The Emancipated

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"She has been very, very ill the last few days," was her reply to
Cecily's inquiry. "I don't venture to leave her for more than a few
minutes."

"Mrs. Denyer is away!"

"Yes; she is staying at Sir Roland's, in Lincolnshire. Barbara and
her husband are there, and they sent her an invitation."

"But haven't you a nurse?"

"I'm afraid I shall be obliged to find one."

"Can I help you to-night? Do let me. I have only been home two days,
and came in reply to your letter as soon as I could."

They went up to Zillah's room, and Cecily threw aside her
out-of-door clothing. Then they silently entered the sick-chamber.

Madeline was greatly changed in the short time since Cecily had seen
her. Ceaseless pain had worn away the last traces of her girlish
beauty; the drawn features, the deadened eyes, offered hope that an
end must come before long. She gave a look of recognition as the
visitor approached her, but did not attempt to speak.

"Are you easier again, dear?" Zillah asked, bending over her.

"Yes."

"Mrs. Elgar would like to stay with you a little. She won't ask you
to talk."

"Very well. Go and rest while she stays."

"Yes, go and lie down," urged Cecily. "Please do! I will call you at
once if it is necessary."

Zillah was persuaded, and Cecily took her seat alone by the bedside.
She had lost all thought of herself. The tremor which possessed her
when she entered was subsiding; the unutterable mournfulness of this
little room made everything external to it seem of small account.
She knew not whether it was better to speak or remain mute, and when
silence had lasted for a few minutes, she could not trust her voice
to break it. But at length the motionless girl addressed her.

"Have you enjoyed yourself in Italy?"

"Not much. I have not been very well," Cecily answered, leaning
forward.

"Did you go to Naples?"

"Only as fat as Rome."

"How can any one be in Italy, and not go to Naples?" said Madeline,
in a low tone of wonder.

Silence came again. Cecily listened to the sound of breathing.
Madeline coughed, and seemed to make a fruit less effort to speak;
then she commanded her voice.

"I took a dislike to you at Naples," she said, with the simple
directness of one who no longer understands why every thought should
not be expressed. "It began when you showed that you didn't care for
Mr. Marsh's drawings. It is strange to think of that now. You know I
was engaged to Mr. Marsh?"

"Yes."

"He used to write me letters; I mean, since _this_. But it is a long
time since the last came. No doubt he is married now. It would have
been better if he had told me, and not just ceased to write. I want
Zillah to write to him for me; but she doesn't like to."

"Why do you think he is married?" Cecily asked.

"Isn't it natural? I'm not so foolish as to wish to prevent him.
It's nothing to me now. I should even be glad to hear of it. He
ought to marry some good-natured, ordinary kind of girl, who has
money. Of course you were right about his drawings; he was no
artist, really. But I had a liking for him."

Cecily wondered whether it would be wise or unwise to tell what she
knew. The balance seemed in favour of holding her peace. In a few
minutes, Madeline moaned a little.

"You are in pain?"

"That's nothing; pain, pain--I find it hard to understand that
life is anything but pain. I can't live much longer, that's the one
comfort. Death doesn't mean pain, but the end of it. Yesterday I
felt myself sinking, sinking, and I said, 'Now this is the end,' and
I could have cried with joy. But Zillah gave me something, and I
came back. That's cruelty, you know. They ought to help us to die
instead of keeping us alive in pain. If doctors had any sense they
would help us to die; there are so many simple ways. You see the
little bottle with the blue label; look round; the little bottle
with the measure near it. If only it had been left within my reach!
They call it poison when you take too much of it; but poison means
sleep and rest and the end of pain."

Cecily listened as though some one spoke from beyond the grave; that
strange voice made all the world unreal.

"Do you believe in a life after this?" asked Madeline, with
earnestness.

"I know nothing," was the answer.

"Neither do I. It matters nothing to me. All I have to do is to die,
and then whatever comes will come. Poor Zillah does her best to
persuade me that she _does_ know. I shall try to seem as if I
believed her. Why should I give her pain? What does it matter if she
is wrong? She is a kind sister to me, and I shall pretend that I
believe her. Perhaps she is right? She may be, mayn't she?"

"She may be."

"It's good of you to come and sit here while she rests. She hasn't
gone to bed for two nights. She's the only one of us that cares for
me. Barbara has got her husband; well, I'm glad of that. And there's
no knowing; she might live to be Lady Musselwhite. Sir Roland hasn't
any children. Doesn't it make you laugh?"

She herself tried to laugh--a ghostly sound. It seemed to exhaust
her. For half an hour no word was spoken. Then Cecily, who had
fallen into brooding, heard herself called by a strange name.

"Miss Doran!"

She rose and bent over the bed, startled by this summons from the
dead past.

"Can I do anything for you, Madeline?"

The heavy eyes looked at her in a perplexed way. They seemed to be
just awaking, and Madeline smiled faintly.

"Didn't I call you, Miss Doran? I was thinking about you, and got
confused. But you are married, of course. What is your name now? I
can't remember."

"Mrs. Elgar."

"How silly of me! Mrs. Elgar, of course. Are you happily married?"

"Why do you ask?"

For the first time, she remembered the possibility that the Denyers
knew of her disgrace. But Madeline's reply seemed to prove that she,
at all events, had no such thing in mind.

"I was only trying to remember whom you married. Yes, yes; you told
us about it before. Or else. Mrs. Travis told me."

"What did she say?"

"Only that you had married for love, as every woman ought to. But
_she_ is very unhappy. Perhaps that would have been my own lot if I
had lived. I dare say I should have been married long ago. What does
it matter? But as long as one is born at all, one might as well live
life through, see the best as well as the worst of it. It's been all
worst with me.--Oh, that's coming again! That wishing and
rebelling and despairing! I thought it was all over. You stand there
and look at me; that is you and this is I, this, this! I am lying
here waiting for death and burial. You have the husband you love,
and long years of happy life before you.--Do you feel sorry for
me? Suppose it was you who lay here?"

The same question she had put to Mrs. Travis, but now spoken in a
more anguished voice. The tear's streamed from Cecily's eyes.

"You cry, like Zillah does when she tries to persuade me. I don't
know whether I had rather be pitied, or lie quite alone. But don't
cry. You shan't go away and be made miserable by thinking of me. I
can bear it all well enough; there can't be much more of it, you
know. Sit down again, if you have time. Perhaps you want to go
somewhere to-night--to see friends?"

"No. I will stay with you as long as ever you wish."

Presently the conversation ceased, and then for nearly three hours
Cecily listened to the sound of breathing. At length the door softly
opened, and Zillah came in. She was distressed; it had struck twelve
long since, and only now had she awoke from sleep. Cecily entreated
her to go and sleep again; she herself had no desire to close her
eyes.

"But what will Mr. Elgar think has become of you?"

"He is not at home to-night. Let me have my way, there's a good
girl."

Zillah, whose eyelids could scarcely be supported, at length went
back to her room. Madeline still slept, with unusual calmness. The
vigil was resumed, and nothing again disturbed it until white dawn
began to glimmer at the windows.

Then Madeline awoke with a sudden loud cry of anguish. Cecily,
aroused from slumber which was just beginning, sprang up and spoke
to her. But the cry seemed to have been the end of her power of
utterance; she moved her lips and looked up fearfully. Cecily
hastened to summon Zillah.

CHAPTER XIV

SUGGESTION AND ASSURANCE

When Miriam went out by herself to walk, either going or returning
she took the road in which was Mallard's studio. She kept on the
side opposite the gateway, and, in passing, seemed to have no
particular interest in anything at hand. A model who one day came
out of the gate, and made inspection of the handsomely attired lady
just going by, little suspected for what purpose she walked in this
locality.

And so it befell that Miriam was drawing near to the studios at the
moment when a cab stopped there, at the moment when Cecily alighted
from it. Instantly recognizing her sister-in-law, Miriam thought it
inevitable that she herself must be observed; for an instant her
foot was checked. But Cecily paid the driver without looking this
way or that, and entered the gateway. Miriam walked on for a few
paces; then glanced back and saw the cab waiting. She reached the
turning of the road, and still the cab waited, Another moment, and
it drove away empty.

She stood and watched it, until it disappeared in the opposite
direction. Heedless of one or two people who came by, she remained
on the spot for several minutes, gazing towards the studios.
Presently she moved that way again. She passed the gate, and walked
on to the farther end of the road, always with glances at the gate.
Then she waited again, and then began to retrace her steps.

How many times backwards and forwards? She neither knew nor cared;
it was indifferent to her whether or not she was observed from the
windows of certain houses. She felt no weariness of body, but time
seemed endless. The longer she stood or walked, the longer was
Cecily there within. For what purpose? Yesterday she was to arrive
in London; to-day she doubtless knew all that had been going on in
her absence. And dusk fell, and twilight thickened. The street-lamps
were lit. But Cecily still remained within.

Twice or thrice some one entered or left the studio-yard, strangers
to Miriam. At length there came forth a man who, after looking
about, hurried away, and in a few minutes returned with a hansom
following him. Seeing that it stopped at the gateway, she approached
as close as she durst, keeping in shadow. There issued two persons,
whom at once she knew--Cecily with Mallard. They spoke together a
moment; then both got into the vehicle and drove away.

That evening Miriam had an engagement to dine out, together with the
Spences. When she reached home, Eleanor, dressed ready for departure
and not a little impatient, met her in the entrance-hall.

"Have you forgotten?"

"No. I am very sorry that I couldn't get back sooner. What is the
time?"

It was too late for Miriam to dress and reach her destination at the
appointed hour.

"You must go without me. I hope it doesn't matter. They are not the
kind of people who plan for their guests to go like the animals of
Noah's ark."

This was a sally of unwonted liveliness from Miriam. and it did not
suit very well with her jaded face.

"Will you come after dinner?" Eleanor asked.

"Yes, I will. Make some excuse for me."

So Miriam dined alone, or made a pretence of doing so, and at nine
o'clock joined her friends. Through the evening she talked far more
freely than usual, and with a frequency of caustic remark which made
one or two mild ladies rather afraid of her.

At half-past nine next morning, when she and Eleanor were talking
over a letter Mrs. Spence had just received from Greece, a servant
came into the drawing-room to say that Mr. Elgar wished to speak
with Mrs. Baske. The ladies looked at each other; then Miriam
directed that the visitor should go up to her own sitting-room.

"This has something to do with Cecily," said Eleanor in a low voice.

"Probably."

And Miriam turned away.

As she entered her room, Reuben faced her, standing close by. He
looked miserably ill, the wreck of a man compared with what he had
been at his last visit. When the door was shut, he asked without
preface, and in an anxious tone:

"Can you tell me where Cecily is?"

Miriam laid her band on a chair, and met his gaze.

"Where she is?"

"She isn't at home. Haven't you heard of her?"

"Since when has she been away?"

Her manner of questioning seemed to Elgar to prove that her own
surprise was as great as his.

"I only went there last night," he said, "about eleven o'clock. She
had been in the house since her arrival the day before yesterday;
but in the afternoon she went out and didn't return. She left no
word, and there's nothing from her this morning. I thought it likely
you had heard something."

"I have heard many things, but not about _her_."

"Of course, I know that!" he exclaimed impatiently, averting his
eyes for a moment. "I haven't come to talk, but to ask you a simple
question. You have no idea where she is?"

Miriam moved a few steps away and seated herself. But almost at once
she arose again.

"Why didn't you go home before last night?" she asked harshly.

"I tell you, I am not going to talk of my affairs," he answered,
with a burst of passion. "If you want to drive me mad--! Can't
you answer me? Do you know anything, or guess anything, about her?"

"Yes," said Miriam, after some delay, speaking deliberately, "I can
give you some information."

"Then do so, and don't keep me in torment."

"Yesterday afternoon I happened to be passing Mr. Mallard's studio,
and I saw her enter it; she came in a cab. She stayed there an hour
or two; it grew dark whilst she was there. Then I saw them both go
away together."

Elgar stared, half incredulously.

"You saw this? Do you mean that you waited about and watched?"

"Yes."

"You had suspicions?"

"I knew what a happy home she had returned to."

Again she seated herself.

"She went there to ask about me," said Elgar, in a forced voice.

"You think so? Why to him? Wouldn't she rather have come to me? Why
did she stay so long? Why did he go away with her? And why hasn't
she returned home?"

Question followed question with cold deliberateness, as if the
matter barely concerned her.

"But Mallard? What is Mallard to her?"

"How can I tell?"

"Were they together much in Rome?"

"I think very likely they were."

"Miriam, I can't believe this. How could it happen that you were
near Mallard's studio just then? How could you stand about for
hours, spying?"

"Perhaps I dreamt it."

"Where is this studio?" he asked. "I knew the other day, but I have
forgotten."

She told him the address.

"Very well, then I must go there. You still adhere to your story?"

"Why should I invent it?" she exclaimed bitterly "And what is there
astonishing in it? What right have _you_ to be astonished?"

"Every right!" he answered, with violence. "What warning have I had
of such a thing?"

She rose and moved away with a scornful laugh. For a minute he
looked at her as she stood apart, her face turned from him.

"If I find Mallard," he said, "of course I shall tell him who my
authority is."

She turned.

"No; that you will not do!"

"And why not?"

"Because I forbid you. You will not dare to mention my name in any
such conversation! Besides"--her voice fell to a tone of
indifference--"if you meet him, there will be no need. You will
ask your question, and that will be enough. There is very little
chance of his being at the studio."

"I see that your Puritan spirit is gratified," he said, looking at
her with fierce eyes.

"Naturally."

He went towards the door. Miriam, raising her eyes and following him
a step or two, said sternly:

"In any case, you understand that my name is not to be spoken. Show
at least some remnant of honour. Remember who I am, and don't
involve me in your degradation."

"Have no fear. Your garment of righteousness shall not be soiled."

When he was gone, Miriam sat for a short time alone. She had not
foreseen this sequel of yesterday's event. In spite of all the
promptings of her jealous fear, she had striven to explain Cecily's
visit in some harmless way. Mean what it might, it tortured her;
but, in her ignorance of what was happening between Cecily and her
husband, she tried to believe that Mallard was perhaps acting the
part of reconciler--not an unlikely thing, as her better judgment
told her. Now she could no longer listen to such calm suggestions.
Cecily had abandoned her home, and with Mallard's knowledge, if not
at his persuasion.

She thought of Reuben with all but hatred. He was the cause of the
despair which had come upon her. The abhorrence with which she
regarded his vices--no whit less strong for all her changed habits
of thought--blended now with the sense of personal injury; this
only had been lacking to destroy what natural tenderness remained in
her feeling towards him. Cecily she hated, without the power of
condemning her as she formerly would have done. The old voice of
conscience was not mute, but Miriam turned from it with sullen
scorn. If Cecily declared her marriage at an end, what fault could
reason find with her? If she acted undisguisedly as a free woman,
how was she to blame? Reuben's praise of her might still keep its
truth. And the unwilling conviction of this was one of Miriam's
sharpest torments. She would have liked to regard her with
disdainful condemnation, or a fugitive wife, a dishonoured woman.
But the power of sincerely judging thus was gone. Reuben had taunted
her amiss.

Presently she left her room and went to seek Eleanor. Mrs. Spence
was writing; she laid down her pen, and glanced at Miriam, but did
not speak.

"Cecily has left her home," Miriam said, with matter-of-fact
brevity.

Eleanor stood up.

"Parted from him?"

"It seems be didn't go to the house till late last night. She had
left in the afternoon, and did not come back"

"Then they have not met?".

"No."

"And had Cecily heard?"

"There's no knowing."

"Of course, she has gone to Mrs. Lessingham."

"I think not," replied Miriam, turning away.

"Why?"

But Miriam would give no definite answer. Neither did she hint at
the special grounds of her suspicion. Presently she left the room as
she had entered, dispirited and indisposed for talk.

Elgar walked on to the studios. He found Mallard's door, and was
beginning to ascend the stairs, when the artist himself appeared at
the top of them, on the point of going out. He recognized his
visitor with a grim movement of brows and lips, and without speaking
turned back. Reuben reached the door, which remained open, and
entered. Mallard, who stood there in the ante-room, looked at him
inquiringly.

"I want a few minutes' talk with you, if you please," said Elgar.

"Come in."

They passed into the studio. The last time they had seen each other
was more than three years ago, at Naples; both showed something of
curiosity, over and above the feelings of graver moment. Mallard,
observing the signs of mental stress on Elgar's features, wondered
to what they were attributable. Was the fellow capable of suffering
remorse or shame to this degree? Or was it the outcome of that other
affair, sheer ignoble passion? Reuben, on his part, could not face
the artist's somewhat rigid self-possession without feeling rebuked
and abashed. The fact of Mallard's being here at this hour seemed
all but a disproval of what Miriam had hinted, and when he looked up
again at the rugged, saturnine, energetic countenance, and met the
calmly austere eyes, he felt how improbable it was that this man
should be anything to Cecily save a conscientious friend.

"I haven't come in answer to your invitation," Reuben began,
glancing uneasily at the pictures, and endeavouring to support an
air of self-respect. "Something less agreeable has brought me."

They had not shaken hands, nor did Mallard offer a seat.

"What may that be?" he asked.

"I believe you have seen my wife lately?"

"What of that?"

Mallard began to knit his brows anxiously. He put up one foot on a
chair, and rested his arm on his knee.

"Will you tell me when it was that you saw her?"

"If you will first explain why you come with such questions,"
returned the other, quietly.

"She has not been home since yesterday; I think that is reason
enough."

Mallard maintained his attitude for a few moments, but at length put
his foot to the ground again, and repeated the keen look he had cast
at the speaker as soon as that news was delivered.

"When did you yourself go home?" he asked gravely.

"Late last night."

Mallard pondered anxiously.

"Then," said he, "what leads you to believe that I have seen Mrs.
Elgar?"

"I don't merely believe; I know that you have."

Elgar felt himself oppressed by the artist's stern and authoritative
manner. He could not support his dignity; his limbs embarrassed him,
and he was conscious of looking like a man on his trial for ignoble
offences.

"How do you know?" came from Mallard, sharply.

"I have been told by some one who saw her come here yesterday, in
the late afternoon."

"I see. No doubt, Mrs. Baske?"

The certainty of this flashed upon Mallard. He had never seen Miriam
walk by, but on the instant he comprehended her doing so. It was
even possible, he thought, that, if she had not herself seen Cecily,
some one in her employment had made the espial for her. The whole
train of divination was perfect in his mind before Elgar spoke.

"It is nothing to the purpose who told me. My wife was here for a
long time, and when she went away, you accompanied her."

"I understand."

"That is more than I do. Will you please to explain it?"

"You are accurately informed. Mrs. Elgar came here, naturally
enough, to ask if I knew what had become of you."

"And why should she come to _you_?"

"Because my letter to you lay open somewhere in your house, and she
thought it possible we had been together."

Elgar reflected. Yes, he remembered that the letter was left on his
table.

"And where did she go afterwards? Where did you conduct her?"

"I went rather more than half-way home with her, in the cab" replied
Mallard, somewhat doggedly. "I supposed she was going on to Belsize
Park."

"Then you know nothing of her reason for not doing so?"

"Nothing whatever."

Elgar became silent. The artist, after moving about quietly, turned
to question him with black brows.

"Hasn't it occurred to you that she may have joined Mrs. Lessingham
in the country?"

"She has taken nothing--not even a travelling-bag."

"You come, of course, from the Spences' house?"

Elgar replied with an affirmative. As soon as he had done so, he
remembered that this was as much as corroborating Mallard's
conjecture with regard to Miriam; but for that he cared little. He
had begun to discern something odd in the relations between Miriam
and Mallard, and suspected that Cecily might in some way be the
cause of it.

"Did they not at once suggest that she was with Mrs. Lessingham?"

Elgar muttered a "No," averting his face.

"What _did_ they suggest, then?"

"I saw only my sister," said Reuben, irritably.

"And your sister thought I was the most likely person to know of
Mrs. Elgar's whereabouts?"

"Yes, she did."

"I am sorry to disappoint you," said Mallard, coldly. "I have given
you all the information I can."

"All you _will_," replied Elgar, whose temper was exasperated by the
firmness with which he was held at a scornful distance. He began now
to imagine that Mallard, from reasons of disinterested friendship,
had advised Cecily to seek some retreat, and would not disclose the
secret. More than that, he still found incredible.

Mallard eyed him scornfully.

"I said 'all I _can_,' and I don't deal in double meanings. I know
nothing more than I have told you. You are probably unaccustomed, of
late, to receive simple and straightforward answers to your
questions; but you'll oblige me by remembering where you are."

Elgar might rage inwardly, but he had no power of doubting what he
heard. He understood that Mallard would not even permit an allusion
to anything save the plain circumstances which had come to light.
Moreover, the artist had found a galling way of referring to the
events that had brought about this juncture. Reuben was profoundly
humiliated; he had never seen himself in so paltry a light. He could
have shed tears of angry shame.

"I dare say the tone of your conversation," he said acridly, "was
not such as would reconcile her to remaining at home. No doubt you
gave her abundant causes for self-pity."

"I did not congratulate her on her return home; but, on the other
hand, I said nothing that could interfere with her expressed
intention to remain there."

"She told you that she had this intention?" asked Reuben, with some
eagerness.

"She did."

As in the dialogue of last evening, so now, Mallard kept the
sternest control upon himself. Had he obeyed his desire, he would
have scarified Elgar with savage words; but of that nothing save
harm could come. His duty was to smooth, and not to aggravate, the
situation. It was a blow to him to learn that Cecily had passed the
night away from home, but he felt sure that this would be explained
in some way that did no injury to her previous resolve. He would not
admit the thought that she had misled him. What had happened, he
could not with any satisfaction conjecture, but he was convinced
that a few hours would solve the mystery. Had she really failed in
her determination, then assuredly she would write to him, even
though it were without saying where she had taken refuge. But he
persisted in hoping that it was not so.

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