The Emancipated

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But in an hour, when her pulse again beat temperately, she began to
adjust the relations between herself and these surroundings. They no
longer oppressed her; the sense of superiority which had been
pleasant at a distance re-established itself, and gave her a defiant
strength such as she had hoped for. So far from the anxieties of her
conscience being aggravated by return to Bartles, she could not
recover that mode of feeling which had harassed her for the last few
months. Like so many other things, it had become insubstantial. It
might revive, but for the present she was safe against it.

And this self-possession was greatly aided by Mrs. Fletcher's talk.
Prom her sister-in-law's letters, though for the last two years they
had been few, Miriam had formed some conception of the progress of
Bartles opinion concerning herself. Now she led Mrs. Fletcher to
converse with native candour on this subject, and in the course of
the evening, which they spent alone, all the town's gossip since
Miriam's going abroad was gradually reported. Mrs. Fletcher was
careful to prevent the inference (which would have been
substantially correct) that she herself had been the source of such
rumours as had set wagging the tongues of dissident Bartles; she
spoke with much show of reluctance, and many protestations of the
wrath that had been excited in her by those who were credulous of
ill. Miriam confined herself to questioning; she made no verbal
comments. But occasionally she averted her face with a haughty
smile.

Mrs. Welland, the once-dreaded rival, had established an
unassailable supremacy. From her, according to Mrs. Fletcher,
proceeded most of the scandalous suggestions which had attached
themselves to Mrs. Baske's name. This lady had not scrupled to state
it as a fact in her certain knowledge that Mrs. Baske was become a
Papist. To this end, it seemed, was the suspicion of Bartles mainly
directed--the Scarlet Woman throned by the Mediterranean had made
a victim of her who was once a light in the re-reformed faith. That
was the reason, said Mrs. Welland, why the owner of Redbeck House
continued to dwell in foreign parts. If ever she came back at all,
it would be as an insidious enemy; but more likely she would never
return; possibly her life would close in a convent, like that of
other hapless Englishwomen whose personal property excited the
covetousness of the Pope. In the Bartles newspaper there had
appeared, from time to time, enigmatic paragraphs, which Mrs.
Welland and her intimates made the subject of much gossip; these
passages alluded either to a certain new chapel which seemed very
long in getting its foundations laid, or to a certain former
inhabitant of Bartles, who found it necessary, owing to the sad
state of her health, to make long residence in Roman Catholic
countries. Mrs. Fletcher had preserved these newspapers, and now
produced them. Miriam read and smiled.

"Why didn't it occur to them to suggest that I had become an
atheist?"

Mrs. Fletcher screamed with horror. No, no; Bartles did not contain
any one so malicious as that. After all, whatever had been said was
merely the outcome of a natural disappointment. All would be put
right again. To-morrow was Sunday, and when Miriam appeared in the
chapel--

"I have no intention of going to chapel."

On Monday morning she returned to London. Excepting Mrs. Fletcher
and her daughters, she had spoken with no one in Bartles. She came
away with a contemptuous hatred of the place--a resolve never to
see it again.

This had been the one thing needed to make Miriam as intolerant in
agnosticism as she formerly was in dogma. Henceforth she felt the
animosity of a renegade. In the course of a few hours her soul had
completed its transformation, and at the incitement of that pride
which had always been the strongest motive within her. Her old faith
was now identified with the cackle of Bartles, and she flung it
behind her with disdain.

Not that she felt insulted by the supposition that she had turned
Romanist. No single reason would account for her revolt, which,
coining thus late, was all but as violent as that which had animated
her brother from his boyhood. Intellectual progress had something to
do with it, for on approaching with new eyes that narrow provincial
life, she could scarcely believe it had once been her own, and
resented the memory of such a past. But less worthy promptings were
more strongly operative. The Bartles folk had a certain measure of
right against her; she had ostentatiously promised them a chapel,
and how was her failure in keeping the promise to be accounted for?
This justification of theirs chafed her; she felt the ire of one who
has no right to be angry. It shamed her, moreover, to be reminded of
the pretentious spirit which was the origin of this trouble; and to
be shamed by her inferiors was to Miriam a venomed stab. Then,
again, she saw no way of revenging herself. Had she this morning
possessed the power of calling down fire from heaven, Lancashire
would shortly have missed one of its ugliest little towns; small
doubt of that.

No wonder a grave old gentleman who sat opposite on the journey to
London was constrained frequently to look at her. As often as she
forgot herself, the wrathful arrogance which boiled in her heart was
revealed on her features; the strained brow, the flashing eyes, the
stern-set lips, made a countenance not often to be studied in the
railway-carriage.

It was with distinct pleasure that she found herself again in
London. Contrasted with her homes in the south, London had depressed
and discouraged her; but in this also did the visit to Bartles
change her feeling. She understood now what Ii ad determined the
Spences to make their abode once more in London. She too was in need
of tonics for the mind. The roar of the streets was grateful to her;
it seemed to lull the painful excitement in which she had travelled,
and at the same time to stimulate her courage. Yes, she could face
miseries better in London, after all. She could begin to work again,
and make lofty that edifice of anti dogmatic scorn which had now
such solid foundations.

She allowed nearly a week to pass before writing to Reuben. When at
length she sent a note, asking him either to come and see her or to
make an appointment, it remained unanswered for three days; then
arrived a few hurried lines, in which he said that he had been out
of town, and was again on the point of leaving home, but he hoped to
see her before long. She waited, always apprehensive of ill. What
she divined of her brother's life was inextricably mingled with the
other causes of her suffering.

One afternoon she returned from walking on the Chelsea Embankment,
and, on reaching the drawing-room door, which was ajar, heard a
voice that made her stand still. She delayed an instant; then
entered, and found Eleanor in conversation with Mallard.

He had been in London, he said, only a day or two. Miriam inquired
whether Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily had also left Rome. Not yet, he
thought, but certainly they would be starting in a few days. The
conversation then went on between Mallard and Eleanor; Miriam,
holding a cup of tea, only gave a brief reply when it was necessary.

"And now," said Eleanor, "appoint a day for us to come and see your
studio."

"You shall appoint it yourself."

"Then let us say to-morrow."

In speaking, Eleanor turned interrogatively to Miriam, who, however,
said nothing. Mallard addressed her.

"May I hope that you will come, Mrs. Baske?"

His tone was, to her ear, as unsatisfying as could be; he seemed to
put the question under constraint of civility. But, of course, only
one answer was possible.

So next day this visit was paid; Spence also came. Mallard had made
preparations. A tea-service which would not have misbecome Eleanor's
own drawing-room stood in readiness. Pictures were examined, tea was
taken, artistic matters were discussed.

And Miriam went away in uttermost discontent. She felt that
henceforth her relations with Mallard were established on a
perfectly conventional basis. Her dreams were left behind in Rome.
Here was no Vatican in which to idle and hope for possible meetings.
The holiday was over. Everything seemed of a sudden so flat and
commonplace, that even her jealousy of Cecily faded for lack of
sustenance.

Then she received a letter from Cecily herself, announcing return
within a week. From Reuben she had even yet heard nothing.

A few days later, as she was reading in her room between tea and
dinner-time, Eleanor came in; she held an evening newspaper, and
looked very grave--more than grave. Miriam, as soon as their eyes
met, went pale with misgiving.

"There's something here," Eleanor began, "that I must show you. If I
said nothing about it, you would see it all the same. Sooner or
later, we should speak of it."

"What is it? About whom?" Miriam asked, with fearful impatience,
half rising.

"Your brother."

Miriam took the paper, and read what was indicated. It was the
report of a discreditable affair--in journalistic language, a
_fracas_--that had happened the previous night at Notting Hill. A
certain music-hall singer, a lady who had of late achieved
popularity, drove home about midnight, accompanied by a gentleman
whose name was also familiar to the public--at all events, to that
portion of it which reads society journals and has an interest in
race-horses. The pair had just alighted at the house-door, when they
were hurriedly approached by another gentleman, who made some remark
to the songstress; whereupon the individual known to fame struck him
smartly with his walking-stick. The result was a personal conflict,
a rolling upon the pavement, a tearing of shirt-collars, and the
opportune arrival of police. The gentleman whose interference had
led to the _rencontre_--again to borrow the reporter's phrase--
and who was charged with assault by the other, at first gave a false
name; it had since transpired that he was a Mr. R. Elgar, of Belsize
Park.

Miriam laid down the paper. She had overcome her extreme agitation,
but there was hot shame on her cheeks. She tried to smile.

"One would think he had contrived it for his wife's greeting on her
return."

Eleanor was silent.

"I am not much surprised," Miriam added. "Nor you either, I dare
say?"

"I have felt uneasy; but I never pictured anything like this. Can we
do anything? Shall you go and see him?"

"No."

They sat for some minutes without speaking; then Miriam exclaimed
angrily:

"What right had she to go abroad alone?"

"For anything we know, Miriam, she may have had only too good a
reason."

"Then I don't see that it matters."

Eleanor sighed, and, after a little lingering, but without further
speech, went from the room.

In the meantime, Spence had entered the house. Eleanor met him in
the drawing-room, and held the paper to him, with a silent
indication of the paragraph. He read, and with an exclamation of
violent disgust threw the thing aside. His philosophy failed him for
once.

"What a blackguardly affair! Does Miriam know?"

"I have just shown it her. Evidently she had a suspicion of what was
going on."

Spence muttered a little; then regained something of his usual
equanimity.

"Our conjectures may be right," he said. "Perhaps no revelation
awaits her."

"I begin to think it very likely. Oh, it is hateful, vile! She
oughtn't to return to him."

"Pray, what is she to do?"

"I had rather she died than begin such a life!"

"I see no help for her. Her lot is that of many a woman no worse
than herself. We both foresaw it; Mallard foresaw it."

"I am afraid to look forward. I don't think she is the kind of woman
to forgive again and again. This will revolt her, and there is no
telling what she may do."

"It is the old difficulty. Short of killing herself, whatever she
does will be the beginning of worse things. In this respect, there's
no distinction between Cecily and the wife of the costermonger.
Civilization is indifferent. Her life is marred, and there's an end
on't."

Eleanor turned away. Her eyes were wet with tears of indignant
sympathy.

CHAPTER XII

CECILY'S RETURN

On alighting at Charing Cross, Cecily searched the platform for
Reuben. There could be no doubt of his coming to meet her, for she
had written to tell him that Mrs. Lessingham would at once go into
the country from another station, and she would thus be alone. But
she looked about and waited in vain. In the end she took a cab,
parted with her companion, and drove homewards.

It was more than a trivial disappointment. On the journey, she had
felt a longing for home, a revival of affection; she had tried to
persuade herself that this long separation would have made a happy
change, and that their life might take a new colour. Had Reuben
appeared 'at the station, she would have pressed his hand warmly.
Her health had improved; hope was again welcome. It came not like
the hope of years ago, radiant, with eyes of ecstasy; but sober,
homely, a gentle smile on its compassionate lips.

His failure would easily be explained; either he had mistaken the
train, or something inevitable had hindered him; possibly she had
made a slip of the pen in writing. Nearing home, she grew tremulous,
nervously impatient. Before the cab had stopped, she threw the door
open.

The servant who admitted her wore an unusual expression, but Cecily
did not observe this.

"Mr. Elgar is at home?"

"No, ma'am."

"When did he go out?"

"He has not been at home for three days, ma'am."

Cecily controlled herself.

"There are some parcels in the cab. Take them up stairs."

She went into the study, and stood looking about her. On the
writing-table lay some unopened letters, all addressed to her
husband; also two or three that had been read and thrown aside.
Whilst she was still at the mercy of her confused thoughts, the
servant came and asked if she would pay the cabman.

Then she ascended to the drawing-room and sat down. Had her letter
gone astray? But if he had not been home for three days, and, as
appeared, his letters were not forwarded to him, did not this prove
(supposing a miscarriage of what she had written) that he was not
troubling himself about news from her? If he had received her
letter--and it ought to have arrived at least four days ago--what
was the meaning of his absence?

She shrank from questioning the servants further. Presently, without
having changed her dress, she went down again to the library, and
re-examined the letters waiting to be read; and the handwriting was
in each case unknown to her. Then she took up the letters that were
open. One was an invitation to dine, one the appeal of some
charitable institution; last, a few lines from Mallard. He wrote
asking Elgar to come and see him--seemingly with no purpose beyond
a wish to re-establish friendly relations. Cecily read the note
again and again, wondering whether it had led to a meeting.

Why had not the housekeeper made her appearance? She rang the bell,
and the woman came. With as much composure as she could command,
Cecily inquired whether Mr. Elgar had spoken of her expected
arrival. Yes, he had done so; everything had been made ready. And
had he left word when he himself should be back? No; he had said
nothing.

Naturally, she thought of going to the Spences'; but her dignity
resisted. How could she seek information about her husband from
friends? It was difficult to believe that he kept away voluntarily.
Would he not in any case have sent word, even though the excuse were
untruthful? What motive could he have for treating her thus? His
last letter was longer and kinder than usual.

She was troubling herself needlessly. The simple explanation was of
course the true one. He had been away in the country, and had
arranged to be back in time to meet her at the station; then some
chance had intervened. Doubtless he would very soon present himself.
Her impatience and anxiety would never occur to him; what difference
could a few hours make? They were not on such lover-like terms
nowadays.

Compelling herself to rest in this view, she made a change of
clothing, and again summoned the housekeeper, this time for
discussion of domestic details. Cecily had no feminine delight in
such matters for their own sake; the butcher, the baker, and the
candlestick-maker were necessary evils, to be put out of mind as
soon as possible. She learned incidentally that Reuben had been a
great deal from home; but this did not surprise her. She had never
imagined him leading a methodical life, between Belsize Park and the
British Museum. That was not in his nature.

At the usual hour she had luncheon. Shortly after, when her patience
was yielding to fears--fears which, in truth, she had only masked
with the show of explanation--a letter was brought in. But nothing
to the purpose. It came from Zillah Denyer, who began with apologies
for writing, and expressed uncertainty whether Mrs. Elgar had yet
returned from abroad; then went on to say that her sister Madeline
had been suffering dreadfully of late. "Perhaps you know that Mrs.
Travis has left us. Madeline has missed her company very much, and
often longs to see the face of some visitor. She speaks of the one
visit you paid her, and would so like to see you again. Forgive me
for asking if you could spare half an hour. The evening is best; I
venture to say this, as you came in the evening before."

Cecily forgot herself for a few minutes in sorrows graver than her
own. Her impression after the one visit had been that Madeline would
not greatly care for her to repeat it; this, it seemed, was a
mistake. So Mrs. Travis had left her lodgings? She heard of it for
the first time.

About half-past three there sounded the knock of a visitor at the
house door. Expecting no one, Cecily had given no directions; the
parlour-maid hurried upstairs to ask if she was "at home." She
replied that the name must first be announced to her.

It was Mrs. Travis. Cecily hesitated, but decided to receive her.

Though the intercourse between them had been resumed, it was with a
restraint on both sides that seemed to forbid the prospect of
friendship. They had met two or three times only; once it was in the
Denyers' house, and on that occasion Cecily had renewed her
acquaintance with the family and sat a little with Madeline.
Interest in each other they certainly felt, but not in like degrees;
Mrs. Travis showed herself more strongly attracted to Cecily than
Cecily was to her, as it had been from the first. That this was the
attraction of simple liking and goodwill, Cecily could never quite
convince herself. Mrs. Travis always seemed to be studying her, and
sometimes in a spirit of curiosity that was disagreeable. But at the
same time she was so manifestly in need of sympathetic
companionship, and allowed such sad glimpses into her own wrecked
life, that Cecily could not reject her, nor even feel with actual
coldness.

"Have you been home long?" the visitor asked, as they shook hands.

"A few hours only."

"Indeed? You have arrived to-day?"

They sat down. Mrs. Travis fixed her eyes on Cecily.

"I hardly hoped to find you."

"I should have let you know that I was back."

Their conversations were accustomed to begin awkwardly,
constrainedly. They never spoke of ordinary topics, and each seemed
to wait for a suggestion of the other's mood. At present Cecily was
uneasy under her visitor's gaze, which was stranger and more
inquisitive than usual.

"So you have left the Denyers'?" she said.

"From whom did you hear?"

"I have just had a note from Zillah Denyer, about Madeline. She
merely mentions that you are no longer there."

"I ought to go and see them; but I can't to-day."

"Have you been in London all the time?"

"Yes.--I have gone back to my husband."

It was spoken in a matter-of-fact tone (obviously assumed) which was
very incongruous with the feeling it excited in Cecily. She could
not hear the announcement without an astonished look.

"Of your own free will?" she asked, in a diffident voice. "Oh yes.
That is to say, he persuaded me."

Their eyes met, and Cecily had an impulse of distrust, more decided
than she had ever felt. She could not find anything to say, and by
keeping silence she hoped the interview might be shortened.

"You are disposed to feel contempt for me," Mrs. Travis added, after
a few moments.

"No one can judge another in such things. It is your own affair,
Mrs. Travis."

"Yes, but you despise me for my weakness, naturally you do. Had you
no suspicion that it would end again in this way?"

"I simply believed what you told me."

"That nothing would induce me to return to him. That is how women
talk, you know. We are all very much the same."

Again Cecily kept silence. Mrs. Travis, observing her, saw an
offended look rise to her face.

"I mean, we are few of us, us women, strong enough to hold out
against natural and social laws. We feel indignant, we suffer more
than men can imagine, but we have to yield. But it is true that most
women are wise enough not to act in my way. You are quite right to
despise me."

"Why do you repeat that? It is possible you are acting quite
rightly. How should I be able to judge?"

"I am not acting rightly," said the other, with bitterness. "Two
courses are open to a woman in my position. Either she must suffer
in silence, care nothing for the world's talk, take it for granted
that, at any cost, she remains under her husband's roof; or she must
leave him once and for ever, and regard herself as a free woman. The
first is the ordinary choice; most women are forced into it by
circumstances; very few have courage and strength for the second.
But to do first one thing, then the other, to be now weak and now
strong, to yield to the world one day and defy it the next, and then
to yield again,--that is base. Such a woman is a traitor to her
sex."

Cecily did not lift her eyes. She heard the speaker's voice tremble,
and could not bear to look at her face. Her heart was sinking,
though she knew not exactly what oppressed her. There was a long
silence; then Cecily spoke.

"If your husband persuaded you to return, it must have been that you
still have affection for him."

"The feeling is not worthy of that name."

"That is for yourself to determine. Why should we talk of it?"

Looking up, Cecily found the other's eyes again fixed on her. It was
as though this strange gaze were meant to be a reply.

"Would it not be better," she continued, "if we didn't speak of
these things? If it could do any good--But surely it cannot."

"Sympathy is good--offered or received."

"I do sympathize with you in your difficulties."

"But you do not care to receive mine," replied Mrs. Travis, in an
undertone.

Cecily gazed at her with changed eyes, inquiring, offended, fearful.

"What need have I of your sympathy, Mrs. Travis?" she asked
distantly.

"None, I see," answered the other, with a scarcely perceptible
smile.

"I don't understand you. Please let us never talk in this way
again."

"Never, if you will first let me say one thing. You remember that
Mr. Elgar once had doubts about my character. He was anxious on your
account, lest you should be friendly with a person who was not all
he could desire from the moral point of view. He did me justice at
last, but it was very painful, as you will understand, to be
suspected by one who embodies such high morality."

There was no virulence in her tone; she spoke as though quietly
defending herself against some unkindness. But Cecily could not
escape her eyes, which searched and stabbed.

"Why do you say this?"

"Because I am weak, and therefore envious. Why should you reject my
sympathy? I could be a better friend to you than any you have. I
myself have no friend; I can't make myself liked. I feel dreadfully
alone, without a soul who cares for me. I am my husband's plaything,
and of course he scorns me. I am sure he laughs at me with his
friends and mistresses. And you too scorn me, though I have tried to
make you my friend. Of course it is all at an end between us now. I
understand your nature; it isn't quite what I thought."

Cecily beard, but scarcely with understanding. The word for which
she was waiting did not come.

"Why," she asked, "do you speak of offering me sympathy? What do you
hint at?"

"Seriously, you don't know?"

"I don't," was the cold answer.

"Why did you go abroad without your husband?"

It came upon Cecily with a shock. Were people discussing her, and
thus interpreting her actions?

"Surely that is my own business, Mrs. Travis. I was in poor health,
and my husband was too busy to accompany me."

"That is the simple truth, from _your_ point of view?"

"How have you done me the honour to understand me?"

Mrs. Travis examined her; then put another question.

"Have you seen your husband since you arrived?"

"No, I have not."

"And you don't know that he is being talked about everywhere--not
exactly for his moral qualities?"

Cecily was mute. Thereupon Mrs. Travis opened the little
sealskin-bag that lay on her lap, and took out a newspaper. She held
it to Cecily, pointing to a certain report. It was a long account of
lively proceedings at a police-court. Cecily read. When she had come
to the end, her eyes remained on the paper. She did not move until
Mrs. Travis put out a hand and touched hers; then she drew back, as
in repugnance.

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