The Emancipated

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"Then why did she come to you?" fell from her lips.

"Please to take your seat again, Mrs. Baske."

She obeyed him. He took a chair at a little distance, and answered
her question.

"She came because she was in great distress, and had no friend in
whom she could confide so naturally. This was a misfortune; it
should not have been so. It was to _you_ that she should have gone,
and I am afraid it was your fault that she could not."

"My fault?"

"Yes. You had not behaved to her with sisterly kindness. You had
held apart from her; you had been cold and unsympathetic. Am I
unjust?"

"Can one command feelings?"

"That is to say, you _felt_ coldly to her. Are you conscious of any
reason? I believe religious prejudice no longer influences you?"

"No."

"Then I am obliged to recall something to your mind. Do you remember
that you were practically an agent in bringing about Cecily's
marriage? No doubt things would have taken much the same course,
however you had acted. But is it not true that you gave what help
was in your power? You acted as though your brother's suit had your
approval. And I think you alone did so."

"You exaggerate. I know what you refer to. Reuben betrayed my lack
of firmness, as he betrays every one who trusts in him."

"Let us call it lack of firmness. The fact is the same, and I feel
very strongly that it laid an obligation on you. From that day you
should have been truly a sister to Cecily. You should have given her
every encouragement to confide in you. She loved you in those days,
in spite of all differences. You should never have allowed this love
to fail."

Miriam kept her eyes on the floor.

"I am afraid," he added, after a pause, "that you won't tell me why
you cannot think kindly of her?"

She hesitated, her lips moving uncertainly.

"There _is_ a reason?"

"I can't tell you."

"I have no right to press you to do so. I will rather ask this--I
asked it once before, and had no satisfactory answer--why did you
allow me to think for a few days, in Italy, that you accepted my
friendship and gave me yours in return, and then became so
constrained in your manner to me that I necessarily thought I had
given you offence?"

She was silent.

"That also you can't tell me?"

She glanced at him--or rather, let her eyes pass over his face--
with the old suggestion of defiance. Her firm-set lips gave no
promise of answer.

Mallard rose.

"Then I must still wait. Some day you will tell me, I think."

He held his hand to her, then turned away; but in a moment faced her
again.

"One word--a yes or no. Do you believe what I have told you? Do
you believe it absolutely? Look at me, and answer."

She flushed, and met his gaze almost as intensely as when he
compelled her confession.

"Do you put absolute faith in what I have said?"

"I do."

"That is something."

He smiled very kindly, and so this dialogue of theirs ended.

A few days later, the Spences gathered friends about their
dinner-table. Mallard was of the invited. The necessity of donning
society's uniform always drew many growls from him; he never felt at
his ease in it, and had a suspicion that he looked ridiculous.
Indeed it suited him but ill; it disguised the true man as he
appeared in his rough travelling apparel, and in the soiled and
venerable attire of the studio.

As he entered the drawing-room, his first glance fell on Seaborne,
who sat in conversation with Mrs. Baske. The man of letters was just
returned from Italy. Going to shake hands with Miriam, Mallard
exchanged a few words with him; then he drew aside into a convenient
corner. He noticed that Miriam's eyes turned once or twice in his
direction. Informed that she was to be his partner in the solemn
procession, he approached her when the moment arrived. They had
nothing to say to each other, until they had been seated some time
then they patched together a semblance of talk, a few formalities,
commonplaces, all but imbecilities. Finding this at length
intolerable, each turned to the person whom he had once before met,
a pretty, bright, charming on the other side. In Mallard's case this
was a young lady girl; without hesitation, she abandoned her
companion proper, and drew the artist into lively dialogue. It was
continued afterwards in the drawing-room, until Mallard, observing
that Miriam sat alone, went over to her.

"What's the matter?" he asked, as he seated himself.

"The matter? Nothing."

"I thought you looked unusually well and cheerful early in the
evening. Now you are the opposite."

"Society soon tires me."

"So it does me."

"You seem anything but tired."

"I have been listening to clever and amusing talk. Do you like Miss
Harper?"

"I don't know her well enough to like or dislike her."

Mallard was looking at her hands, as they lay folded together; he
noticed a distinct tension of the muscles, a whitening of the
knuckles.

"She has just the qualities to put me in good humour. Often when I
have got stupid and bearish from loneliness, I wish I could talk to
some one so happily constituted."

Miriam had become mute, and in a minute or two she rose to speak to
a lady who was passing. As she stood there, Mallard regarded her at
his case. She was admirably dressed to-night, and looked younger
than of wont. Losing sight of her, owing to people who came between,
Mallard fell into a brown study, an anxious smile on his lips.

On the second morning after that, he interrupted his work to sit
down and pen a short letter. "Dear Mrs. Baske," he began then
pondered, and rose to give a touch to the picture on which his eyes
were fixed. But he seated himself again, and wrote on rapidly.
"Would you do me the kindness to come here to-morrow early in the
afternoon? If you have an engagement, the day after would do. But
please to come, if you can; I wish to see you."

There was no reply to this. At the time he had mentioned; Mallard
walked about his room in impatience. Just before three o'clock, his
ear caught a footstep outside, and a knock at the door followed.

"Come in!" he shouted.

From behind the canvases appeared Miriam.

"Ah! How do you do? This is kind of you. Are you alone?"

The question was so indifferently asked, that Miriam stood in
embarrassment.

"Yes. I hare come because you asked me."

"To be sure.--Can you sew, Mrs. Baske?"

She looked at him in confusion, half indignant.

"Yes, I can sew."

"I hardly like to ask you, but--would you mend this for me? It's
the case in which I keep a large volume of engravings; the seams are
coming undone, you see."

He took up the article in question, which was of glazed cloth, and
held it to her.

"Have you a needle and thread?" she asked.

"Oh yes; here's a complete work-basket."

He watched her as she drew off her gloves.

"Will you sit here?" He pointed to a chair and a little table. "I
shall go on with my work, if you will let me. You don't mind doing
this for me?"

"Not at all."

"Is that chair comfortable?"

"Quite."

He moved away and seemed to be busy with a picture; it was on an
easel so placed that. as he stood before it, he also overlooked
Miriam at her needlework. For a time there was perfect quietness.
Mallard kept glancing at his companion, but she did not once raise
her eyes. At length he spoke.

"I have never had an opportunity of asking you what your new
impressions were of Bartles."

"The place was much the same as I left it," she answered naturally.

"And the people? Did you see all your old friends?"

"I saw no one except my sister-in-law and her family."

"You felt no inclination?"

"None whatever."

"By-the-bye"--he seemed to speak half absently, looking closely at
his work--"hadn't you once some thought of building a large new
chapel there?"

"I once had."

She drew her stitches nervously.

"That has utterly passed out of your mind?"

"Must it not necessarily have done so?"

He stepped back, held his head aside, and examined her thoughtfully.

"H'm. I have an impression that you went beyond thinking of it as a
possibility. Did you not make a distinct promise to some one or
another--perhaps to the congregation?"

"Yes, a distinct promise."

He became silent; and Miriam, looking up for the first time, asked:

"Is it your opinion that the promise is still binding on me?"

"Why, I am inclined to think so. Your difficulty is, of course, that
you don't see your way to spending a large sum of money to advance
something with which you have no sympathy."

"It isn't only that I have no sympathy with it," broke from Miriam.
"The thought of those people and their creeds is hateful to me.
Their so-called religion is a vice. They are as far from being
Christians as I am from being a Mahometan. To call them Puritans is
the exaggeration of compliment."

Mallard watched and listened to her with a smile.

"Well," he said, soberly, "I suppose this only applies to the most
foolish among them. However, I see that you can hardly be expected
to build them a chapel. Let us think a moment.--Are there any
public baths in Bartles?"

"There were none when I lived there."

"The proverb says that after godliness comes cleanliness. Why should
you not devote to the establishing of decent baths what you meant to
set apart for the chapel? How does it strike you?"

She delayed a moment; then--

"I like the suggestion."

"Do you know any impartial man there with whom you could communicate
on such a subject?"

"I think so."

"Then suppose you do it as soon as possible?"

"I will."

She plied her needle for a few minutes longer; then looked up and
said that the work was done.

"I am greatly obliged to you. Now will you come here and look at
something?"

She rose and came to his side. Then she saw that there stood on the
easel a drawing-board; on that was a sheet of paper, which showed
drawings of two heads in crayon.

"Do you recognize these persons?" he asked, moving a little away.

Yes, she recognized them. They were both portraits of herself, but
subtly distinguished from each other. The one represented a face
fixed in excessive austerity, with a touch of pride that was by no
means amiable, with resentful eyes, and lips on the point of
becoming cruel. In the other, though undeniably the features were
the same, all these harsh characteristics had yielded to a change of
spirit; austerity had given place to grave thoughtfulness, the eyes
had a noble light, on the lips was sweet womanly strength.

Miriam bent her head, and was silent.

"Now, both these faces are interesting," said Mallard. "Both are
uncommon, and full of force. But the first I can't say that I like.
It is that of an utterly undisciplined woman, with a possibility of
great things in her, but likely to be dangerous for lack of
self-knowledge and humility; an ignorant woman, moreover; one
subjected to superstitions, and aiming at unworthy predominance. The
second is obviously her sister, but how different! An educated
woman, this; one who has learnt a good deal about herself and the
world. She is 'emancipated,' in the true sense of the hackneyed
word; that is to say, she is not only freed from those bonds that
numb the faculties of mind and heart, but is able to control the
native passions that would make a slave of her. Now, this face I
love."

Miriam did not stir, but a thrill went through her. "One of the
passions that she has subdued," Mallard went on, "is, you can see,
particularly strong in this sister of hers. I mean jealousy. This
first face is that of a woman so prone to jealousy of all kinds that
there would be no wonder if it drove her to commit a crime. The
woman whom I love is superior to idle suspicions; she thinks nobly
of her friends; she respects herself too much to be at the mercy of
chance and change of circumstance."

He paused, and Miriam spoke humbly.

"Do you think it impossible for the first to become like her
sister?"

"Certainly not impossible. The fact is that she has already made
great progress in that direction. The first face is not that of an
actually existing person. She has changed much since she looked
altogether like this, so much, indeed, that occasionally I see the
sister in her, and then I love her for the sister's sake. But
naturally she has relapses, and they cannot but affect my love. That
word, you know, has such very different meanings. When I say that I
love her, I don't mean that I am ready to lose my wits when she is
good enough to smile on me. I shouldn't dream of allowing her to
come in the way of my life's work; if she cannot be my helper in it,
then she shall be nothing to me at all. I shall never think or call
her a goddess, not even if she develop all the best qualities she
has. Still, I think the love is true love; I think so for several
reasons, of which I needn't speak."

Miriam again spoke, all but raising her face.

"You once loved in another way."

"I was once out of my mind, which is not at all the same as loving."

He moved to a distance; then turned, and asked:

"Will you tell me now why you became so cold to Cecily?"

"I was jealous of her."

"And still remain so?"

"No."

"I am glad to hear that. Now I think I'll get on with my work. Thank
you very much for the sewing.--By-the-bye, I often feel the want
of some one at hand to do a little thing of that kind."

"If you will send for me, I shall always be glad to come."

"Thank you. Now don't hinder me any longer. Good-bye for to-day."

Miriam moved towards the door.

"You are forgetting your gloves, Mrs. Baske," he called after her.

She turned back and took them up.

"By-the-bye," he said, looking at his watch, "it is the hour at
which ladies are accustomed to drink tea. Will you let me make you a
cup before you go?"

"Thank you. Perhaps I could save your time by making it myself."

"A capital idea. Look, there is all the apparatus. Please to tell me
when it is ready, and I'll have a cup with you."

He painted on, and neither spoke until the beverage was actually
prepared. Then Miriam said:

"Will you come now, Mr. Mallard?"

He laid down his implements, and approached the table by which she
stood.

"Do you understand," he asked, "what is meant when one says of a man
that he is a Bohemian?"

"I think so."

"You know pretty well what may be fairly expected of him, and what
must _not_ be expected?"

"I believe so."

"Do you think you could possibly share the home of such a man?"

"I think I could."

"Then suppose you take off your hat and your mantle, or whatever
it's called, and make an experiment--see if you can feel at home
here."

She did so. Whilst laying the things aside, she heard him step up to
her, till he was very close. Then she turned, and his arms were
about her, and his heart beating against hers.

CHAPTER XVII

END AND BEGINNING

In the autumn of this year, Mrs. Lessingham died. Owing to slight
ailments, she had been advised to order her life more restfully, and
with a view to this she took a house at Richmond, where Mrs. Delph
and Irene again came to live with her. Scarcely was the settlement
effected, when grave illness fell upon her, the first she had
suffered since girlhood. She resented it; her energies put
themselves forth defiantly; two days before her death she had no
suspicion of what was coming. Warned at length, she made her will,
angrily declined spiritual comfort, and with indignation fought her
fate to the verge of darkness.

Cecily and her husband arrived a few hours too late; when the
telegram of summons reached them, they were in Denmark. The Spences
attended the funeral. Mallard and Miriam, who were in the north of
Scotland--they had been married some two months--did not come.
By Mrs. Lessingham's will, the greater part of her possessions fell
to Cecily; there was a legacy of money to Irene Delph, and a London
hospital for women received a bequest.

Eleanor wrote to Miriam:

"They went back to Paris yesterday. I had Cecily with me for one
whole day, but of herself she evidently did not wish to speak, and
of course I asked no questions. Both she and her husband looked
well, however. It pleased me very much to hear her talk of you; all
her natural tenderness and gladness came out; impossible to imagine
a more exquisite sincerity of joy. She is a noble and beautiful
creature; I do hope that the shadow on her life is passing away, and
that we shall see her become as strong as she is lovable. She said
she had written to you. Your letter at the time of your marriage was
a delight to her.

"It happened that on the day when she was here we had a visit
from--whom think you? Mr. Bradshaw, accompanied by his daughter
Charlotte and her husband. The old gentleman was in London on
business, and had met the young people, who were just returning from
their honeymoon. He is still the picture of health, and his robust,
practical talk seemed to do us good. How he laughed and shouted over
his reminiscences of Italy! Your marriage had amazed him; when he
began to speak of it, it was in a grave, puzzled way, as if there
must be something in the matter which required its being touched
upon with delicacy. The substitution of baths for a chapel at
Bartles obviously gave him more amusement than he liked to show; he
chuckled inwardly, with a sober face. 'What has Mallard got to say
to that?' he asked me aside. I answered that it met with your
husband's entire approval. 'Well,' he said, 'I feel that I can't
keep up with the world; in my day, you didn't begin married life by
giving away half your income. It caps me, but no doubt it's all
right.' Mrs. Bradshaw by-the-bye, shakes her head whenever you are
mentioned.

"You will like to hear of Mr. and Mrs. Marsh. Charlotte is
excessively plain, and I am afraid excessively dull, but it is
satisfactory to see that she regards her husband as a superior
being, not to be spoken of save with bated breath. Mr. Marsh is
rather too stout for his years, and I should think very
self-indulgent; whenever his wife looks at him, he unconsciously
falls into the attitude of one who is accustomed to snuff incense.
He speaks of 'my Bohemian years' with a certain pride, wishing one
to understand that he was a wild, reckless youth, and that his
present profound knowledge of the world is the result of experiences
which do not fall to the lot of common men. With Cecily he was
superbly gracious--talked to her of art in a large, fluent way,
the memory of which will supply Edward with mirth for some few
weeks. The odd thing is that his father-in-law seems more than half
to believe in him."

Time went on. Cecily's letters to her friends in England grew rare.
Writing to Eleanor early in the spring, she mentioned that Irene
Delph, who had been in Paris since Mrs. Lessingham's death, was
giving her lessons in painting, but said she doubted whether this
was anything better than a way of killing time. "You know Mr.
Seaborne is here?" she added. "I have met him two or three times at
Madame Courbet's, whom I was surprised to find he has known for
several years. She translated his book on the revolutions of '48
into French."

Never a word now of Elgar. The Spences noted this cheerlessly, and
could not but remark a bitterness that here and there revealed
itself in her short, dry letters. To Miriam she wrote only in the
form of replies, rarely even alluding to her own affairs, but always
with affectionate interest in those of her correspondent.

Another autumn came, and Cecily at length was mute; the most
pressing letters obtained no response. Miriam wrote to Reuben, but
with the same result. This silence was unbroken till winter; then,
one morning in November, Eleanor received a note from Cecily, asking
her to call as soon as she was able at an address in the far west of
London--nothing more than that.

In the afternoon, Eleanor set out to discover this address. It
proved to be a house in a decent suburban road. On asking for Mrs.
Elgar, she was led up to the second floor, and into a rather bare
little sitting-room. Here was Cecily, alone.

"I knew you would come soon," she said, looking with an earnest, but
not wholly sad, smile at her visitor. "I had very nearly gone to
you, but this was better. You understand why I am here?"

"I am afraid so, after your long silence."

"Don't let us get into low spirits about it," said Cecily, smiling
again. "All that is over; I can't make myself miserable any more,
and certainly don't wish any one to be so on my account. Come and
sit nearer the fire. What a black, crushing day!"

She looked out at the hopeless sky, and shook her head.

"You have lodgings here?" asked Eleanor, watching the girl with
concern.

"Irene and her mother live here; they were able to take me in for
the present. He left me a month ago. This time he wrote and told me
plainly--said it was no use, that he wouldn't try to deceive me
any longer. He couldn't live as I wish him to, so he would have done
with pretences and leave me free. I waited there in my 'freedom'
till the other day; he might have come back, in spite of everything,
you know. But at last I wrote to an address he had given me, and
told him I was going to London--that I accepted his release, and
that henceforth all his claims upon me must be at end."

"Is he in Paris?"

"In the south of France, I believe. But that is nothing to me. What
I inherited from my aunt makes me independent; there is no need of
any arrangements about money, fortunately. I dare say he foresaw
this when he expressed a wish that I should keep this quite apart
from our other sources of income, and manage it myself."

Eleanor felt that the last word was said. There was no distress in
Cecily's voice or manner, nothing but the simplicity of a clear
decision, which seemed to carry with it hardly a regret.

"A tragedy can go no further than its fifth act," Cecily pursued. "I
have shed all my tears long since, exhausted all my indignation. You
can't think what an everyday affair it has become with me. I am
afraid that means that I am in a great measure demoralized by these
experiences. I can only hope that some day I shall recover my finer
feeling."

"You haven't seen Miriam?"

"No, and I don't know whether I can. There as no need for you to
keep silence about me when you see her; what has happened can't be
hidden. I thought it possible that Reuben might have written and
told her. If she comes here, I shall welcome her, but it is better
for me not to seek her first."

"If he writes to her," asked Eleanor, with a grave look, "is it
likely that he will try to defend himself?"

"I understand you. You mean, defend himself by throwing blame of one
kind or another on me. No, that is impossible. He has no desire to
do that. What makes our relations to each other so hopeless, is that
we can be so coldly just. In me there is no resentment left, and in
him no wish to disguise his own conduct. We are simply nothing to
each other. I appreciate all the good in him and all the evil; and
to him my own qualities are equally well known. We have reached the
point of studying each other in a mood of scientific impartiality--
surely the most horrible thing in man and wife."

Eleanor had a sense of relief in hearing that last comment. For the
tone of the speech put her painfully in mind of that which
characterizes certain French novelists all very well in its place,
but on Cecily's lips an intolerable discord. It was as though the
girl's spirit had been materialized by Parisian influences; yet the
look and words with which she ended did away with, or at least
mitigated, that fear.

"He is pursued by a fate," murmured the listener.

"Listen to my defence;" said Cecily, after a pause, with more
earnestness. "For I have not been blameless through. out Before we
left London, he charged me with contributing to what had befallen
us, and in a measure he was right. He said that I had made no effort
to keep him faithful to me that I had watched the gulf growing
between us with indifference, and allowed him to take his own
course. A jealous and complaining wife, he said, would have behaved
more for his good. Hearing this, I recognized its truth. I had held
myself too little responsible. When our life in Paris began, I
resolved that I would accept my duties in another spirit I did all
that a wife can do to strengthen the purer part in him. I interested
myself in whatever he undertook; I suggested subjects of study which
I thought congenial to him and studied them together with him,
putting aside everything of my own for which he did not care. And
for a time I was encouraged by seeming success. He was grateful to
me, and I found my one pleasure in this absolute devotion of myself.
I choose my words carefully; you must not imagine that there was
more in either his feeling or mine than what I express. But it did
not last more than six months. Then he grew tired of it. I still did
my utmost; believe that I did, Mrs. Spence, for it is indeed true. I
made every effort in my power to prevent what I knew was
threatening. Until he began to practise deceit, trickery of every
kind. What more could I do? If he was determined to deceive me, he
would do so; what was gained by my obliging him to exert more
cunning? Then I turned sick at heart, and the end came."

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