The Emancipated

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"Mr. Mallard! So we have caught you at last! It only needed this to
complete our enjoyment. Now you will go across to Raise with us."

Cecily, with Mrs. Baske and Spence. She had run eagerly forward, and
her companions were advancing at a more sober pace. Mallard rose
with his grim smile, and of course forgot that it is customary to
doff one's beaver when ladies approach; he took the offered hand,
said "How do you do?" and turned to the others.

"A fair capture!" exclaimed Spence. "Just now, at lunch, we were
speculating on such a chance. The cigar argues a broken fast, I take
it."

"Yes, I have had my maccheroni."

"We are going to take a boat over to Bale. Suppose you come with
us."

"Of course Mr. Mallard will come," said Cecily, her face radiant.
"He can make no pretence of work interrupted."

Already the group was surrounded by boatmen offering their services.
Spence led the way down to the quay, and after much tumult a boat
was selected and a bargain struck, the original demand made by the
artless sailors being of course five times as much as was ever paid
for the transit. They rowed out through the cluster of little craft,
then hoisted a sail, and glided smoothly over the blue water.

"Where is Mrs. Lessingham?" Mallard inquired of Cecily.

"At the Hotel Bristol, with some very disagreeable people who have
just landed on their way from India--a military gentleman, and a
more military lady, and a most military son, relatives of ours. We
spent last evening with them, and I implored to be let off to-day."

Mallard propped himself idly, and from under the shadow of his hat
often looked at her. He had begun to wonder at the unreserved joy
with which she greeted his joining the party. Of course she could
have no slightest suspicion of what was in his mind; one moment's
thought of him in such a light must have altered her behaviour
immediately. Altered in what way? That he in vain tried to imagine;
his knowledge of her did not go far enough. But he could not be
wrong in attributing unconsciousness to her. Moreover, with the
inconsistency of a man in his plight, he resented it. To sit thus,
almost touching him, gazing freely into his face, and yet to be in
complete ignorance of suffering which racked him, seemed
incompatible with fine qualities either of heart or mind. What
rubbish was talked about woman's insight, about her delicate
sympathies!

"Mrs. Spence is very sorry not to see you occasionally, Mr.
Mallard."

It was Miriam who spoke. Mallard was watching Cecily, and now, on
turning his head, he felt sure that Mrs. Baske had been observant of
his countenance. Her eyes fell whilst he was seeking words for a
reply.

"I shall call to see her to-morrow morning," he said, "just to say
good-bye for a time."

"You really go to-morrow?" asked Cecily, with interest, but nothing
more.

"Yes. I hope to see Mrs. Lessingham for a moment also. Can you tell
me when she is likely to be at home?"

"Certainly between two and three, if you could come then."

He waited a little, then looked unexpectedly at Miriam. Again her
eyes were fixed on him, and again they fell with something of
consciousness. Did _she_, perchance, understand him?

His speculations concerning Cecily became comparative. In point of
age, the distance between Cecily and Miriam was of some importance;
the fact that the elder had been a married woman was of still more
account. On the first day of his meeting with Mrs. Baske, he had
thought a good deal about her; since then she had slipped from his
mind, but now he felt his interest reviving. Surely she was as
remote from him as a woman well could be, yet his attitude towards
her had no character of intolerance; he half wished that he could
form a closer acquaintance with her. At present, the thought of calm
conversation with such a woman made a soothing contrast to the riot
excited in him by Cecily. Did she read his mind? For one thing, it
was not impossible that the Spences had spoken freely in her
presence of himself and his odd relations to the girl; there was no
doubting how _they_ regarded him. Possibly he was a frequent subject
of discussion between Eleanor and her cousin. Mature women could
talk with each other freely of these things.

On the other hand, whatever Mrs. Lessingham might have in her mind,
she certainly would not expose it in dialogue with her niece. Cecily
was in an unusual position for a girl of her age; she had, he
believed, no intimate friend; at all events, she had none who also
knew him. Girls, to be sure, had their own way of talking over
delicate points, just as married women had theirs, and with
intimates of the ordinary kind Cecily must have come by now to
consider her guardian as a male creature of flesh and blood. What
did it mean, that she did not?

A question difficult of debate, involving much that the mind is wont
to slur over in natural scruple. Mallard was no slave to the
imbecile convention which supposes a young girl sexless in her
understanding; he could not, in conformity with the school of
hypocritic idealism, regard Cecily as a child of woman's growth. No.
She had the fruits of a modern education; she had a lucid brain; of
late she had mingled and conversed with a variety of men and women,
most of them anything but crassly conventional. It was this very
aspect of her training that had caused him so much doubt. And he
knew by this time what his doubt principally meant; in a measure, it
came of native conscientiousness, of prejudice which testified to
his origin; but, more than that, it signified simple jealousy.
Secretly, he did not like her outlook upon the world to be so
unrestrained; he would have preferred her to view life as a simpler
matter. Partly for this reason did her letters so disturb him. No;
it would have been an insult to imagine her with the moral
sensibilities of a child of twelve.

Was she intellectual at the expense of her emotional being? Was she
guarded by nature against these disturbances? Somewhat ridiculous to
ask that, and then look up at her face effulgent with the joy of
life. She who could not speak without the note of emotion, who so
often gave way to lyrical outbursts of delight, who was so
warm-hearted in her friendship, whose every movement was in glad
harmony with the loveliness of her form,--must surely have the
corresponding capabilities of passion.

After all--and it was fetching a great compass to reach a point so
near at hand--might she not take him at his own profession? Might
she not view him as a man indeed, and one not yet past his youth,
but still as a man who suffered no trivialities to interfere with
the grave objects of his genius? She had so long had him represented
to her in that way--from the very first of their meetings, indeed.
Grant her mature sense and a reflective mind, was that any reason
why she should probe subtly the natural appearance of her friend,
and attribute to him that which he gave no sign of harbouring? Why
must she be mysteriously conscious of his inner being, rather than
take him ingenuously for what he seemed? She had instruction and
wit, but she was only a girl; her experience was as good as nil.
Mallard repeated that to himself as he looked at Mrs. Baske. To a
great extent Cecily did, in fact, inhabit an ideal world. She was
ready to accept the noble as the natural. Untroubled herself, she
could contemplate without scepticism the image of an artist finding
his bliss in solitary toil. This was the ground of the respect she
had for him; disturb this idea, and he became to her quite another
man--one less interesting, and, it might be, less lovable in
either sense of the word.

Spence maintained a conversation with Miriam, chiefly referring to
the characteristics of the scene about them; he ignored her
peculiarities, and talked as though everything must necessarily give
her pleasure. Her face proved that at all events the physical
influences of this day in the open air were beneficial. The soft
breeze had brought a touch of health to her cheek, and languid
inattention no longer marked her gaze at sea and shore; she was
often absent, but never listless. When she spoke, her voice was
subdued and grave; it always caused Mallard to glance in her
direction.

At Baiae they dismissed the boat, purposing to drive back to Naples.
In their ramble among the ruins, Mallard did his best to be at ease
and seem to share Cecily's happiness; in any case, it was better to
talk of the Romans than of personal concerns. When in after-time he
recalled this day, it seemed to him that he had himself been well
contented; it dwelt in his memory with a sunny glow. He saw Cecily's
unsurpassable grace as she walked beside him, and her look of
winning candour turned to him so often, and he fancied that it had
given him pleasure to be with her. And pleasure there was, no doubt,
but inextricably blended with complex miseries. To Cecily his mood
appeared more gracious than she had ever known it; he did not
disdain to converse on topics which presupposed some knowledge on
her part, and there was something of unusual gentleness in his tone
which she liked.

"Some day," she said, "we shall talk of Baiae in London, in a
November fog."

"I hope not."

"But such contrasts help one to get the most out of life," she
rejoined, laughing; "At all events, when some one happens to speak
to me of Mr. Mallard's pictures, I shall win credit by casually
mentioning that I was at Baiae in his company in such-and-such a
year."

"You mean, when I have painted my last!"

"No, no! It would be no pleasure to me to anticipate that time."

"But natural, in talking with a veteran."

It was against his better purpose that he let fall these words; they
contained almost a hint of his hidden self, and he had not yet
allowed anything of the kind to escape him. But the moment proved
too strong.

"A veteran who fortunately gives no sign of turning grey," replied
Cecily, glancing at his hair.

An interruption from Spence put an end to this dangerous dialogue.
Mallard, inwardly growling at himself, resisted the temptation to
further _tete-a-tete_, and in a short time the party went in search
of a conveyance for their return. None offered that would hold four
persons; the ordinary public carriages have convenient room for two
only, and a separation was necessary. Mallard succeeded in catching
Spence's eye, and made him understand with a savage look that he was
to take Cecily with him. This arrangement was effected, and the
first carriage drove off with those two, Cecily exchanging merry
words with an old Italian who had rendered no kind of service, but
came to beg his _mancia_ on the strength of being able to utter a
few sentences in English.

For the first time, Mallard was alone with Mrs. Baske. Miriam had
not concealed surprise at the new adjustment of companionship; she
looked curiously both at Cecily and at Mallard whilst it was going
on. The first remark which the artist addressed to her, when they
had been driving for a few minutes, was perhaps, she thought, an
explanation of the proceeding.

"I shall meet your brother again at Pompeii to-morrow, Mrs. Baske."

"Have you seen much of him since he came!" Miriam asked
constrainedly. She had not met Mallard since Reuben's arrival.

"Oh yes. We have dined together each evening."

Between two such unloquacious persons, dialogue was naturally slow
at first, but they had a long drive before them. Miriam presently
trusted herself to ask,--

"Has he spoken to you at all of his plans--of what he is going to
do when he returns to England?"

"In general terms only. He has literary projects."

"Do you put any faith in them, Mr. Mallard?"

This was a sudden step towards intimacy. As she spoke, Miriam looked
at him in a way that he felt to be appealing. He answered the look
frankly.

"I think he has the power to do something worth doing. Whether his
perseverance will carry him through it, is another question."

"He speaks to me of you in a way that--He seems, I mean, to put
a value on your friendship, and I think you may still influence him.
I am very glad he has met you here."

"I have very little faith in the influence of one person on another,
Mrs. Baske. For ill--yes, that is often seen; but influence of the
kind you suggest is the rarest of things."

"I'm afraid you are right."

She retreated into herself, and, when he looked at her, he saw cold
reserve once more on her countenance. Doubtless she did not choose
to let him know how deeply this question of his power concerned her.
Mallard felt something like compassion; yet not ordinary compassion
either, for at the same time he had a desire to break down this
reserve, and see still more of what she felt. Curious; that evening
when he dined at the villa, he had already become aware of this sort
of attraction in her, an appeal to his sympathies together with the
excitement of his combative spirit--if that expressed it.

"No man," he remarked, "ever did solid work except in his own
strength. One can be encouraged in effort, but the effort must
originate in one's self."

Miriam kept silence. He put a direct question.

"Have you yourself encouraged him to pursue this idea?"

"I have not _dis_couraged him."

"In your brother's case, discouragement would probably be the result
if direct encouragement were withheld."

Again she said nothing, and again Mallard felt a desire to subdue
the pride, or whatever it might be, that had checked the growth of
friendliness between them in its very beginning. He remained mute
for a long time, until they were nearing Pozzuoli, but Miriam showed
no disposition to be the first to speak. At length he said abruptly:

"Shall you go to the San Carlo during the winter?"

"The San Carlo?" she asked inquiringly.

"The opera."

Mallard was in a strange mood. Whenever he looked ahead at Cecily,
he had a miserable longing which crushed his heart down, down; in
struggling against this, he felt that Mrs. Baske's proximity was an
aid, but that it would be still more so if he could move her to any
unusual self-revelation. He had impulses to offend her, to irritate
her prejudices--anything, so she should but be moved. This
question that fell. from him was mild in comparison with some of the
subjects that pressed on his harassed brain.

"I don't go to theatres," Miriam replied distantly.

"That is losing much pleasure."

"The word has very different meanings."

She was roused. Mallard observed with a perverse satisfaction the
scorn implied in this rejoinder. He noted that her features had more
decided beauty than when placid.

"I imagine," he resumed, smiling at her, "that the life of an artist
must seem to you frivolous, if not something worse. I mean an artist
in the sense of a painter."

"I cannot think it the highest kind of life," Miriam replied, also
smiling, but ominously.

"As Miss Doran does," added Mallard, his eyes happening to catch
Cecily's face as it looked backwards, and his tongue speaking
recklessly.

"There are very few subjects on which Miss Doran and I think alike."

He durst not pursue this; in his state of mind, the danger of
committing some flagrant absurdity was too great. The subject
attracted him like an evil temptation, for he desired to have Miriam
speak of Cecily. But he mastered himself.

"The artist's life may be the highest of which a particular man is
capable. For instance, I think it is so in my own case."

Miriam seemed about to keep silence again, but ultimately she spoke.
The voice suggested that upon her too there was a constraint of some
kind.

"On what grounds do you believe that?"

His eyes sought her face rapidly. Was she ironical at his expense?
That would be new light upon her mind, for hitherto she had seemed
to him painfully literal. Irony meant intellect; mere scorn or pride
might signify anything but that. And he was hoping to find reserves
of power in her, such as would rescue her from the imputation of
commonplaceness in her beliefs. Testing her with his eye, he
answered meaningly:

"Not, I admit, on the ground of recognized success."

Miriam made a nervous movement, and her brows contracted. Without
looking at him, she said, in a voice which seemed rather to resent
his interpretation than to be earnest in deprecating it:

"You know, Mr. Mallard, that I meant nothing of the kind."

"Yet I could have understood you, if you had. Naturally you must
wonder a little at a man's passing his life as I do. You interpret
life absolutely; it is your belief that it can have only one
meaning, the same for all, involving certain duties of which there
can be no question, and admitting certain relaxations which have
endured the moral test. A man may not fritter away the years that
are granted him; and that is what I seem to you to be doing, at
best."

"Why should you suppose that I take upon myself to judge you?"

"Forgive me; I think it is one result of your mental habits that you
judge all who differ from you."

This time she clearly was resolved to make no reply. They were
passing through Pozzuoli, and she appeared to forget the discussion
in looking about her. Mallard watched her, but she showed no
consciousness of his gaze.

"Even if the world recognized me as an artist of distinction," he
resumed, "you would still regard me as doubtfully employed. Art does
not seem to you an end of sufficient gravity. Probably you had
rather there were no such thing, if it were practicable."

"There is surely a great responsibility on any one who makes it the
_end_ of life."

This was milder again, and just when he had anticipated the
opposite.

"A responsibility to himself, yes. Well, when I say that I believe
this course is the highest I can follow, I mean that I believe it
employs all my best natural powers as no other would. As for highest
in the absolute sense, that is a different matter. Possibly the life
of a hospital nurse, of a sister of mercy--something of that
kind--comes nearest to the ideal."

She glanced at him, evidently in the same kind of doubt about his
meaning as he had recently felt about hers.

"Why should you speak contemptuously of such people?"

"Contemptuously? I speak sincerely. In a world where pain is the
most obvious fact, the task of mercy must surely take precedence of
most others."

"I am surprised to hear you say this."

It was spoken in the tone most characteristic of her, that of a
proud condescension.

"Why, Mrs. Baske?"

She hesitated a little, but made answer:

"I don't mean that I think you unfeeling, but your interests seem to
be so far from such simple things."

"True."

Again a long silence. The carriage was descending the road from
Pozzuoli; it approached the sea-shore, where the gentle breakers
were beginning to be tinged with evening light. Cecily looked back
and waved her hand.

"When You say that art is an end in itself," Miriam resumed
abruptly, "you claim, I suppose, that it is a way of serving
mankind?"

Mallard was learning the significance of her tones. In this
instance, he knew that the words "serving mankind" were a
contemptuous use of a phrase she had heard, a phrase which
represented the philosophy alien to her own.

"Indeed, I claim nothing of the kind," he replied, laughing. "Art
may, or may not, serve such a purpose; but be assured that the
artist never thinks of his work in that way."

"You make no claim, then, even of usefulness?"

"Most decidedly, none. You little imagine how distasteful the word
is to me in such connection."

"Then how can you say you are employing your best natural powers?"

She had fallen to ingenuous surprise, and Mallard again laughed,
partly at the simplicity of the question, partly because it pleased
him to have brought her to such directness.

"Because," he answered, "this work gives me keener and more lasting
pleasure than any other would. And I am not a man easily pleased
with my own endeavours, Mrs. Baske. I work with little or no hope of
ever satisfying myself--that is another thing. I have heard men
speak of my kind of art as 'the noble pursuit of Truth,' and so on.
I don't care for such phrases; they may mean something, but as a
rule come of the very spirit so opposed to my own--that which
feels it necessary to justify art by bombast. The one object I have
in life is to paint a bit of the world just as I see it. I exhaust
myself in vain toil; I shall never succeed; but I am right to
persevere, I am right to go on pleasing myself."

Miriam listened in astonishment.

"With such views, Mr. Mallard, it is fortunate that you happen to
find pleasure in painting pictures."

"Which, at all events, do people no harm."

She turned upon him suddenly.

"Do you encourage my brother in believing that his duty in life is
to please himself?"

"It has been my effort," he replied gravely.

"I don't understand you," Miriam said, in indignation.

"No, you do not. I mean to say that I believe your brother is not
really pleased with the kind of life he has too long been leading;
that to please himself he must begin serious work of some kind."

"That is playing with words, and on a subject ill-chosen for it."

"Mrs. Baske, do you seriously believe that Reuben Elgar can be made
a man of steady purpose by considerations that have primary
reference to any one or anything but himself?"

She made no answer.

"I am not depreciating him. The same will apply (if you are content
to face the truth) to many a man whom you would esteem. I am sorry
that I have lost your confidence, but that is better than to keep it
by repeating idle formulas that the world's experience has
outgrown."

Miriam pondered, then said quietly:

"We have different thoughts, Mr. Mallard, and speak different
languages."

"But we know a little more of each other than we did. For my part, I
feel it a gain."

During the rest of the drive they scarcely spoke at all; the few
sentences exchanged were mere remarks upon the scenery. Both
carriages drew up at the gate of the villa, where Miriam and Mallard
alighted. Spence, rising, called to the latter.

"Will you accompany Miss Doran the rest of the way?"

"Certainly."

Mallard took his seat in the other carriage; and, as it drove off,
he looked back. Miriam was gazing after them.

Cecily was a little tired, and not much disposed to converse. Her
companion being still less so, they reached the Mergellina without
having broached any subject.

"It has been an unforgettable day," Cecily said, as they parted.

CHAPTER VI

CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS

He had taken leave of the Spences and Mrs. Baske, yet was not sure
that he should go. He had said good-bye to Mrs. Lessingham and to
Cecily herself, yet made no haste to depart. It drew on to evening,
and he sat idly in his room in Casa Rolandi, looking at his traps
half packed. Then of a sudden up he started. "Imbecile! Insensate! I
give you fifteen minutes to be on your way to the station. Miss the
next train--and sink to the level of common men!" Shirts, socks--
straps, locks; adieux, tips--horses, whips! Clatter through the
Piazzetta Mondragone; down at breakneck speed to the Toledo; across
the Piazza del Municipio; a good-bye to the public scriveners
sitting at their little tables by the San Carlo; sharp round the
corner, and along by the Porto Grande with its throng of vessels.
All the time he sings a tune to himself, caught up in the streets of
the tuneful city; an air lilting to the refrain--

"Io ti voglio bene assaje
E tu non pienz' a me!"

Just after nightfall he alighted from the train at Pompeii. Having
stowed away certain impedimenta at the station, he took his
travelling-bag in his hand, broke with small ceremony through
porters and hotel-touts, came forth upon the high-road, and stepped
forward like one to whom the locality is familiar. In a minute or
two he was overtaken by a little lad, who looked up at him and said
in an insinuating voice, "Albergo del Sole, signore?"

"Prendi, bambino," was Mallard's reply, as he handed the bag to him.
"Avanti!"

A divine evening, softly warm, dim-glimmering. The dusty road ran on
between white trunks of plane-trees; when the station and the houses
near it were left behind, no other building came in view. To the
left of the road, hidden behind its long earth-rampart, lay the dead
city; far beyond rose the dark shape of Vesuvius, crested with
beacon-glow, a small red fire, now angry, now murky, now for a time
extinguished. The long rumble of the train died away, and there
followed silence absolute, scarcely broken for a few minutes by a
peasant singing in the distance, the wailing song so often heard in
the south of Italy. Silence that was something more than the wonted
soundlessness of night; the haunting oblivion of a time long past, a
melancholy brooding voiceless upon the desolate home of forgotten
generations.

A walk of ten minutes, and there shone light from windows. The lad
ran forward and turned in at the gate of a garden; Mallard followed,
and approached some persons who were standing at an open door. He
speedily made arrangements for his night's lodging, saw his room,
and went to the quarter of the inn where dinner was already in
progress. This was a building to itself, at one side of the garden.
Through the doorway he stepped immediately into a low-roofed hall,
where a number of persons sat at table. Pillars supported the
ceiling in the middle, and the walls were in several places painted
with heads or landscapes, the work of artists who had made their
abode here; one or two cases with glass doors showed relics of
Pompeii.

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