The Emancipated

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"But, Cecily," said Eleanor, "how can the end be yet?"

"You mean that he will once more wish to return."

"Once more, or twenty times more."

"I know; but--"

She broke off, and Eleanor did not press her to continue.

It was not long before the news reached Miriam. In a few days
Eleanor paid one of her accustomed visits to a little house out at
Roehampton, externally cold and bare enough in these days of
November, but inwardly rich with whatsoever the heart or brain can
desire. Hither came no payers of formal calls, no leavers of cards,
no pests from the humdrum world to open their mouths and utter
foolishness. It was a dwelling sacred to love and art, and none were
welcome across its threshold save those to whom the consecration was
of vital significance. To Eleanor the air seemed purer than that of
any other house she entered; to breathe it made her heart beat more
hopefully, gave her a keener relish of life.

Mallard was absent to-day, held by business in London. The visitor
had, for once, no wish to await his return. She sat for an hour by
the fireside, and told what she had to tell; then took her leave.

When the artist entered, Miriam was waiting for him by the light of
the fire; blinds shut out the miserable gloaming, but no lamp had
yet been brought into the room. Mallard came in blowing the fog and
rain off his moustache; he kicked off his boots, kicked on his
slippers, and then bent down over the chair to the face raised in
expectancy.

"A damnable day, Miriam, in the strict and sober sense of the word."

"Far too sober," she replied. "Eleanor came through it, however."

"Wonderful woman! Did she come to see if you bore it with the
philosophy she approves?"

"She had a more serious purpose, I'm sorry to say, Cecily is in
London, He has left her--written her a good-bye."

Mallard leaned upon the mantelpiece, and watched his wife's face,
illumined by the firelight. A healthier and more beautiful face than
it had ever been; not quite the second of those two faces that
Mallard drew, but with scarcely a record of the other. They talked
in subdued voices. Miriam repeated all that Eleanor had been able to
tell.

"You must go and see her, of course," Mallard said.

"Yes; I will go to-morrow."

"Shall you ask her to come here?"

"I don't think she will wish to," answered Miriam.

"That brother of yours!" he growled.

"Isn't it too late even to feel angry with him, dear? We know what
all this means. It is absolutely impossible for them to live
together, and Reuben's behaviour is nothing but an assertion of
that. Sooner or later, it would be just as impossible, even if he
preserved the decencies."

"Perhaps true; perhaps not. Would it be possible for him to live for
long with _any_ woman?"

Miriam sighed.

"Well, well; go and talk to the poor girl, and see if you can do
anything. I wish she were an artist, of whatever kind; then it
wouldn't matter much. A woman who sings, or plays, or writes, or
paints, can live a free life. But a woman who is nothing but a
woman, what the deuce is to become of her in this position? What
would become of _you_, if I found you in my way, and bade you go
about your business?"

"We are not far from the Thames," she answered, looking at him with
the fire-glow in her loving eyes.

"Oh, you!" he muttered, with show of contempt. "But other women have
more spirit. They get over their foolish love, and then find that
life in earnest is just beginning."

"I shall never get over it."

"Pooh!--How long to dinner, Miriam?"

Miriam went to see her sister-in-law, and repeated the visit at
intervals during the next few months; but Cecily would not come to
Roehampton. Neither would she accept the invitations of the Spences,
though Eleanor was with her frequently, and became her nearest
friend. She seemed quite content with the society of Irene and Mrs.
Delph; her health visibly improved, and as spring drew near there
was a brightening in her face that told of thoughts in sympathy with
the new-born hope of earth.

The Mallards were seldom in town. Excepting the house at Chelsea,
their visits were only to two or three painters, who lived much as
Mallard had done before his marriage. In these studios Miriam at
first inspired a little awe; but as her understanding of the
art-world increased, she adapted herself to its habits in so far as
she could respect them, and where she could not, the restraint of
her presence was recognized as an influence towards better things.

At the Spences', one day in April, they met Seaborne. They had heard
of his being in London again (after a year mostly spent in Paris),
but had not as yet seen him. He was invited to visit them, and
promised to do so before long. A month or more passed, however, and
the promise remained unfulfilled. At Chelsea the same report was
made of him; he seemed to be living in seclusion.

In mid-May, as Miriam was walking by herself at a little distance
from home, she was overtaken by a man who had followed her over the
heath. When the step paused at her side, she turned and saw Reuben.

"Will you speak to me?" he said.

"Why not, Reuben?"

She gave him her hand.

"That is kinder than I hoped to find you. But I see how changed you
are. You are so happy that you can afford to be indulgent to a poor
devil."

"Why have you made yourself a poor devil!"

"Why, why, why! Pooh! Why is anything as it is? Why are you what you
are, after being what you were?"

It pained her to look at him. At length she discerned unmistakably
the fatal stamp of degradation. When he came to her two years ago,
his face was yet unbranded; now the darkening spirit declared
itself. Even his clothing told the same tale, in spite of its being
such as he had always worn.

"Where are you living?" she asked.

"Anywhere; nowhere. I have no home."

"Why don't you make one for yourself?"

"It's all very well for you to talk like that. Every one doesn't get
a home so easily.--Does old Mallard make you a good husband?"

"Need you ask that?" Miriam returned, averting her eyes, and walking
slowly on.

"You have to thank me for it, Miriam, in part."

She looked at him in surprise.

"It's true. It was I who first led him to think about you, and
interested him in you. We were going from Pompeii to Sorrento--how
many years ago? thirty, forty?--and I talked about you a great
deal. I told him that I felt convinced you could be saved, if only
some strong man would take you by the hand. It led him to think
about you; I am sure of it."

Miriam had no reply to make. They walked on.

"I didn't come to the house," he resumed presently, "because I
thought it possible that the door might be shut in my face. Mallard
would have wished to do so."

"He wouldn't have welcomed you; but you were free to come in if you
wished."

"Have you thought it likely I might come some day?"

"I expected, sooner or later, to hear from you."

He had a cane, and kept slashing with it at the green growths by his
feet. When he missed his aim at any particular object, he stopped
and struck again, more fiercely.

"Does Cecily come to see you?" was his next question, uttered as if
unconcernedly.

"No."

"But you know about her? You know where she is?"

"Yes."

"Tell me what you know, Miriam. How is she living?"

"I had much rather not speak of her. I don't feel that I have any
right to."

"Why not?" he asked quickly, standing still. "What is there to hide?
Why had you rather not speak?"

"For reasons that you understand well enough. What is it to you how
she lives?"

He searched her face, like one suspecting a studied ambiguity. His
eyes, which were a little bloodshot, grew larger and more turbid; a
repulsive animalism came out in all his features.

"Do tell me what you know, Miriam," he pleaded. "Of course it's
nothing to me; I know that. I have no wish to interfere with her; I
promise you to do nothing of the kind; I promise solemnly!"

"You promise?" she exclaimed, not harshly, but with stern
significance. "How can you use such words? Under what circumstances
could I put faith in a promise of yours, Reuben?"

He struck violently at the trunk of a tree, and his cane broke; then
he flung it away, still more passionately.

"You're right enough. What do I care? I lie more often than I tell
the truth. I have a sort of pride in it. If a man is to be a liar,
let him be a thorough one.--Do you know why I smashed the stick? I
had a devilish temptation to strike you across the face with it.
That would have been nice, wouldn't it?"

"You had better go your own way, Reuben, and let me go mine."

She drew apart, and not without actual fear of him, so brutal he
looked, and so strangely coarse had his utterance become.

"You needn't be afraid. If I _had_ hit you, I'd have gone away and
killed myself; so perhaps it's a pity I didn't. I felt a savage
hatred of you, and just because I wanted you to take my hand and be
gentle with me. I suppose you can't understand that? You haven't
gone deep enough into life."

His voice choked, and Miriam saw tears start from his eyes.

"I hope I never may," she answered gently. "Have done with all that,
and talk to me like yourself, Reuben."

"Talk! I've had enough of talking. I want to rest somewhere, and be
quiet."

"Then come home with me."

"Dare you take me?"

"There's no question of daring. Come with me, if you wish to."

They walked to the house almost in silence. It was noon; Mallard was
busy in his studio. Having spoken a word with him, Miriam rejoined
her brother in the sitting-room. He had thrown himself on a couch,
and there he lay without speaking until luncheon-time, when
Mallard's entrance aroused him. The artist could not be cordial, but
he exercised a decent hospitality.

In the afternoon, brother and sister again sat for a long time
without conversing. When Reuben began to speak, it was in a voice
softened by the influences of the last few hours.

"Miriam, there's one thing you will tell me; you won't refuse to. Is
she still living alone?"

"Yes."

"Then there is still hope for me. I must go back to her, Miriam.
No--listen to me! That is my one and only hope. If I lose that, I
lose everything. Down and down, lower and lower into bestial life--
that's my fate, unless she saves me from it. Won't you help me? Go
and speak to her for me, dear sister, you can't refuse me that. Tell
her how helpless I am, and implore her to save me, only out of pity.
I don't care how mean it makes me in your eyes or hers; I have no
self-respect left, nor courage--nothing but a desire to go back to
her and ask her to forgive me."

Miriam could scarcely speak for shame and distress.

"It is impossible, Reuben. Be man enough to face what you have
brought on yourself. Have you no understanding left? With her, there
is no hope for you. She and you are no mates; you can only wreck
each other's lives. Surely, surely you know this by now! She could
only confirm your ruin, strive with you as she might; you would fall
again into hateful falsity. Forget her, begin a life without thought
of her, and you may still save yourself--yourself; no one else can
save you. Begin the struggle alone, manlike. You have no choice but
to do so."

"I tell you I can't live without her. Where is she? I will go myself--"

"You will never know from me. What right have you to ask her to sink
with you? That's what it means. There are people who think that a
wife's obligation has no bounds, that she _must_ sink, if her
husband choose to demand it. Let those believe it who will. What
motive should render such a sacrifice possible to her? You know she
cannot love you. Pity? How can she pity you in such a sense as to
degrade herself for your sake? Neither you nor she nor I hold the
creed that justifies such martyrdom. Am _I_ to teach you such
things? Shame! Have the courage of your convictions. You have
released her, and you must be content to leave her free. The desire
to fetter her again is ignoble, dastardly!"

He would neither be shamed nor convinced. With desperate
beseechings, with every argument of passion, no matter how it
debased him, he strove frantically to subdue her to his purpose. But
Miriam was immovable. At length she could not even urge him with
reasonings; his prostrate frenzy revolted her, and she drew away in
repugnance. Reuben's supplication turned on the instant into brutal
rage.

"Curse your obstinacy!" he shouted, in a voice that had strained
itself to hoarseness.

The door opened, and Mallard, who had come to see whether Elgar was
still here, heard his exclamation.

"Out of the house!" he commanded sternly. "March! And never let me
see you here again."

Reuben rushed past him, and the house-door closed violently.

Then Miriam's overstrung nerves gave way, and for the first time
Mallard saw her shed tears. She described to him the scene that had
passed.

"What ought I to do? She must be warned. It is horrible to think
that he may find her, and persuade her."

They agreed that she should go to Cecily early next morning. In the
meantime she wrote to Eleanor.

But the morning brought a letter from Reuben, of a tenor which
seemed to make it needless to mention this incident to Cecily.

"I had not long left you," he wrote, "when I recovered my reason,
and recognized your wisdom in opposing me. For a week I have been
drinking myself into a brutal oblivion--or trying to do so; I came
to you in a nerveless and half imbecile state. You were hard with
me, but it was just what I needed. You have made me understand--
for to-day, at all events--the completeness of my damnation. Thank
you for discharging that sisterly office. I observe, by-the-bye,
that Mallard's influence is strengthening your character. Formerly
you were often rigorous, but it was spasmodic. You can now persevere
in pitilessness, an essential in one who would support what we call
justice. Don't think I am writing ironically. Whenever I am free
from passion, as now--and that is seldom enough--I can see
myself precisely as you and all those on your side of the gulf see
me. The finer qualities I once had survive in my memory, bat I know
it is hopeless to try and recover them. I find it interesting to
write a book about it, but it would be of the kind that study the
processes of my degradation. I should like n_ one would publish.

"I hope I may never by chance see Cecily; I have a horrible
conviction that I should kill her. Why shouldn't I tell you all the
truth? My feeling towards her is a strange and vile compound of
passions, but I believe that hatred predominates. If she were so
unfortunate as to come again into my power, I should make it my one
object to crush her to my own level; and in the end I should kill
her. Perhaps that is the destined close of our drama. Even to you,
as I confessed, I felt murderous impulses. I haven't yet been quite
successful in analyzing this state of mind. The vulgar would say
that, having chosen the devil's part, I am receiving share of the
devil's spirit. But to give a thing a bad name doesn't help one to
understand it.

"Don't let this terrify you. I am going away again, to be out of
reach of temptation. I know, I know with certainty, that the end in
some form or other draws near. I have thought so much of Fate, that
I seem to have got an unusual perception of its course, as it
affects me. Keep this letter as a piece of curious human experience.
It may be the last you receive from me."

Something less than a month after this, Edward Spence, examining his
correspondence at the breakfast-table, found a French newspaper,
addressed to him in a hand he recognized.

"This is from Seaborne," he said to Eleanor, as he stripped off the
wrapper.

He discovered a marked paragraph. It reported a tragic occurrence in
a street near the Luxembourg. The husband of an actress at one of
the minor theatres in Paris had encountered his wife's lover, and
shot him dead. The victim was "un jeune Anglais, nomme Elgare."

The sender of this newspaper had also written; his letter contained
fuller details. He had seen the corpse, and identified it. Could he
do anything? Or would some friend of Mrs. Elgar come over?

Eleanor carried the intelligence first of all to Roehampton. In her
consultation with the Mallards, it was decided that she, rather than
Miriam, should visit Cecily. She left them with this purpose.

It was possible that Cecily had already heard. On arriving at the
house, Eleanor was at once admitted, and went up to the sitting-room
on the second floor; she entered with a tremulous anxiety, and the
first glance told her that her news had not been anticipated. Cecily
was seated with several books open before her; the smile of friendly
welcome slowly lighting her grave countenance, showed that her mind
detached itself with difficulty from an absorbing subject.

"Welcome always," she said, "and most so when least expected."

The room was less bare than when she first occupied it. Pictures and
books were numerous; the sunlight fell upon an open piano; an easel,
on which was a charcoal drawing from a cast, stood in the middle of
the floor. But the plain furniture remained, and no mere luxuries
had been introduced. It was a work-room, not a boudoir.

"You are still content in your hermitage?" said Eleanor, seating
herself and controlling her voice to its wonted tone.

"More and more. I have been reading since six o'clock this morning,
and never felt so quiet in mind."

Her utterance proved it; she spoke in a low, sweet voice, its music
once more untroubled. But in looking at Eleanor, she became aware of
veiled trouble on her countenance.

"Have you come only to see me? Or is there something--?"

Eleanor broke the news to her. And as she spoke, the beautiful face
lost its calm of contemplation, grew pain-shadowed, stricken with
pangs of sorrow. Cecily turned away and wept--wept for the past,
which in these moments had lived again and again perished.

It seemed to Spence that his wife mourned unreasonably. A week or
more had passed, and yet he chanced to find her with tears in her
eyes.

"I have still so much of the old Eve in me, replied Eleanor. "I am
heavy-hearted, not for him, but for Cecily's dead love. We all have
a secret desire to believe love imperishable."

"An amiable sentiment; but it is better to accept the truth."

"True only in some cases."

"In many," said Spence, with a smile. "First love is fool's
paradise. But console yourself out of Boccaccio. 'Bocca baciata non
perde ventura; anzi rinnuova, come fa la luna.'"

THE END

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