The Emancipated

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"My spirits are disagreeably on the ebb," said Elgar. "If it's to be
a Scotch day, let us do some mountaineering."

They struck up the gorge, intending to pursue the little river, but
were soon lost among ascents and descents, narrow stairs,
precipitous gardens, and noisy paper-mills. Probably no unassisted
stranger ever made his way out of Amalfi on to the mountain slopes.
They had scorned to take a guide, but did so at length in
self-defence, so pestered were they by all but every person they
passed; man, woman, and child beset them for soldi, either frankly
begging or offering a direction and then extending their hands. The
paper-mills were not romantic; the old women who came along bending
under huge bales of rags were anything but picturesque. And it
rained, it rained.

Wet and weary, they had no choice but to return to the inn. Elgar's
animation had given place to fretfulness; Mallard, after his
miserable night, eared little to converse, and would gladly have
been alone. A midday meal, with liberal supply of wine, helped them
somewhat, and they sat down to smoke in their bedroom. It rained
harder than ever; from the window they could see the old tower on
the crag smitten with white scud.

"Come now," said Mallard, forcing himself to take a livelier tone,
"tell me about those projects of yours. Are you serious in your idea
of writing?"

"Perfectly serious."

"And what are you going to write?"

"That I haven't quite determined. lam revolving things. I have ideas
without number."

"Too many for use, then. You need to live in some such place as this
for a few weeks, and clear your thoughts. 'Company, villainous
company,' is the first thing to be avoided."

"No doubt you are right"

But it was half-heartedly said, and with a restless glance towards
the window. Mallard, in whose heart a sick weariness conflicted with
his will and his desire, went on in a dogged way.

"I want to work here for a time." Work! The syllable was like lead
upon his tongue, and the thought a desolation in his mind. "Write to
your sister; get her to send your belongings from Casa Rolandi,
together with a ream of scribbling-paper. I shall be out of doors
most of the day, and no one will disturb you here. Use the
opportunity like a man. Fall to. I have a strong suspicion that it
is now or never with you."

"I doubt whether I could do anything here."

"Perhaps not on a day like this; but it is happily exceptional.
Remember yesterday. Were I a penman, the view from this window in
sunlight would make the ink flow nobly."

Elgar was mute for a few minutes.

"I believe I need a big town. Scenes like this dispose me to idle
enjoyment. I have thought of settling in Paris for the next six
months."

Mallard made a movement of irritation.

"Then why did you come here at all? You say you have no money to
waste."

"Oh, it isn't quite so bad with me as all that," replied Elgar, as
if he slightly resented this interference with his private affairs.

Yet he had yesterday, in the flow of his good-humour, all but
confessed that it was high time he looked out for an income. Mallard
examined him askance. The other, aware of this scrutiny, put on a
smile, and said with an air of self-conquest:

"But you are right; I have every reason to trust your advice. I'll
tell you what, Mallard. To-morrow I'll drive to Salerno, take the
train to Naples, pack my traps, and relieve Miriam's mind by an
assurance that I'm going to work in your company; then at once come
back here."

"I don't see the need of going to Naples. Write a letter. Here's
paper; here's pen and ink."

Elgar was again mute. His companion, in an access of intolerable
suffering, cried out vehemently:

"Can't you see into yourself far enough to know that you are
paltering with necessity? Are you such a feeble creature that you
must be at the mercy of every childish whim, and ruin yourself for
lack of courage to do what you know you ought to do? If instability
of nature had made such work of me as it has of you, I'd cut my
throat just to prove that I could at least once make my hand obey my
will!"

"It would be but the final proof of weakness," replied Elgar,
laughing. "Or, to be more serious, what would it prove either one
way or the other? If you cut your throat, it was your destiny to do
so; just as it was to commit the follies that led you there. What is
all this nonsense about weak men and strong men? I act as I am bound
to act; I refrain as I am bound to refrain. You know it well
enough."

This repeated expression of fatalism was genuine enough. It
manifested a habit of his thought. One of the characteristics of our
time is that it produces men who are determinists by instinct; who,
anything but profound students or subtle reasoners, catch at the
floating phrases of philosophy and recognize them as the index of
their being, adopt them thenceforth as clarifiers of their vague
self-consciousness. In certain moods Elgar could not change from one
seat to another without its being brought to his mind that he had
moved by necessity.

"What if that be true?" said Mallard, with unexpected coldness. "In
practice we live as though our will were free. Otherwise, why
discuss anything?"

"True. This very discussion is a part of the scheme of things, the
necessary antecedent of something or other in your life and mine. I
shall go to Naples to-morrow; I shall spend one day there; on the
day after I shall be with you again. My hand upon it, Mallard. I
promise!"

He did so with energy. And for the moment Mallard was the truer
fatalist.

Again they left the inn, this time going seaward. Still in rain,
they walked towards Minori, along the road which is cut in the
mountain-side, high above the beach. They talked about the massive
strongholds which stand as monuments of the time when the
coast-towns were in fear of pirates. Melancholy brooded upon land
and sea; the hills of Calabria, yesterday so blue and clear, had
vanished like a sunny hope.

The morrow revealed them again. But again for Mallard there had
passed a night of much misery. On rising, he durst not speak, so
bitter was he made by Elgar's singing and whistling. Yet he would
not have eared to prevent the journey to Naples, had it been in his
power. He was sick of Elgar's company; he wished for solitude. When
his eyes fell on the materials of his art, he turned away in
disgust.

"You'll get to work as soon as I'm gone," cried Reuben, cheerfully.

"Yes."

He said it to avoid conversation.

"Cheer up, old man! I shall not disappoint you this time. You have
my promise."

"Yes."

A two-horse carriage was at the door. Mallard looked at it from the
balcony, and was direly tempted. No fear of his yielding, however,
It was not his fate to scamper whither desire pointed him.

"I have already begun to work out an idea," said Elgar, as he
breakfasted merrily. "I woke in the night, and it came to me as I
heard the bell striking. My mind is always active when I am
travelling; ten to one I shall come back ready to begin to write. I
fear there's no decent ink purchasable in Amalfi; I mustn't forget
that. By-the-bye, is there anything I can bring you?"

"Nothing, thanks."

They went down together, shook hands, and away drove the carriage.
At the public fountain in the little piazza, where stands the image
of Sant' Andrea, a group of women were busy or idling, washing
clothes and vegetables and fish, drawing water in vessels of
beautiful shape, chattering incessantly--such a group as may have
gathered there any morning for hundreds of years. Children darted
after the vehicle with their perpetual cry of "Un sord', signor!"
and Elgar royally threw to them a handful of coppers, looking back
to laugh as they scrambled.

A morning of mornings, deliciously fresh after the rain, the air
exquisitely fragrant. On the mountain-tops ever so slight a mist
still clinging, moment by moment fading against the blue.

"Yes, I shall be able to work here," said Elgar within himself.
"December, January, February; I can be ready with something for the
spring."

CHAPTER VII

THE MARTYR

Clifford Marsh left Pompeii on the same day as his two chance
acquaintances; he returned to his quarters on the Mergellina, much
perturbed in mind, beset with many doubts, with divers temptations.
"Shall I the spigot wield?" Must the ambitions of his glowing youth
come to naught, and he descend to rank among the Philistines? For,
to give him credit for a certain amount of good sense, he never
gravely contemplated facing the world in the sole strength of his
genius. He knew one or two who had done so before his mind's eye was
a certain little garret in Chelsea, where an acquaintance of his, a
man of real and various powers, was year after year taxing his brain
and heart in a bitter struggle with penury; and these glimpses of
Bohemia were far from inspiring Clifford with zeal for
naturalization. Elated with wine and companionship, he liked to pose
as one who was sacrificing "prospects" to artistic
conscientiousness; but, even though he had "fallen back" on
landscape, he was very widely awake to the fact that his
impressionist studies would not supply him with bread, to say
nothing of butter--and Clifford must needs have both.

That step-father of his was a well-to-do manufacturer of shoddy in
Leeds, one Hibbert, a good-natured man on the whole, but of limited
horizon. He had married a widow above his own social standing, and
for a long time was content to supply her idolized son with the
means of pursuing artistic studies in London and abroad. But Mr.
Hibbert had a strong opinion that this money should by now have
begun to make some show of productiveness. Domestic grounds of
dissatisfaction ripened his resolve to be firm with young Mr. Marsh.
Mrs. Hibbert was extravagant; doubtless her son was playing the fool
in the same direction. After all, one could pay too much for the
privilege of being snubbed by one's superior wife and step-son. If
Clifford were willing to "buckle to" at sober business (it was now
too late for him to learn a profession), well and good; he should
have an opening at which many a young fellow would jump. Otherwise,
let the fastidious gentleman pay his own tailor's bills.

Clifford's difficulties were complicated by his relations with
Madeline Denyer. It was a year since he had met Madeline at Naples,
had promptly fallen in love with her face and her advanced opinions,
and had won her affection in return. Clifford was then firm in the
belief that, if he actually married, Mr. Hibbert would not have the
heart to stop his allowance; Mrs. Denyer had reasons for thinking
otherwise, and her daughter saw the case in the same light. It must
be added that he presumed the Denyers to be better off than they
really were; in fact, he was to a great extent misled. His dignity,
if the worst came about, would not have shrunk from moderate
assistance at the hands of his parents-in-law. Madeline knew well
enough that nothing of this kind was possible, and in the end made
her lover's mind clear on the point. Since then the course of these
young people's affections had been anything but smooth. However, the
fact remained that there _was_ mutual affection--which, to be
sure, made the matter worse.

Distinctly so since the estrangement which had followed Marsh's
arrival at the boarding-house. He did not take Madeline's advice to
seek another abode, and for two or three days Madeline knew not
whether to be glad or offended at his remaining. For two or three
days only; then she began to have a pronounced opinion on the
subject. It was monstrous that he should stay under this roof and
sit at this table, after what had happened. He had no delicacy; he
was behaving as no gentleman could. It was high time that her mother
spoke to him.

Mrs. Denyer solemnly invited the young man to a private interview.

"Mr. Marsh," she began, with pained dignity, whilst Clifford stood
before her twiddling his watch-chain, "I really think the time has
come for me to ask an explanation of what is going on. My daughter
distresses me by saying that all is at an end between you. If that
is really the case, why do you continue to live here, when you must
know how disagreeable it is to Madeline?"

"Mrs. Denyer," replied Clifford, in a friendly tone. "there has been
a misunderstanding between us, but I am very far from reconciling
myself to the thought that everything is at an end. My remaining
surely proves that."

"I should have thought so. But in that case I am obliged to ask you
another question. What can you mean by paying undisguised attentions
to another young lady who is living here?"

"You astonish me. What foundation is there for such a charge?"

"At least you won't affect ignorance as to the person of whom I
speak. I assure you that I am not the only one who has noticed
this."

"You misinterpret my behaviour altogether. Of course, you are
speaking of Miss Doran. If your observation had been accurate, you
would have noticed that Miss Doran gives me no opportunity of paying
her attentions, if I wished. Certainly I have had conversations with
Mrs. Lessingham, but I see no reason why I should deny myself that
pleasure."

"This is sophistry. You walked about the museum with _both_ these
ladies for a long time yesterday."

Clifford was startled, and could not conceal it.

"Of course," he exclaimed, "if my movements are watched, with a view
to my accusation--!"

And he broke off significantly.

"Your movements are not watched. But if I happen to hear of such
things, I must draw my own conclusions."

"I give you my assurance that the meeting was purely by chance, and
that our conversation was solely of indifferent matters--of art,
of Pompeii, and so on."

"Perhaps you are not aware," resumed Mrs. Denyer, with a smile that
made caustic comment on this apology, "that, when we sit at table,
your eyes are directed to Miss Doran with a frequency that no one
can help observing."

Marsh hesitated; then, throwing his head back, remarked in an
unapproachable manner:

"Mrs. Denyer, you will not forget that I am an artist."

"I don't forget that you profess to be one, Mr. Marsh."

This was retort with a vengeance. Clifford reddened slightly, and
looked angry. Mrs. Denyer had reached the point to which her remarks
were from the first directed, and it was not her intention to spare
the young man's susceptibilities. She had long ago gauged him, and
not inaccurately on the whole; it seemed to her that he was of the
men who can be "managed."

"I fail to understand you," said Marsh, with dignity.

"My dear Clifford, let me speak to you as one who has your
well-being much at heart. I have no wish to hurt your feelings, but
I have been upset by this silly affair, and it makes me speak a
little sharply. Now, I see well enough what you have been about; it
is an old device of young gentlemen who wish to revenge themselves
just a little for what they think a slight. Of course you have never
given a thought to Miss Doran, who, as you say, would never dream of
carrying on a flirtation, for she knows how things are between you
and Madeline, and she is a young lady of very proper behaviour. In
no case, as you of course understand, could she be so indelicate as
anything of this kind would imply. No; but you are vexed with
Madeline about some silly little difference, and you play with her
feelings. There has been enough of it; I must interfere. And now let
us talk a little about your position. Madeline has, of course, told
me everything. Listen to me, my dear Clifford; you must at once
accept Mr. Hibbert's kindly meant proposal--you must indeed."

Marsh had reflected anxiously during this speech. He let a moment of
silence pass; then said gravely:

"I cannot consent to do anything of the kind, Mrs. Denyer."

"Oh yes, you can and will, Clifford. Silly boy, don't you see that
in this way you secure yourself the future just suited to your
talents? As an artist you will never make your way; that is certain.
As a man with a substantial business at your back, you can indulge
your artistic tastes quite sufficiently, and will make yourself the
centre of an admiring circle. We cannot all be stars of the first
magnitude. Be content to shine in a provincial sphere, at all events
for a time. Madeline as your wife will help you substantially. You
will have good society, and better the richer you become. You are
made to be a rich man and to enjoy life. Now let us settle this
affair with your step-father."

Still Clifford reflected, and again with the result that he appeared
to have no thought of being persuaded to such concessions. The
debate went on for a long time, ultimately with no little vigour on
both sides. Its only immediate result was that Marsh left the house
for a few days, retiring to meditate at Pompeii.

In the mean time there was no apparent diminution in Madeline's
friendliness towards Cecily Doran. It was not to be supposed that
Madeline thought tenderly of the other's beauty, or with warm
admiration of her endowments; but she would not let Clifford Marsh
imagine that it mattered to her in the least if he at once
transferred his devotion to Miss Doran. Her tone in conversing with
Cecily became a little more patronizing,--though she spoke no more
of impressionism,--in proportion as she discovered the younger
girl's openness of mind and her lack of self-assertiveness.

"You play the piano, I think?" she said one day.

"For my own amusement only."

"And you draw?"

"With the same reserve."

"Ah," said Madeline, "I have long since given up these things. Don't
you think it is a pity to make a pastime of an art? I soon saw that
I was never likely really to _do_ anything in music or drawing, and
out of respect for them I ceased to--to potter. Please don't think
I apply that word to you."

"Oh, but it is very applicable," replied Cecily, with a laugh. "I
think you are quite right; I often enough have the same feeling. But
I am full of inconsistencies--as you are finding out, I know."

Mrs. Lessingham displayed good nature in her intercourse with the
Denyers. She smiled in private, and of course breathed to Cecily a
word of warning; but the family entertained her, and Madeline she
came really to like. With Mrs. Denyer she compared notes on the
Italy of other days.

"A sad, sad change!" Mrs. Denyer was wont to sigh. "All the poetry
gone! Think of Rome before 1870, and what it is now becoming. One
never looked for intellect in Italy--living intellect, of course,
I mean--but natural poetry one did expect and find. It is
heart-breaking, this progress! If it were not for my dear girls, I
shouldn't be here; they adore Italy--of course, never having known
it as it was. And I am sure you must feel, as I do, Mrs. Lessingham,
the miserable results of cheapened travel. Oh, the people one sees
at railway-stations, even meets in hotels, I am sorry to say,
sometimes! In a few years, I do believe, Genoa and Venice will
strongly remind one of Margate."

No echo of the cry of "Wolf!" ever sounded in Mrs. Denyer's
conversation when she spoke of her husband. That Odysseus of
commerce was always referred to as being concerned in enterprises of
mysterious importance and magnitude; she would hint that he had
political missions, naturally not to be spoken of in plain terms.
Mrs. Lessingham often wondered with a smile what the truth really
was; she saw no reason for making conjectures of a disagreeable
kind, but it was pretty clear to her that selfishness, idleness, and
vanity were at the root of Mrs. Denyer's character, and in a measure
explained the position of the family.

During the last few days, Barbara had exhibited a revival of
interest in the "place in Lincolnshire." Her experiments proved that
it needed but a moderate ingenuity to make Mr. Musselwhite's
favourite topic practically inexhaustible. The "place" itself having
been sufficiently described, it was natural to inquire what other
"places" were its neighbours, what were the characteristics of the
nearest town, how long it took to drive from the "place" to the
town, from the "place" to such another "place," and so on. Mr.
Musselwhite was undisguisedly grateful for every remark or question
that kept him talking at his ease. It was always his dread lest a
subject should be broached on which he could say nothing whatever--
there were so many such!--and as often as Barbara broke a silence
without realizing his fear, he glanced at her with the gentlest and
most amiable smile. Never more than glanced; yet this did not seem
to be the result of shyness; rather it indicated a lack of mental
activity, of speculation, of interest in her as a human being.

One morning he lingered at the luncheon-table when nearly all the
others had withdrawn, playing with crumbs, and doubtless shrinking
from the _ennui_ that lay before him until dinner-time. Near him,
Mrs. Denyer, Barbara, and Zillah were standing in conversation about
some photographs that had this morning come by post.

"This one isn't at all like you, my dear," said Mrs. Denyer, with
emphasis, to her eldest girl. "The other is passable, but I wouldn't
have any of these."

"Well, of course I am no judge," replied Barbara, "but I can't agree
with you. I much prefer this one."

Mr. Musselwhite was slowly rising.

"Let us take some one else's opinion," said the mother. "I wonder
what Mr. Musselwhite would say?"

The mention of his name caused him to turn his head, half absently,
with an inquiring smile. Barbara withdrew a step, but Mrs. Denyer,
in the most natural way possible, requested Mr. Musselwhite's
judgment on the portraits under discussion.

He took the two in his hands, and, after inspecting them, looked
round to make comparison with the original. Barbara met his gaze
placidly, with gracefully poised head, her hands joined behind her.
It was such a long time before the arbiter found anything to remark,
that the situation became a little embarrassing; Zillah laughed
girlishly, and her sister's eyes fell.

"Really, it's very hard to decide," said Mr. Musselwhite at length,
with grave conscientiousness. "I think they're both remarkably good.
I really think I should have some of both."

"Barbara thinks that this makes her look too childish," said Mrs.
Denyer, using her daughter's name with a pleasant familiarity.

Again Mr. Musselwhite made close comparison. It was, in fact, the
first time that he had seen the girl's features; hitherto they had
been, like everything else not embalmed in his memory, a mere vague
perception, a detail of the phantasmic world through which he
struggled against his _ennui_.

"Childish? Oh dear, no!" he remarked, almost vivaciously. "It is
charming; they are both charming. Really, I'd have some of both,
Miss Denyer."

"Then we certainly will," was Mrs. Denyer's conclusion; and with a
gracious inclination of the head, she left the room, followed by her
daughters. Mr. Musselwhite looked round for another glance at
Barbara, but of course he was just too late.

Poor Madeline, in the meantime, was being sorely tried. Whilst
Clifford Marsh was away at Pompeii, daily "scenes" took place
between her and her mother. Mrs. Denyer would have had her make
conciliatory movements, whereas Madeline, who had not exchanged a
word with Clifford since the parting in wrath, was determined not to
be the first to show signs of yielding. And she held her ground,
tearless, resentful, strong in a sense of her own importance.

When he again took his place at Mrs. Gluck's table, Clifford had the
air of a man who has resigned himself to the lack of sympathy and
appreciation--nay, who defies everything external, and in the
strength of his genius goes serenely onwards. Never had he displayed
such self-consciousness; not for an instant did he forget to
regulate the play of his features. Mrs. Denyer he had greeted
distantly; her daughters, more distantly still. He did not look more
than once or twice in Miss Doran's direction, for Mrs. Denyer's
reproof had made him conscious of an excess in artistic homage. His
neighbour being Mr. Bradshaw, he conversed with him agreeably,
smiling seldom. He seemed neither depressed nor uneasy; his
countenance wore a grave and noble melancholy, now and then
illumined with an indescribable ardour.

The Bradshaws had begun to talk of leaving Naples, but this seemed
to be the apology for enjoying themselves which is so characteristic
of English people. Even Mrs. Bradshaw found her life from day to day
very pleasant, and in consequence never saw her friends at the villa
without expressing much uneasiness about affairs at home, and
blaming her husband for making so long a stay. Both of them were now
honoured with the special attention of Mr. Marsh. Clifford was never
so much in his element as when conversing of art and kindred matters
with persons who avowed their deficiencies in that sphere of
knowledge, yet were willing to learn; relieved from the fear of
criticism, he expanded, he glowed, he dogmatized. With Mrs.
Lessingham he could not be entirely at his ease; her eye was
occasionally disturbing to a pretender who did not lack discernment.
But in walking about the museum with Mr. Bradshaw, he was the most
brilliant of ciceroni. Jacob was not wholly credulous, for he had
spoken of the young man with Mrs. Lessingham, but he found such
companionship entertaining enough from time to time, and Clifford's
knowledge of Italian was occasionally a help to him.

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