinsons will be here still, you know."

He muttered and grumbled, but in the end proposed that he should go
over by one of the Harwich boats, and take what course happened to
attract him. Cecily assented, and in a few hours he was ready to bid
her good-bye. She had said that it wasn't worth while going with him
to the station, and when he gave her the kiss at starting she kept
perfectly tranquil.

"You're not sorry to get rid of me," he said, with a forced laugh.

"I don't wish you to stay at the expense of your health."

"I hope Clarence mayn't damage yours. These sleepless nights are
telling on you."

"Go. You'll miss the train."

He looked back from the door, but Cecily had turned away.

He was absent for more than six weeks, during which he wrote
frequently from various out-of-the-way places on the Rhine. On
returning, he found Cecily in London, very anxious about the child,
and herself looking very ill. He, on the other hand, was robust and
in excellent spirits; in a day or two he began to go regularly to
the British Museum--to say, at all events, that he went there. And
so time passed to the year's end.

One night in January Reuben went to the theatre. He left Cecily
sitting in the bedroom, by the fireside, with Clarence on her lap.
For several weeks the child had been so ill that Cecily seldom
quitted it.

Three hours later she was sitting in the same position, still bent
forward, the child still on her lap. But no movement, no cry ever
claimed her attention. Tears had stained her face, but they no
longer fell. Holding a waxen little hand that would never again
caress her, she gazed at the dying fire as though striving to read
her destiny.

CHAPTER VI

AT PAESTUM

The English artist had finished his work, and the dirty little inn
at Paestum would to-day lose its solitary guest.

This morning he rose much later than usual, and strolled out idly
into the spring sunshine, a rug thrown over his shoulder. Often
plucking a flower or a leaf, and seeming to examine it with close
thoughtfulness, he made a long circuit by the old walls; now and
then he paused to take a view of the temples, always with eye of
grave meditation. At one elevated point, he stood for several
minutes looking along the road to Salerno.

March rains had brought the vegetation into luxurious life; fern,
acanthus, brambles, and all the densely intermingled growths that
cover the ground about the ruins, spread forth their innumerable
tints of green. Between shore and mountains, the wide plain smiled
in its desolation.

At length he went up into the Temple of Neptune, spread the rug on a
spot where he had been accustomed, each day at noon, to eat his
salame and drink his Calabrian wine, and seated himself against a
column. Here he could enjoy a view from both ends of the ruin. In
the one direction it was only a narrow strip of sea, with the barren
coast below, and the cloudless sky above it; in the other, a purple
valley, rising far away on the flank of the Apennines; both pictures
set between Doric pillars. He lit a cigar, and with a smile of
contented thought abandoned himself to the delicious warmth, the
restful silence. Within reach of his hand was a fern that had shot
up between the massive stones; be gently caressed its fronds, as
though it were a sentient creature. Or his eyes dwelt upon the huge
column just in front of him--now scanning its superb proportions,
now enjoying the hue of the sunny-golden travertine, now observing
the myriad crevices of its time-eaten surface, the petrified forms
of vegetable growth, the little pink snails that housed within its
chinks.

It was not an artistic impulse only that had brought Mallard to
Italy, after three years of work under northern skies. He wished to
convince himself that his freedom was proof against memories revived
on the very ground where he had suffered so intensely. He had put
aside repeated invitations from the Spences, because of the doubt
whether he could trust himself within sight of the Mediterranean.
Liberty from oppressive thought he had long recovered; the old zeal
for labour was so strong in him that he found it difficult to
imagine the mood in which he had bidden good-bye to his life's
purposes. But there was always the danger lest that witch of the
south should again overcome his will and lull him into impotence of
vain regret. For such a long time he had believed that Italy was for
ever closed against him, that the old delights were henceforth
converted into a pain which memory must avoid. At length he resolved
to answer his friends' summons, and meet them on their return from
Sicily. They had wished to have him with them in Greece, but always
his departure was postponed; habits of solitude and characteristic
diffidence kept him aloof as long as possible.

Evidently, his health was sound enough. He had loitered about the
familiar places in Naples; he took the road by Pompeii to Sorrento,
and over the hills to Amalfi; and at each step he could smile with
contemptuous pity for the self which he had outlived. More than
that. When he came hither three years ago, it was with the intention
of doing certain definite work; this purpose he now at last
fulfilled, thus completing his revenge upon the by-gone obstacles,
and reinstating himself in his own good opinion, as a man who did
that which he set himself to do. At Amalfi he had made a number of
studies which would be useful; at Paestum he had worked towards a
picture, such a one as had from the first been in his mind. Yes, he
was a sound man once more.

Tempestuous love is for boys, who have still to know themselves, and
for poets, who can turn their suffering into song. But to him it
meant only hindrance. Because he had been a prey to frantic desires,
did he look upon earth's beauty with a clearer eye, or was his hand
endowed with subtler craft? He saw no reason to suppose it. The
misery of those first months of northern exile--his battling with
fierce winds on sea and moorland and mountain, his grim vigils under
stormy stars--had it given him new strength? Of body perhaps;
otherwise, he might have spent the time with decidedly more of
satisfaction and profit.

Let it be accepted as one of the unavoidable ills of humanity--
something that has to be gone through, like measles. But it had come
disagreeably late. No doubt he had to thank the monastic habits of
his life that it assailed him with such violence. That he had
endured it, therein lay the happy assurance that it would not again
trouble him.

If it be true that love ever has it in its power to make or mar a
man, this love that he had experienced was assuredly not of such
quality. From the first his reason had opposed it, and now that it
was all over he tried to rejoice at the circumstances which had made
his desire vain. Herein he went a little beyond sincerity; yet there
were arguments which, at all events, fortified his wish to see that
everything was well. It was not mere perversity that in the
beginning had warned him against thinking of Cecily as a possible
wife for him. Had she betrayed the least inclination to love him,
such considerations would have gone to the winds; he would have
called the gods to witness that the one perfect woman on the earth
was his. But the fact of her passionate self-surrender to Reuben
Elgar, did it not prove that the possibilities of her nature were
quite other than those which could have assured _his_ happiness? To
be sure, so young a girl is liable to wretched errors--but of that
he would take no account; against that he resolutely closed his
mind. From Edward Spence he heard that she was delighting herself
and others in a London season. Precisely; this justified his
forethought; for this she was adapted. But as his wife nothing of
the kind would have been within her scope. He knew him self too
well. His notion of married life was inconsistent with that kind of
pleasure. As his wife, perhaps she would have had no desire save to
fit herself to him. Possibly; but that again was a reflection not to
be admitted. He had only to deal with facts. Sufficient that he
could think of her without a pang, that he could even hope to meet
her again before long. And, best of all, no ungenerous feeling ever
tempted him to wish her anything but wholly happy.

Stretched lazily in the Temple of Neptune, he once or twice looked
at his watch, as though the hour in some way concerned him. How it
did was at length shown. He heard voices approaching, and had just
time to rise to his feet before there appeared figures, rising
between the columns of the entrance against the background of hills.
He moved forward, a bright smile on his face. The arrivals were
Edward Spence, with his wife and Mrs. Baske.

All undemonstrative people, they shook hands much as if they had
parted only a week ago.

"Done your work?" asked Spence, laying his palm on one of the
pillars, with affectionate greeting.

"All I can do here."

"Can we see it?" Eleanor inquired.

"I've packed it for travelling."

Mallard took the first opportunity of looking with scrutiny at Mrs.
Baske. Alone of the three, she was changed noticeably. Her health
had so much improved that, if anything, she looked younger;
certainly her face had more distinct beauty. Reserve and conscious
dignity were still its characteristics--these were inseparable
from the mould of feature; but her eyes no longer had the somewhat
sullen gleam which had been wont to harm her aspect, and when she
smiled it was without the hint of disdainful reticence. Yet the
smile was not frequent; her lips had an habitual melancholy, and
very often she knitted her brows in an expression of troubled
thought. Whilst the others were talking with Mallard, she kept
slightly in the rear, and seemed to be occupied in examining the
different parts of the temple.

In attire she was transformed. No suggestion now of the lady from
provincial England. She was very well, because most fittingly,
dressed; neither too youthfully, nor with undue disregard of the
fact that she was still young; a travelling-costume apt to the
season and the country.

"They speak much of Signor Mal-lard at the osteria," said Spence.
"Your departure afflicts them, naturally, no doubt. Do you know
whether any other Englishman ever braved that accommodation?"

A country lad appeared, carrying a small hamper, wherein the party
had brought their midday meal from Salerno.

"Why did you trouble?" said Mallard. "We have cheese and salame in
abundance."

"So I supposed," Spence replied, drily. "I recall the quality of
both. Also the _vino di Calabria_, which is villanously sweet. Show
us what point of view you chose."

For an hour they walked and talked. Miriam alone was almost silent,
but she paid constant attention to the ruins. Mallard heard her say
something to Eleanor about the difference between the columns of the
middle temple and those of the so-called Basilica; three years ago,
such a remark would have been impossible on her lips, and when he
glanced at her with curiosity, she seemed conscious of his look.

They at length opened the hamper, and seated themselves near the
spot where Mallard had been reclining.

"There's a smack of profanity in this," said Spence. "The least we
can do is to pour a libation to Poseidon, before we begin the meal."

And he did so, filling a tumbler with wine arid solemnly emptying
half of it on to the floor of the _cella_. Mallard watched the
effect on Mrs. Baske; she met his look for an instant and smiled,
then relapsed into thoughtfulness.

The only other visitors to-day were a couple of Germans, who looked
like artists and went about in enthusiastic talk; one kept dealing
the other severe blows on the chest, which occasionally made the
recipient stagger--all in pure joy and friendship. They measured
some of the columns, and in one place, for a special piece of
observation, the smaller man mounted on his companion's shoulders.
Miriam happened to see them whilst they were thus posed, and the
spectacle struck her with such ludicrous effect that she turned away
to disguise sudden laughter. In doing so, she by chance faced
Mallard, and he too began to laugh. For the first time since they
had been acquainted, they looked into each other's eyes with frank,
hearty merriment. Miriam speedily controlled herself, and there came
a flush to her cheeks.

"You may laugh," said Spence, observing them, "but when did you see
two Englishmen abroad who did themselves so much honour?"

"True enough," replied Mallard. "One supposes that Englishmen with
brains are occasionally to be found in Italy, but I don't know where
they hide themselves."

"You will meet one in Rome in a few days," remarked Eleanor, "if you
go on with us--as I hope you intend to?"

"Yes, I shall go with you to Rome. Who is the man?"

"Mr. Seaborne--your most reverent admirer."

"Ah, I should like to know the fellow."

Miriam looked at him and smiled.

"You know Mr. Seaborne?" he inquired of her, abruptly.

"He was with us a fortnight in Athens."

As they were idling about, after their lunch, Mallard kept near to
Miriam, but without speaking. He saw her stoop to pick up a piece of
stone; presently another. She glanced at him.

"Bits of Paestum," he said, smiling; "perhaps of Poseidonia. Look at
the field over there, where the oxen are; they have walled it in
with fragments dug up out of the earth,--the remnants of a city."

She just bent her head, in sign of sympathy. A minute or two after,
she held out to him the two stones she had taken up.

"How cold one is, and how warm the other!"

One was marble, one travertine. Mallard held them for a moment, and
smiled assent; then gave them back to her. She threw them away.

When it was time to think of departure, they went to the inn;
Mallard's baggage was brought out and put into the carriage. They
drove across the silent plain towards Salerno. In a pause of his
conversation with Spence, Mallard drew Miriam's attention to the
unfamiliar shape of Capri, as seen from this side of the Sorrento
promontory. She looked, and murmured an affirmative.

"You have been to Amalfi?" he asked.

"Yes; we went last year."

"I hope you hadn't such a day as your brother and I spent there--
incessant pouring rain."

"No; we had perfect weather."

At Salerno they caught a train which enabled them to reach Naples
late in the evening. Mallard accompanied his friends to their hotel,
and dined with them. As he and Spence were smoking together
afterwards, the latter communicated some news which he had reserved
for privacy.

"By-the-bye, we hear that Cecily and her aunt are at Florence, and
are coming to Rome next week."

"Elgar with them?" Mallard asked, with nothing more than friendly
interest.

"No. They say he is so hard at work that he couldn't leave London."

"What work?"

"The same I told you of last year."

Mallard regarded him with curious inquiry.

"His wife travels for her health?"

"She seems to be all right again, but Mrs. Lessingham judged that a
change was necessary. Won't you use the opportunity of meeting her?"

"As it comes naturally, there's no reason why I shouldn't. In fact,
I shall be glad to see her. But I should have preferred to meet them
both together. What faith do you put in this same work of Elgar's?"

"That he _is_ working, I take it there can be no doubt, and I await
the results with no little curiosity. Mrs. Lessingham writes
vaguely, which, by-the-bye, is not her habit. Whether she is a
believer or not, we can't determine."

"Did the child's death affect him much?"

"I know nothing about it."

They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Then Mallard observed,
without taking the cigar from his lips:

"How much better Mrs. Baske looks!"

"Naturally the change is more noticeable to you than to us. It has
come very slowly. I dare say you see other changes as well?"

Spence's eye twinkled as he spoke.

"I was prepared for them. That she should stay abroad with you all
this time is in itself significant. Where does she propose to live
when you are back in England?"

"Why, there hasn't been a word said on the subject. Eleanor is
waiting; doesn't like to ask questions. We shall have our house in
Chelsea again, and she is very welcome to share it with us if she
likes. I think it is certain she won't go back to Lancashire; and
the notion of her living with the Elgars is improbable."

"How far does the change go?" inquired Mallard, with hesitancy.

"I can't tell you, for we are neither of us in her confidence. But
she is no longer a precisian. She has read a great deal; most of it
reading of a very substantial kind. Not at all connected with
religion; it would be a mistake to suppose that she has been going
in for a course of modern criticism, and that kind of thing. The
Greek and Latin authors she knows very fairly, in English or French
translations. What would our friend Bradshaw say? She has grappled
with whole libraries of solid historians. She knows the Italian
poets Really, no common case of a woman educating herself at that
age."

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