The Emancipated

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Ah, that place in Lincolnshire! To the listener's mind it became one
of the most imposing of English ancestral abodes. The house was of
indescribable magnitude and splendour. It had a remarkable "turret,"
whence, across many miles of plain, Lincoln Cathedral could be
discovered by the naked eye; it had an interminable drive from the
lodge to the stately portico; it had gardens of fabulous fertility;
it had stables which would have served a cavalry regiment In what
region were the kine of Sir Grant Musselwhite unknown to fame? Who
had not heard of his dairy-produce? Three stories was Mr.
Musselwhite in the habit or telling, scintillating fragments of his
blissful youth; one was of a fox-cub and a terrier; another of a
heifer that went mad; the third, and the most thrilling, of a
dismissed coachman who turned burglar, and in the dead of night
fired shots at old Sir Grant and his sons. In relating these
anecdotes, his eye grew moist and his throat swelled.

Mr. Musselwhite's place at table was next to Barbara Denyer. So long
as Miss Denyer was new, or comparatively new, to her neighbour's
reminiscences, all went well between them. Barbara condescended to
show interest in the place in Lincolnshire; she put pertinent
questions; she smiled or looked appropriately serious in listening
to the three stories. But this could not go on indefinitely, and for
more than a week now conversation between the two had been a trying
matter. For Mr. Musselwhite to sustain a dialogue on such topics as
Barbara had made her own was impossible, and he had no faculty even
for the commonest kind of impersonal talk. He devoted himself to his
dinner in amiable silence, enjoying the consciousness that nearly an
hour of occupation was before him, and that bed-time lay at no
hopeless distance.

Moreover, there was a boy--yet it is doubtful whether he should be
so described; for, though he numbered rather less than sixteen
years, experience had already made him _blase_. He sat beside his
mother, a Mrs. Strangwich. For Master Strangwich the ordinary
sources of youthful satisfaction did not exist; he talked with the
mature on terms of something more than equality, and always gave
them the impression that they had still much to learn. This
objectionable youth had long since been everywhere and seen
everything. The _naivete_ of finding pleasure in novel circumstances
moved him to a pitying surprise. Speak of the glories of the Bay of
Naples, and he would remark, with hands in pockets and head thrown
back, that he thought a good deal more of the Golden Horn. If
climate came up for discussion, he gave an impartial vote, based on
much personal observation, in favour of Southern California. His
parents belonged to the race of modern nomads, those curious beings
who are reviving an early stage of civilization as an ingenious
expedient for employing money and time which they have not
intelligence enough to spend in a settled habitat. It was already
noticed in the _pension_ that Master Strangwich paid somewhat marked
attentions to Madeline Denyer; there was no knowing what might come
about if their acquaintance should be prolonged for a few weeks.

But Madeline had at present something else to think about than the
condescending favour of Master Strangwich. As the guests entered the
dining-room, Mrs. Gluck informed Mrs. Denyer that the English artist
who was looked for had just arrived, and would in a few minutes join
the company. "Mr. Marsh is here," said Mrs. Denyer aloud to her
daughters, in a tone of no particular satisfaction. Madeline glanced
at Miss Doran, who, however, did not seem to have heard the remark.

And, whilst the guests were still busy with their soup, Mr. Clifford
Marsh presented himself. Within the doorway he stood for a moment
surveying the room; with placid eye he selected Mrs. Denyer, and
approached her just to shake hands; her three daughters received
from him the same attention. Words Mr. Marsh had none, but he smiled
as smiles the man conscious of attracting merited observation.
Indeed, it was impossible not to regard Mr. Marsh with curiosity.
His attire was very conventional in itself, but somehow did not look
like the evening uniform of common men: it sat upon him with an
artistic freedom, and seemed the garb of a man superior to his
surroundings. The artist was slight, pale, rather feminine of
feature; he had delicate hands, which he managed to display to
advantage; his auburn hair was not long behind, as might have been
expected, but rolled in a magnificent mass upon his brows. Many were
the affectations whereby his countenance rendered itself unceasingly
interesting. At times he wrinkled his forehead down the middle, and
then smiled at vacancy--a humorous sadness; or his eyes became
very wide as he regarded, yet appeared not to see, some particular
person; or his lips drew themselves in, a symbol of meaning
reticence. All this, moreover, not in such degrees as to make him
patently ridiculous; by no means. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw might
exchange frequent glances, and have a difficulty in preserving
decorum; but they were unsophisticated. Mrs. Lessingham smiled,
indeed, when there came a reasonable pretext, but not
contemptuously. Mr. Marsh's aspect, if anything, pleased her; she
liked these avoidances of the commonplace. Cecily did not fail to
inspect the new arrival. She too was well aware that hatred of
vulgarity constrains many persons who are anything but fools to
emphasize their being in odd ways, and it might still--in spite of
the impressionist water-colours--be proved that Mr. Marsh had a
right to vary from the kindly race of men. She hoped he was really a
person of some account; it delighted her to be with such. And then
she suspected that Madeline Denyer had something more than
friendship for Mr. Marsh, and her sympathies were moved.

"What sort of weather did you leave in England?" Mrs. Denyer
inquired, when the artist was seated next to her.

"I came away from London on the third day of absolute darkness,"
replied Mr. Marsh, genially.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Gluck; and at once translated this news
for the benefit of Frau Wohlgemuth, who murmured, "Ach!" and shook
her head.

"The fog is even yet in my throat," proceeded the artist, to whom
most of the guests were listening. "I can still see nothing but
lurid patches of gaslight on a background of solid mephitic fume.
There are fine effects to be caught, there's no denying it; but not
every man has the requisite physique for such studies. As I came
along here from the railway-station, it occurred to me that the
Dante story might have been repeated in my case; the Neapolitans
should have pointed at me and whispered, 'Behold the man who has
been in hell!'"

Cecily was amused; she looked at Madeline and exchanged a friendly
glance with her. At the same time she was becoming aware that Mr.
Marsh, who sat opposite, vouchsafed her the homage of his gaze
rather too frequently and persistently. It was soon manifest to her,
moreover, that Madeline had noted the same thing, and not with
entire equanimity. So Cecily began to converse with Mrs. Lessingham,
and no longer gave heed to the artist's utterances.

She was going to spend an hour with Miriam this evening, without
express invitation. Mr. Bradshaw would drive up the hill with her,
and doubtless Mr. Spence would see her safely home. Thus she saw no
more for the present of the Denyers' friend.

Those ladies had a private sitting-room, and thither, in the course
of the evening, Clifford Marsh repaired. Barbara and Zillah, with
their mother, remained in the drawing room. On opening the door to
which he had been directed, Marsh found Madeline bent over a book.
She raised her eyes carelessly, and said:

"Oh, I hoped it was Barbara."

"I will tell her at once that you wish to speak to her."

"Don't trouble."

"No trouble at all."

He turned away, and at once Madeline rose impatiently from her
chair, speaking with peremptory accent.

"Please do as I request you! Come and sit down."

Marsh obeyed, and more than obeyed. He kicked a stool close to her,
dropped upon it with one leg curled underneath him, and leaned his
head against her shoulder. Madeline remained passive, her features
still showing the resentment his manner had provoked.

"I've come all this way just to see you, Mad, when I've no right to
be here at all."

"Why no right?"

"I told you to prepare yourself for bad news."

"That's a very annoying habit of yours. I hate to be kept in
suspense in that way. Why can't you always say at once what you
mean? Father does the same thing constantly in his letters. I'm sure
we've quite enough anxiety from him; I don't see why you should
increase it."

Without otherwise moving, he put his arm about her.

"What is it, Clifford? Tell me, and be quick."

"It's soon told, Mad. My step-father informs me that he will
continue the usual allowance until my twenty-sixth birthday--
eighteenth of February next, you know--and no longer than that.
After then, I must look out for myself."

Madeline wrinkled her brows.

"What's the reason?" she asked, after a pause.

"The old trouble. He says I've had quite long enough to make my way
as an artist, if I'm going to make it at all. In his opinion, I am
simply wasting my time and his money. No cash results; that is to
say, no success. Of course, his view."

The girl kept silence. Marsh shifted his position slightly, so as to
get a view of her face.

"Somebody else's too, I'm half afraid," he murmured dubiously.

Madeline was thinking of a look she had caught on Miss Doran's face
when the portfolio disclosed its contents; of Miss Doran's silence;
of certain other person' looks and silence--or worse than silence.
The knitting of her brows became deeper; Marsh felt an uneasy
movement in her frame.

"Speak plainly," he said. "It's far better."

"It's very hot, Clifford. Sit on a chair; we can talk better."

"I understand."

He moved a little away from her, and looked round the room with a
smile of disillusion.

"You needn't insult me," said Madeline, but not with the former
petulance; "Often enough you have done that, and yet I don't think I
have given you cause."

Still crouching upon the stool, he clasped his hands over his knee,
jerked his head back--a frequent movement, to settle his hair--
and smiled with increase of bitterness.

"I meant no insult," he said, "either now or at other times, though
you are always ready to interpret me in that way. I merely hint at
the truth, which would sound disagreeable in plain terms."

"You mean, of course, that I think of nothing--have never thought
of anything--but your material prospects?"

"Why didn't you marry me a year ago, Mad?"

"Because I should have been mad indeed to have done so. You admit it
would have caused your step-father at once to stop his allowance.
And pray what would have become of us?"

"Exactly. See your faith in me, brought to the touchstone!"

"I suppose the present day would have seen you as it now does?"

"Yes, if you had embarrassed me with lack of confidence. Decidedly
not, if you had been to me the wife an artist needs. My future has
lain in your power to make or mar. You have chosen to keep me in
perpetual anxiety, and now you take a suitable opportunity to
overthrow me altogether; or rather, you try to. We will see how
things go when I am free to pursue my course untroubled."

"Do so, by all manner of means!" exclaimed Madeline, her voice
trembling. "Perhaps I shall prove to have been your friend in this
way, at all events. As your wife in London lodgings on the third
floor, I confess it is very unlikely I should have aided you. I
haven't the least belief in projects of that kind. At best, you
would have been forced into some kind of paltry work just to support
me--and where would be the good of our marriage? You know
perfectly well that lots of men have been degraded in this way. They
take a wife to be their Muse, and she becomes the millstone about
their neck; then they hate her--and I don't blame them. What's the
good of saying one moment that you know your work can never appeal
to the multitude, and the next, affecting to believe that our
marriage would make you miraculously successful?"

"Then it would have been better to part before this."

"No doubt--as it turns out."

"Why do you speak bitterly? I am stating an obvious fact."

"If I remember rightly, you had some sort of idea that the fact of
our engagement might help you. That didn't seem to me impossible. It
is a very different thing from marriage on nothing a year."

"You have no faith in me; you never had. And how _could_ you believe
in what you don't understand? I see now what I have been forced to
suspect--that your character is just as practical as that of other
women. Your talk of art is nothing more than talk. You think, in
truth, of pounds, shillings and pence."

"I think of them a good deal," said Madeline, "and I should be an
idiot if I didn't. What is art if the artist has nothing to live on?
Pray, what are _you_ going to do henceforth? Shall you scorn the
mention of pounds, shillings and pence? Come to see me when you have
had no dinner to-day, and are feeling very uncertain about breakfast
in the morning, and I will say, 'Pooh! your talk about art was after
all nothing but talk; you are a sham!'"

Marsh's leg began to ache. He rose and moved about the room.
Madeline at length turned her eyes to him; he was brooding
genuinely, and not for effect. Her glance discerned this.

"Well, and what _are_ you going to do, ill fact?" she asked.

"I'm hanged if I know, Mad; and there's the truth."

He turned and regarded her with wide eyes, seriously perceptive of a
blank horizon.

"I've asked him to let me have half the money, but he refuses even
that. His object is, of course, to compel me into the life of a
Philistine. I believe the fellow thinks it's kindness; I know my
mother does. She, of course, has as little faith in me as you have."

Madeline did not resent this. She regarded the floor for a minute,
and, without raising her eyes, said:

"Come here, Clifford."

He approached. Still without raising her eyes, she again spoke.

"Do you believe in yourself?"

The words were impressive. Marsh gave a start, uttered an impatient
sound, and half turned away.

"Do you believe in yourself, Clifford?"

"Of course I do!" came from him blusterously.

"Very well. In that case, struggle on. If you care for the kind of
help you once said I could give you. I will try to give it still.
Paint something that will sell, and go on with the other work at the
same time."

"Something that will sell!" he exclaimed, with disgust. "I can't, so
there's an end of it."

"And an end of your artist life, it seems to me. Unless you have any
other plan?"

"I wondered whether you could suggest any."

Madeline shook her head slowly. They both brooded in a cheerless
way. When the girl again spoke, it was in an undertone, as if not
quite sure that she wished to be heard.

"I had rather you were an artist than anything else, Clifford."

Marsh decided not to hear. He thrust his hands deeper into his
pockets, and trod about the floor heavily. Madeline made another
remark.

"I suppose the kind of work that is proposed for you would leave you
no time for art?"

"Pooh! of course not. Who was ever Philistine and artist at the same
time?"

"Well, it's a bad job. I wish I could help you. I wish I had money.

"If you had, _I_ shouldn't benefit by it," was the exasperated
reply.

"Will you please to do what you were going to do at first, and tell
Barbara I wish to speak to her?"

"Yes, I will."

His temper grew worse. In his weakness he really had thought it
likely that Madeline would suggest something hopeful. Men of his
stamp constantly entertain unreasonable expectations, and are angry
when the unreason is forced upon their consciousness.

"One word before you go, please," said Madeline, standing up and
speaking with emphasis. "After what you said just now, this is, of
course, our last interview of this kind. When we meet again--and I
think it would be gentlemanly in you to go and live somewhere
else--you are Mr. Marsh, and I, if you please, am Miss Denyer."

"I will bear it in mind."

"Thank you." He still lingered near the door. "Be good enough to
leave me."

He made an effort and left the room. When the door had closed,
Madeline heaved a deep sigh, and was for some minutes in a brown, if
not a black, study. Then she shivered a little, sighed again, and
again took up the volume she had been reading. It was Daudet's "Les
Femmes d'Artistes."

Not long after, all the Denyers were reunited in their sitting-room.
Mrs. Denyer had brought up an open letter.

"From your father again," she said, addressing the girls conjointly.
"I am sure he wears me out. This is worse than the last. 'The fact
of the matter is, I must warn you very seriously that I can't supply
you with as much as I have been doing. I repeat that I am serious
this time. It's a horrible bore, and a good deal worse than a bore.
If I could keep your remittances the same by doing on less myself, I
would, but there's no possibility of that. I shall be in Alexandria
in ten days, and perhaps Colossi will have some money for me, but I
can't count on it. Things have gone deuced badly, and are likely to
go even worse, as far as I can see. Do think about getting less
expensive quarters. I wish to heaven poor little Mad could get
married! Hasn't Marsh any prospects yet?'"

"That's all at an end," remarked Madeline, interrupting. "We've just
come to an understanding."

Mrs. Denyer stared.

"You've broken off?"

"Mr. Marsh's allowance is to be stopped. His prospects are worse
than ever. What's the good of keeping up our engagement?"

There was a confused colloquy between all four. Barbara shrugged her
fair shoulders; Zillah looked very gravely and pitifully at
Madeline. Madeline herself seemed the least concerned.

"I won't have this!" cried Mrs. Denyer, finally. "His step-father is
willing to give him a position in business, and he must accept it;
then the marriage can be soon."

"The marriage will decidedly _not_ be soon, mother!" replied
Madeline, haughtily. "I shall judge for myself in this, at all
events."

"You are a silly, empty-headed girl!" retorted her mother, with
swelling bosom and reddening face. "You have quarrelled on some
simpleton's question, no doubt. He will accept his step-father's
offer; we know that well enough. He ought to have done so a year
ago, and our difficulties would have been lightened. Your father
means what he says?"

"Wolf!" cried Barbara, petulantly.

"Well, I can see that the wolf has come at last, in good earnest. My
girl, you'll have to become more serious Barbara, _you_ at all
events, cannot afford to trifle."

"I am no trifler!" cried the enthusiast for Italian unity and
regeneracy.

"Let us have proof of that, then." Mrs. Denyer looked at her
meaningly.

"Mother," said Zillah, earnestly, "do let me write to Mrs.
Stonehouse, and beg her to find me a place as nursery governess. I
can manage that, I feel sure."

"I'll think about it, dear. But, Madeline, I insist on your putting
an end to this ridiculous state of things. You will _order_ him to
take the position offered."

"Mother, I can do nothing of the kind. if necessary, I'll go for a
governess as well."

Thereupon Zillah wept, protesting that such desecration was
impossible. The scene prolonged itself to midnight. On the morrow,
with the exception of Mrs. Denyer's resolve to subdue Marsh, all was
forgotten, and the Denyer family pursued their old course, putting
off decided action until there should come another cry of "Wolf!"

CHAPTER IV

MIRIAM'S BROTHER

But for the aid of his wife's more sympathetic insight, Edward
Spence would have continued to interpret Miriam's cheerless frame of
mind as a mere result of impatience at being removed from the
familiar scenes of her religious activity, and of disquietude amid
uncongenial surroundings. "A Puritan at Naples"--that was the
phrase which represented her to his imagination; his liking for the
picturesque and suggestive led him to regard her solely in that
light. No strain of modern humanitarianism complicated Miriam's
character. One had not to take into account a possible melancholy
produced by the contrast between her life of ease in the South, and
the squalor of laborious multitudes under a sky of mill-smoke and
English fog. Of the new philanthropy she spoke, if at all, with
angry scorn, holding it to be based on rationalism, radicalism,
positivism, or whatsoever name embodied the conflict between the
children of this world and the children of light. Far from Miriam
any desire to abolish the misery which was among the divinely
appointed conditions of this preliminary existence. No; she was
uncomfortable, and content that others should be so, for
discomfort's sake. It fretted her that the Sunday in Naples could
not be as universally dolorous as it was at Bartles. It revolted her
to hear happy voices in a country abandoned to heathendom.

"Whenever I see her looking at old Vesuvius," said Spence to
Eleanor, his eye twinkling, "I feel sure that she muses on the
possibility of another tremendous outbreak. She regards him in a
friendly way; he is the minister of vengeance."

Eleanor's discernment was not long in bringing her to a modification
of this estimate.

"I am convinced, Ned, that her thoughts are not so constantly at
Bartles as we imagine. In any case, I begin to understand what she
suffers from most. It is want of occupation for her mind. She is
crushed with _ennui_."

"This is irreverence. As well attribute _ennui_ to the Prophet
Jeremiah meditating woes to come."

"I allow you your joke, but I am right for all that. She has nothing
to think about that profoundly interests her; her books are all but
as sapless to her as to you or me. She is sinking into melancholia."

"But, my dear girl, the chapel!"

"She only pretends to think of it. Miriam is becoming a hypocrite I
have noted several little signs of it since Cecily came. She
poses--and in wretchedness. Please to recollect that her age is
four-and-twenty."

"I do so frequently, and marvel at human nature."

"I do so, and without marvelling at all, for I see human nature
justifying itself. I'll tell you what I am going to do, I shall
propose to her to begin and read Dante."

"The 'Inferno.' Why, yes."

"And I shall craftily introduce to her attention one or two wicked
and worldly little books, such as, 'The Improvisatore,' and the
'Golden Treasury,' and so on. Any such attempts at first would have
been premature; but I think the time has come."

Miriam knew no language but her own, and Eleanor by no means
purposed inviting her to a course of grammar and exercise. She
herself, with her husband's assistance, had learned to read Italian
in the only rational way for mature-minded persons--simply taking
the text and a close translation, and glancing from time to time at
a skeleton accidence. This, of course, will not do in the case of
fools, but Miriam Baske, all appearances notwithstanding, did not
belong to that category. On hearing her cousin's proposition, she at
first smiled coldly; but she did not reject it, and in a day or two
they had made a fair beginning of the 'Inferno.' Such a beginning,
indeed, as surprised Eleanor, who was not yet made aware that Miriam
worked at the book in private with feverish energy--drank at the
fountain like one perishing of thirst. Andersen's exquisite story
was not so readily accepted, yet this too before long showed a
book-marker. And Miriam's countenance brightened; she could not
conceal this effect. Her step was a little lighter, and her speech
became more natural.

A relapse was to be expected; it came at the bidding of sirocco. One
morning the heavens lowered, grey, rolling; it might have been
England. Vesuvius, heavily laden at first with a cloud like that on
Olympus when the gods are wrathful, by degrees passed from vision,
withdrew its form into recesses of dun mists. The angry blue of
Capri faded upon a troubled blending of sea and sky; everywhere the
horizon contracted and grew mournful; rain began to fall.

Miriam sank as the heavens darkened. The strength of which she had
lately been conscious forsook her; all her body was oppressed with
languor, her mind miserably void. No book made appeal to her, and
the sight of those which she had bought from home was intolerable.
She lay upon a couch, her limbs torpid, burdensome. Eleanor's
company was worse than useless.

"Please leave me alone," she said at length. "The sound of your
voice irritates inc."

An hour went by, and no one disturbed her mood. Her languor was on
the confines of sleep, when a knock at the door caused her to stir
impatiently and half raise herself. It was her maid who entered,
holding a note.

"A gentleman has called, ma'am. He wished me to give you this."

Miriam glanced at the address, and at once stood up, only her pale
face witnessing the lack of energy of a moment ago.

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