The Emancipated

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"But we are allowed to wish the best."

"What _is_ the best?" said Spenee, sustaining his tone of impartial
speculation. "Are you quite sure that Mr. and Mrs. Jones are not too
much in your mind?"

"Whatever modern happiness may mean, I am inclined to think that
modern unhappiness is not unlike that of old-fashioned people."

"My dear fellow, you are a halter between two opinions. You can't
make up your mind in which direction to look. You are a sort of
Janus, with anxiety on both faces."

"There's a good deal of truth in that," admitted the artist, with a
growl.

"Get on with your painting, and whatever else of practical you have
in mind. Leave philosophy to men of large leisure and placid pulses,
like myself. Accept the inevitable."

"I do so."

"But not with modern detachment," said Spence, smiling.

"Be hanged with your modernity! I believe myself distinctly the more
modern of the two."

"Not with regard to women. When you marry, you will be a rigid
autocrat, and make no pretence about it. You don't think of women as
independent beings, who must save or lose themselves on their own
responsibility. You are not willing to trust them alone."

"Well, perhaps you are right."

"Of course I am. Come and dine at the hotel. I think Seaborne will
be there."

"No, thank you."

Mallard had waited but a few minutes in the court of the Palazzo
Borghese next morning, when Miriam joined him. There was some
constraint on both sides. Miriam looked as if she did not wish
yesterday's conversation to be revived in their manner of meeting.
Her "Good-morning, Mr. Mallard," had as little reference as possible
to the fact of this being an appointment. The artist was in quite
another mood than that of yesterday; his smile was formal, and he
seemed indisposed for conversation.

"I have the _permesso_," he said, leading at once to the door of the
gallery.

They sauntered about the first room, exchanging a few idle remarks.
In the second, a woman past the prime of life was copying a large
picture. They looked at her work from a distance, and Miriam asked
if it was well done.

"What do you think yourself?" asked Mallard.

"It seems to me skilful and accurate, but I know that perhaps it is
neither one nor the other."

He pointed out several faults, which she at once recognized.

"I wonder I could not see them at first That confirms me in distrust
of myself. I am as likely as not to admire a thing that is utterly
worthless."

"As likely as not--no; at least, I think not. But of course your
eye is untrained, and you have no real knowledge to go upon. You can
judge an original picture sentimentally, and your sentiment will not
be wholly misleading. You can't judge a copy technically, but I
think you have more than average observation. How would you like to
spend your life like this copyist?"

"I would give my left hand to have her skill in my right."

"You would?"

"I should be able to _do_ something--something definite and
tolerably good."

"Why, so you can already; one thing in particular."

"What is that?"

"Learn your own deficiencies; a thing that most people neither will
nor can. Look at this Francia, and tell me your thoughts about it."

She examined the picture for a minute or two. Then, without moving
her eyes, she murmured

"I can say nothing that is worth saying."

"Never mind. Say what you think, or what you feel."

"Why should you wish me to talk commonplace?"

"That is precisely what I don't wish you to talk. You know what is
commonplace, and therefore you can avoid it. Never mind his school
or his date. What did the man want to express here, and how far do
you think he has succeeded? That's the main thing; I wish a few
critics would understand it."

Miriam obeyed him, and said what she had to say diffidently, but in
clear terms. Mallard was silent when she ceased, and she looked up
at him. He rewarded her with a smile, and one or two nods--as his
manner was.

"I have not made myself ridiculous?"

"I think not."

They had walked on a little, when Mallard said to her unexpectedly:

"Please to bear in mind that I make no claim to infallibility. I am
a painter of landscape; out of my own sphere, I become an amateur.
You are not hound to accept my judgment."

"Of course not," she replied simply.

"It occurred to me that I had been rather dictatorial."

"So you have, Mr. Mallard," she returned, looking at a picture. "I
am sorry. It's the failing of men who have often to be combative,
and who live much in solitude. I will try to use a less offensive
tone."

"I didn't mean that your tone was in the least offensive."

"A more polite tone, then--as you taught me yesterday."

"I had rather you spoke just as is natural to you."

Mallard laughed.

"Politeness is not natural to me, I admit. I am horribly
uncomfortable whenever I have to pick my words out of regard to
polite people. That is why I shun what is called society. What
little I have seen of it has been more than enough for me."

"I have seen still less of it; but I understand your dislike."

"Before you left home, didn't you associate a great deal with
people?"

"People of a certain kind," she replied coldly. "It was not society
as you mean it."

"You will be glad to mix more freely with the world, when you are
back in England?"

"I can't tell. By whom is that Madonna?"

Thus they went slowly on, until they came to the little hall where
the fountain plays, and whence is the outlook over the Tiber. It was
delightful to sit here in the shadows, made cooler and fresher by
that plashing water, and to see the glorious sunlight gleam upon the
river's tawny flow.

"Each time that I have been in Rome," said Mallard, "I have felt,
after the first few days, a peculiar mental calm. The other cities
of Italy haven't the same effect on me. Perhaps every one
experiences it, more or less. There comes back to me at moments the
kind of happiness which I knew as a boy--a freedom from the sense
of duties and responsibilities, of work to be done, and of
disagreeable things to be faced; the kind of contentment I used to
have when I was reading lives of artists, or looking at prints of
famous pictures, or myself trying to draw. It is possible that this
mood is not such a strange one with many people as with me, when it
comes, I feel grateful to the powers that rule life Since boyhood, I
have never known it in the north. Out of Rome, perhaps only in fine
weather on the Mediterranean. But in Rome is its perfection."

"I thought you preferred the north," said Miriam.

"Because I so often choose to work there? I can do better work when
I take subjects in wild scenery and stern climates, but when my
thoughts go out for pleasure, they choose Italy. I don't enjoy
myself in the Hebrides or in Norway, but what powers I have are all
brought out there. Hero I am not disposed to work. I want to live,
and I feel that life can be a satisfaction in itself without labour.
I am naturally the idlest of men. Work is always pain to me. I like
to dream pictures; but it's terrible to drag myself before the blank
canvas."

Miriam gazed at the Tiber.

"Do these palaces," he asked, "ever make you wish you owned them?
Did you ever imagine yourself walking among the marbles and the
pictures with the sense of this being your home?"

"I have wondered what that must be. But I never wished it had fallen
to my lot."

"No? You are not ambitious?"

"Not in that way. To own a palace such as this would make one
insignificant."

"That is admirably true! I should give it away, to recover
self-respect. Shakespeare or Michael Angelo might live here and make
it subordinate to him; I should be nothing but the owner of the
palace. You like to feel your individuality?"

"Who does not?"

"In you, I think, it is strong."

Miriam smiled a little, as if she liked the compliment. Before
either spoke again, other visitors came to look at the view, and
disturbed them.

"I shan't ask you to come anywhere to-morrow," said Mallard, when
they had again talked for awhile of pictures. "And the next day Mrs.
Elgar will be here."

She looked at him.

"That wouldn't prevent me from going to a gallery--if you thought
of it."

"You will have much to talk of. And your stay in Rome won't be long
after that."

Miriam made no reply.

"I wish your brother had been coming," he went on. "I should have
liked to hear from him about the book he is writing."

"Shall you not he in London before long?" she asked, without show of
much interest.

"I think so, but I have absolutely no plans. Probably it is raining
hard in England, or even snowing. I must enjoy the sunshine a little
longer. I hope your health won't suffer from the change of climate."

"I hope not," she answered mechanically.

"Perhaps you will find you can't live there?"

"What does it matter? I have no ties."

"No, you are independent; that is a great blessing."

Chatting as if of indifferent things, they left the gallery.

CHAPTER VIII

STUMBLINGS

Rolled tightly together, and tied up with string, at the bottom of
one of Miriam's trunks lay the plans of that new chapel for which
Bartles still waited. Miriam did not like to come upon them, in
packing or unpacking; she had covered them with things which
probably would not be moved until she was again in England.

But the thought of them could not be so satisfactorily hidden. It
lay in a corner of her mind, and many were the new acquisitions
heaped upon it; but in spite of herself she frequently burrowed
through all those accumulations of travel, and sought the thing
beneath. Sometimes the impulse was so harassing, the process so
distressful, that she might have been compared to a murderer who
haunts the burial-place of his victim, and cannot restrain himself
from disturbing the earth.

It was by no methodic inquiry, no deliberate reasoning, that Miriam
had set aside her old convictions and ordered her intellectual life
on the new scheme. Of those who are destined to pass beyond the
bounds of dogma, very few indeed do so by the way of studious
investigation. How many of those who abide by inherited faith owe
their steadfastness to a convinced understanding? Convictions, in
the proper sense of the word, Miriam had never possessed; she
accepted what she was taught, without reflecting upon it, and pride
subsequently made her stubborn in consistency. The same pride, aided
by the ennui of mental faculties just becoming self-conscious, and
the desires of a heart for the first time humanly touched,
constrained her to turn abruptly from the ideal she had pursued, and
with unforeseen energy begin to qualify herself for the assertion of
new claims. No barriers of logic stood in her way; it was a simple
matter of facing round about. True, she still had to endure the
sense of having chosen the wide way instead of that strait one which
is authoritatively prescribed. It was a long time before she made
any endeavour to justify herself; but the wide way ran through a
country that delighted her, and her progress was so notable that
self-commendation and the respect of others made her careless of the
occasional stings of conscience.

She was able now to review the process of change, and to compare the
two ideals. Without the support of a single argument of logical
value, she stamped all the beliefs of her childhood as superstition,
and marvelled that they had so long held their power over her. Her
childhood, indeed, seemed to her to have lasted until she came to
Naples; with hot shame she reflected on her speech and behaviour at
that time. What did the Spences think of her? How did they speak of
her to their friends? What impression did she make upon Mallard?
These memories were torture; they explained the mixture of humility
and assumption which on certain days made her company disagreeable
to Eleanor, and the dark moods which now and then held her in sullen
solitude.

But the word "superstition" was no guarantee against the haunting of
superstition itself. Miriam was far from being one of the
emancipated, however arrogantly she would have met a doubt of her
freedom. Just as little as ever had she genuine convictions, capable
of supporting her in hours of weakness and unsatisfied longing.
Several times of late she had all but brought herself to speak
plainly with Eleanor, and ask on what foundation was built that calm
life which seemed independent of supernatural belief; but shame
always restrained her. It would be the same as confessing that she
had not really the liberty to which she pretended. There was,
however, an indirect way of approaching the subject, by which her
dignity would possibly be rather enhanced than suffer; and this she
at length took. After her return from the Palazzo Borghese, she was
beset with a confusion of anxious thoughts. The need of confidential
or semi-confidential speech with one of her own sex became
irresistible. In the evening she found an opportunity of speaking
privately with Eleanor.

"I want to ask your opinion about something. It's a question I am
obliged to decide now I am going back to England."

Eleanor smiled inquiringly. She was not a little curious to have a
glimpse into her cousin's mind just now.

"You remember," pursued Miriam, leaning forward on a table by which
she sat, and playing with a twisted piece of paper, "that I once had
the silly desire to build a chapel at Bartles."

She reddened in hearing the words upon her own lips--so strange a
sound they had after all this time.

"I remember you talked of doing so," replied Eleanor, with her usual
quiet good-nature.

"Unfortunately, I did more than talk about it. I made a distinct
promise to certain people gravely interested. The promise was
registered in a Bartles newspaper. And you know that I went so far
as to have my plans made."

"Do you feel bound by this promise, my dear?"

Miriam propped her cheek on one hand, and with the other kept
rolling the piece of paper on the table.

"Yes," she answered, "I can't help thinking that I ought to keep my
word. How does it strike you, Eleanor?"

"I am not quite clear how you regard the matter. Are you speaking of
the promise only as a promise?"

It was no use. Miriam could not tell the truth; she could not
confess her position. At once a smile trembled scornfully upon her
lips.

"What else could I mean?"

"Then it seems to me that the obligation has passed away with the
circumstances that occasioned it."

Miriam kept her eyes on the table, and for a few moments seemed to
reflect.

"A promise is a promise, Eleanor."

"So it is. And a fact is a fact. I take it for granted that you are
no longer the person who made the promise. I have a faint
recollection that when I was about eight years old, I pledged
myself, on reaching maturity, to give my nurse the exact half of my
worldly possessions. I don't feel the least ashamed of having made
such a promise, and just as little of not having kept it."

Miriam smiled, but still had an unconvinced face.

"I was not eight years old," she said, "but about four-and-twenty."

"Then let us put it in this way. Do you still feel a desire to
benefit that religious community in Bartles? Would it distress you
to think that they shook their heads in mentioning your name?"

"I do feel rather in that way," Miriam admitted slowly.

"But is this enough to justify you in giving them half or more of
all you possess? You spoke of pulling down Redbeck House, and
building on the site, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"In any case, should you ever live there again?"

"Never."

"You prefer to be with us in London?"

"I think you have been troubled with me quite long enough. Perhaps I
might take rooms."

"If you are as willing to share our house as we are to have you with
us, there can be no need for you to live alone."

"I can't make up my mind about that, Eleanor. Let us talk only about
the chapel just now. Are you sure that other people would see it as
you do?"

"Other people of my way of thinking would no doubt think the same--
which is a pretty piece of tautology. Edward would be amazed to hear
that you have such scruples. It isn't as if you had promised to
support a family in dire need, or anything of that kind. The chapel
is a superfluity."

"Not to them."

"They have one already."

"But very small and inconvenient."

"Suppose you ask Mr. Mallard for his thoughts on the subject?" said
Eleanor, as if at the bidding of a caprice.

"Does Mr. Mallard know that I once had this purpose?"

"I think so," replied the other, with a little hesitation. "You know
that there was no kind of reserve about it when you first came to
Naples."

"No, of course not. Do you feel as sure of his opinion as of
Edward's?"

"I can't say that I do. There's no foreseeing his judgment about
anything. As you are such good friends, why not consult him?"

"Our friendship doesn't go so far as that."

"And after all, I don't see what use other people's opinions can be
to you," said Eleanor, waiving the point. "It's a matter of
sentiment. Strict obligation you see, of course, that there is none
whatever. If it would please you to use a large sum of money in this
way, you have a perfect right to do so. But, by-the-bye, oughtn't
you to make the Bartles people clearly understand who it is that
builds their chapel?"

"Surely there is no need of that?"

"I think so. The scruple, in my case, would be far more on this side
than on the other."

Miriam did not care to pursue the conversation. The one result of it
was that she had an added uncertainty. She had thought that her
proposal to fulfil the promise would at least earn the respect which
is due to stern conscientiousness; but Eleanor clearly regarded it
as matter for the smile one bestows on good-natured folly. Her
questions even showed that she was at first in doubt as to the
motives which had revived this project--a doubt galling to Miriam,
because of its justification. She said, in going away:

"Please to consider that this was in confidence, Eleanor."

Confidence of a barren kind. It was the same now as it had ever
been; she had no one with whom she could communicate her secrets, no
friend in the nearer sense. On this loneliness she threw the blame
of those faults which she painfully recognized in herself--her
frequent insincerity, her speeches and silences calculated for
effect, her pride based on disingenuousness. If she could but have
disclosed her heart in the humility of love and trust, how would its
aching have been eased!

For a long time she had been absorbed, or nearly so, in studying and
observing; but Mallard's inquiry whether she found this sufficient
touched the source whence trouble was again arising for her. Three
years ago it did not cost her much to subdue a desire which had
hopelessness for its birthright; the revival of this desire now
united itself with disquietudes of the maturing intellect, and she
looked forward in dread to a continuation of her loneliness. Some
change in her life there must be. Sudden hope had in a day or two
brought to full growth the causes of unrest which would otherwise
have developed slowly.

It seemed to be her fate to live in pretences. As the mistress of
Redbeck House, and the light of dissenting piety in Bartles, she
knew herself for less than she wished to appear to others; not a
hypocrite, indeed, but a pretender to extraordinary zeal, and at the
same time a flagrant instance of spiritual pride. Now she was guilty
of like simulation directed to a contrary end. In truth neither bond
nor free, she could not suffer herself to seem less liberal-minded
than those with whom she associated. And yet her soul was weary of
untruth. The one need of her life was to taste the happiness of
submission to a stronger than herself. Religious devotion is the
resource of women in general who suffer thus and are denied the
natural solace; but for Miriam it was impossible. Her temperament
was not devout, and, however persistent the visitings of uneasy
conscience, she had no longer the power of making her old beliefs a
reality. The abstract would not avail her; philosophic comforts had
as little to say to her as the Churches' creeds. Only by a strong
human band could she be raised from her unworthy position and led
into the way of sincerity.

She had counted on having another morning with Mallard before
Cecily's arrival. Disappointed in this hope, she invented a variety
of tormenting reasons for Mallard's behaviour. As there was a chance
of his calling at the hotel, she stayed in all day. But he did not
come. The next afternoon Mrs. Lessingham and her companion reached
Rome.

It was known that Cecily's health had suffered from her watchings by
the sick child, and from her grief at its death; so no one was
surprised at finding her rather thin-faced. She had a warm greeting
for her friends, and seemed happy to be with them again; but the
brightness of the first hour was not sustained. Conversation cost
her a perceptible effort; she seldom talked freely of anything, and
generally with an unnatural weighing of her words, an artificiality
of thought and phrase, which was a great contrast to the
spontaneousness of former times. When Eleanor wanted her to speak
about herself, she preferred to tell of what she had lately read or
heard or seen. That the simple grace of the girl should be modified
in the wife and mother was of course to be expected, but Cecily
looked older than she ought to have done, and occasionally bore
herself with a little too much consciousness, as if she felt the
observation even of intimate friends something of a restraint.

Miriam, when she had made inquiries about her brother's health, took
little part in the general conversation, and it was not till late in
the evening that she spoke with Cecily in private.

"May I come and sit with you for a few minutes?" Cecily asked, when
Miriam was going to her bedroom.

They were far less at ease with each other than when their
differences of opinion were a recognized obstacle to intimacy.
Cecily was uncertain how far her sister-in-law had progressed from
the old standpoint, and she saw in her even an increase of the
wonted reticence. On her own side there was no longer a warm impulse
of sisterly affection. But her first words, when they were alone
together, sounded like an appeal for tender confidence.

"I do so wish you had seen my poor little boy!"

"I wish I had been nearer," Miriam answered kindly. "It is very sad
that you have suffered such a loss."

Cecily spoke of the child, and with simple feeling, which made her
more like herself than hitherto.

"When a little thing dies at that age," she said presently, "it is
only the mother's grief. The father cannot have much interest in so
young a child."

"But Reuben wrote very affectionately of Clarence in one letter I
had from him."

"Yes, but it is natural that he shouldn't feel the loss as I do. A
man has his business in life; a woman, if she needn't work for
bread, has nothing to do but be glad or sorry for what happens in
her home."

"I shouldn't have thought you took that view of a woman's life,"
said Miriam, after a silence, regarding the other with uncertain
eyes.

"'Views' have become rather a weariness to me," answered Cecily,
smiling sadly. "Sorrow is sorrow to me as much as to the woman who
never questioned one of society's beliefs; it makes me despondent.
No doubt I ought to find all sorts of superior consolations. But I
don't and can't. A woman's natural lot is to care for her husband
and bring up children. Do you believe, Miriam, that anything will
ever take the place of these occupations?"

"I suppose not. But time will help you, and your interests will come
back again."

"True. On the other hand, it is equally true that I am now seeing
how little those interests really amount to. They are pastime, if
you like, but nothing more. Some women do serious work, however; I
wish I could be one of them. To them, perhaps, 'views' are something
real and helpful. But never mind myself; you were glad to hear that
Reuben is working on?"

"Very glad."

Cecily waited a little; then, watching the other's face, asked:

"You know what he is writing?"

"In a general way," Miriam answered, averting her eyes. "Do you
think he has made a wise choice?"

"I dare say it is the subject on which he will write best," Cecily
answered, smiling.

"I doubt whether he understands it sufficiently," said Miriam, with
balanced tone. "He has really nothing but prejudice to go upon.
There will be a great deal of misrepresentation in his book--if he
ever finishes it."

"Yes, I am afraid that is true. But it may be useful, after all.
Here and there he will hit the mark."

Cecily was tentative. She saw Miriam's brows work uneasily.

"Perhaps so," was the reply. "But I know quite well that such a book
would have been no use to me when I stood in need of the kind of
help you mean."

"To be sure; it is for people who have already helped themselves,"
said Cecily, in a jesting tone.

Miriam turned to another subject, and very soon said good night.
Reflecting on the conversation, she was annoyed with herself for
having been led by her familiar weakness to admit that she had
changed her way of thinking. Certainly she had no intention of
disguising the fact, but this explicit confession had seemed to make
her Cecily's inferior; she was like a school-girl claiming
recognition of progress.

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