CHAPTER I

Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.

The Emancipated

by

George Gissing

CONTENTS

PART I

I NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT

II CECILY DORAN

III THE BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA

IV MIRIAM'S BROTHER

V THE ARTIST ASTRAY

VI CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS

VII THE MARTYR

VIII PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION

IX IN THE DEAD CITY

X THE DECLARATION

XI THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY

XII ON THE HEIGHTS

XIII ECHO AND PRELUDE

XIV ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING

XV "WOLF!"

XVI LETTERS

PART II

I A CORNER OF SOCIETY

II THE PROPRIETIES DEFENDED

III GRADATION

IV THE DENYERS IN ENGLAND

V MULTUM IN PARVO

VI AT PAESTUM

VII LEARNING AND TEACHING

VIII STUMBLINGS

IX SILENCES

X ELGAR AT WORK

XI IN DUE COURSE

XII CECILY'S RETURN

XIII ONWARD TO THE VAGUE

XIV SUGGESTION AND ASSURANCE

XV PEACE IN SHOW AND PEACE IN TRUTH

XVI THE TWO FACES

XVII END AND BEGINNING

PART I.

CHAPTER I

NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT

By a window looking from Posillipo upon the Bay of Naples sat an

English lady, engaged in letter-writing. She was only in her

four-and-twentieth year, but her attire of subdued mourning indicated

widowhood already at the stage when it is permitted to make quiet

suggestion of freedom rather than distressful reference to loss; the

dress, however, was severely plain, and its grey coldness, which would

well have harmonized with an English sky in this month of November,

looked alien in the southern sunlight. There was no mistaking her

nationality; the absorption, the troubled earnestness with which she

bent over her writing, were peculiar to a cast of features such as can

be found only in our familiar island; a physiognomy not quite pure in

outline, vigorous in general effect and in detail delicate; a proud

young face, full of character and capacity, beautiful in chaste

control. Sorrowful it was not, but its paleness and thinness expressed

something more than imperfect health of body; the blue-grey eyes, when

they wandered for a moment in an effort of recollection, had a look of

weariness, even of ennui; the lips moved as if in nervous impatience

until she had found the phrase or the thought for which her pen waited.

Save for these intervals, she wrote with quick decision, in a large

clear hand, never underlining, but frequently supplying the emphasis of

heavy stroke in her penning of a word. At the end of her letters came a

signature excellent in individuality: "Miriam Baske."

The furniture of her room was modern, and of the kind demanded by

wealthy _forestieri_ in the lodgings they condescend to occupy. On the

variegated tiles of the floor were strewn rugs and carpets; the drapery

was bright, without much reference to taste in the ordering of hues; a

handsome stove served at present to support leafy plants, a row of

which also stood on the balcony before the window. Round the ceiling

ran a painted border of foliage and flowers. The chief ornament of the

walls was a large and indifferent copy of Raphael's "St. Cecilia;"

there were, too, several _gouache_ drawings of local scenery: a fiery

night-view of Vesuvius, a panorama of the Bay, and a very blue Blue

Grotto. The whole was blithe, sunny, Neapolitan; sufficiently unlike a

sitting-room in Redbeck House, Bartles, Lancashire, which Mrs. Baske

had in her mind as she wrote.

A few English books lay here and there, volumes of unattractive

binding, and presenting titles little suggestive of a holiday in

Campania; works which it would be misleading to call theological; the

feeblest modern echoes of fierce old Puritans, half shame-faced

modifications of logic which, at all events, was wont to conceal no

consequence of its savage premises. More noticeable were some

architectural plans unrolled upon a settee; the uppermost represented

the elevation of a building designed for religious purposes, painfully

recognizable by all who know the conventicles of sectarian England. On

the blank space beneath the drawing were a few comments, lightly

pencilled.

Having finished and addressed some half a dozen brief letters, Mrs.

Baske brooded for several minutes before she began to write on the next

sheet of paper. It was intended for her sister-in-law, a lady of middle

age, who shared in the occupancy of Redbeck House. At length she penned

the introductory formula, but again became absent, and sat gazing at

the branches of a pine-tree which stood in strong relief against

cloudless blue. A sigh, an impatient gesture, and she went on with her

task.

"It is very kind of you to be so active in attending to the things

which you know I have at heart. You say I shall find everything as I

could wish it on my return, but you cannot think what a stranger to

Bartles I already feel. It will soon be six months since I lived my

real life there; during my illness I might as well have been absent,

then came those weeks in the Isle of Wight, and now this exile. I feel

it as exile, bitterly. To be sure Naples is beautiful, but it does not

interest me. You need not envy me the bright sky, for it gives me no

pleasure. There is so much to pain and sadden; so much that makes me

angry. On Sunday I was miserable. The Spences are as kind as any one

could be, but--I won't write about it; no doubt you understand me.

"What do you think ought to be done about Mrs. Ackworth and her

daughter? It is shameful, after all they have received from me. Will

you tell them that I am gravely displeased to hear of their absenting

themselves from chapel. I have a very good mind to write to Mr.

Higginson and beg him to suspend the girl from his employment until she

becomes regular in her attendance at worship. Perhaps that would seem

malicious, but she and her mother ought to be punished in some way.

Speak to them very sternly.

"I do not understand how young Brooks has dared to tell you I promised

him work in the greenhouse. He is irreclaimable; the worst character

that ever came under my notice; he shall not set foot on the premises.

If he is in want, he has only himself to blame. I do not like to think

of his wife suffering, but it is the attribute of sins such as his that

they involve the innocent with the guilty; and then she has shown

herself so wretchedly weak. Try, however, to help her secretly if her

distress becomes too acute.

"It was impertinent in Mrs. Walker to make such reference to me in

public. This is the result of my absence and helplessness. I shall

write to her--two lines."

A flush had risen to her cheek, and in adding the last two words she

all but pierced through the thin note-paper. Then her hand trembled so

much that she was obliged to pause. At the same moment there sounded a

tap at the door, and, on Mrs. Baske's giving permission, a lady

entered. This was Mrs. Spence, a cousin of the young widow; she and her

husband had an apartment here in the Villa Sannazaro, and were able to

devote certain rooms to the convenience of their relative during her

stay at Naples. Her age was about thirty; she had a graceful figure, a

manner of much refinement, and a bright, gentle, intellectual face,

which just now bore an announcement of news.

"They have arrived!"

"Already?" replied the other, in a tone of civil interest.

"They decided not to break the journey after Genoa. Cecily and Mrs.

Lessingham are too tired to do anything but get settled in their rooms,

but Mr. Mallard has come to tell us."

Miriam laid down her pen, and asked in the same voice as before:

"Shall I come?"

"If you are not too busy." And Mrs. Spence added, with a smile, "I

should think you must have a certain curiosity to see each other, after

so long an acquaintance at secondhand."

"I will come in a moment."

Mrs. Spence left the room. For a minute Miriam sat reflecting, then

rose. In moving towards the door she chanced to see her image in a

mirror--two of a large size adorned the room--and it checked her step;

she regarded herself gravely, and passed a smoothing hand over the dark

hair above her temples.

By a corridor she reached her friends' sitting-room, where Mrs. Spence

sat in the company of two gentlemen. The elder of these was Edward

Spence. His bearded face, studious of cast and small-featured, spoke a

placid, self-commanding character; a lingering smile, and the pleasant

wrinkles about his brow, told of a mind familiar with many by-ways of

fancy and reflection. His companion, a man of five-and-thirty, had a

far more striking countenance. His complexion was of the kind which

used to be called adust--burnt up with inner fires; his visage was long

and somewhat harshly designed, very apt, it would seem, to the

expression of hidden ironies or stern resentments, but at present

bright with friendly pleasure. He had a heavy moustache, but no beard;

his hair tumbled in disorder. To matters of costume he evidently gave

little thought, for his clothes, though of the kind a gentleman would

wear in travelling, had seen their best days, and the waistcoat even

lacked one of its buttons; his black necktie was knotted into an

indescribable shape, and the ends hung loose.

Him Mrs. Spence at once presented to her cousin as "Mr. Mallard." He

bowed ungracefully; then, with a manner naturally frank but constrained

by obvious shyness, took the hand Miriam held to him.

"We are scarcely strangers, Mr. Mallard," she said in a self-possessed

tone, regarding him with steady eyes.

"Miss Doran has spoken of you frequently on the journey," he replied,

knitting his brows into a scowl as he smiled and returned her look.

"Your illness made her very anxious. You are much better, I hope?"

"Much, thank you."

Allowance made for the difference of quality in their voices, Mrs.

Baske and Mallard resembled each other in speech. They had the same

grave note, the same decision.

"They must be very tired after their journey," Miriam added, seating

herself.

"Miss Doran seems scarcely so at all; but Mrs. Lessingham is rather

over-wearied, I'm afraid."

"Why didn't you break the journey at Florence or Rome?" asked Mrs.

Spence.

"I proposed it, but other counsels prevailed. All through Italy Miss

Doran was distracted between desire to get to Naples and misery at not

being able to see the towns we passed. At last she buried herself in

the 'Revue des Deux Mondes,' and refused even to look out of the

window."

"I suppose we may go and see her in the morning?" said Miriam.

"My express instructions are," replied Mallard, "that you are on no

account to go. They will come here quite early. Miss Doran begged hard

to come with me now, but I wouldn't allow it."

"Is it the one instance in which your authority has prevailed?"

inquired Spence. "You seem to declare it in a tone of triumph."

"Well," replied the other, with a grim smile, leaning forward in his

chair, "I don't undertake to lay down rules for the young lady of

eighteen as I could for the child of twelve. But my age and sobriety of

character still ensure me respect."

He glanced at Mrs. Baske, and their eyes met. Miriam smiled rather

coldly, but continued to observe him after he had looked away again.

"You met them at Genoa?" she asked presently, in her tone of habitual

reserve.

"Yes. I came by sea from London, and had a couple of days to wait for

their arrival from Paris."

"And I suppose you also are staying at Mrs. Gluck's?"

"Oh no! I have a room at old quarters of mine high up in the town, Vico

Brancaccio. I shall only be in Naples a few days."

"How's that?" inquired Spence.

"I'm going to work at Amalfi and Paestum."

"Then, as usual, we shall see nothing of you," said Mrs. Spence. "Pray,

do you dine at Mrs. Gluck's this evening?"

"By no means."

"May we, then, have the pleasure of your company? There is no need to

go back to Vico Brancaccio. I am sure Mrs. Baske will excuse you the

torture of uniform."

With a sort of grumble, the invitation was accepted. A little while

after, Spence proposed to his friend a walk before sunset.

"Yes; let us go up the hill," said Mallard, rising abruptly. "I need

movement after the railway."

They left the villa, and Mallard grew less restrained in his

conversation.

"How does Mrs. Baske answer to your expectations?" Spence asked him.

"I had seen her photograph, you know."

"Where?"

"Her brother showed it me--one taken at the time of her marriage."

"What is Elgar doing at present?"

"It's more than a year since we crossed each other," Mallard replied.

"He was then going to the devil as speedily as can in reason be

expected of a man. I happened to encounter him one morning at Victoria

Station, and he seemed to have just slept off a great deal of heavy

drinking. Told me he was going down to Brighton to see about selling a

houseful of furniture there--his own property. I didn't inquire how or

why he came possessed of it. He is beyond help, I imagine. When he

comes to his last penny, he'll probably blow his brains out; just the

fellow to do that kind of thing."

"I suppose he hasn't done it already? His sister has heard nothing of

him for two years at least, and this account of yours is the latest I

have received."

"I should think he still lives, He would be sure to make a _coup de

theatre_ of his exit."

"Poor lad!" said the elder man, with feeling. "I liked him."

"Why, so did I; and I wish it had been in my scope to keep him in some

kind of order. Yes, I liked him much. And as for brains, why, I have

scarcely known a man who so impressed me with a sense of his ability.

But you could see that he was doomed from his cradle. Strongly like his

sister in face."

"I'm afraid the thought of him troubles her a good deal."

"She looks ill."

"Yes; we are uneasy about her," said Spence. Then, with a burst of

impatience: "There's no getting her mind away from that pestilent

Bartles. What do you think she is projecting now? It appears that the

Dissenters of Bartles are troubled concerning their chapel; it isn't

large enough. So Miriam proposes to pull down her own house, and build

them a chapel on the site, of course at her own expense. The ground

being her freehold, she can unfortunately do what she likes with it;

the same with her personal property. The thing has gone so far that a

Manchester firm of architects have prepared plans; they are lying about

in her room here."

Mallard regarded the speaker with humorous wonder.

"And the fact is," pursued Spence, "that such an undertaking as this

will impoverish her. She is not so wealthy as to be able to lay out

thousands of pounds and leave her position unaltered."

"I suppose she lives only for her religious convictions?"

"I don't profess to understand her. Her character is not easily

sounded. But no doubt she has the puritanical spirit in a rather rare

degree. I daily thank the fates that my wife grew up apart from that

branch of the family. Of all the accursed--But this is an old topic;

better not to beat one's self uselessly."

"A Puritan at Naples," mused Mallard. "The situation is interesting."

"Very. But then she doesn't really live in Naples. From the first day

she has shown herself bent on resisting every influence of the place.

She won't admit that the climate benefits her; she won't allow an

expression of interest in anything Italian to escape her. I doubt

whether we shall ever get her even to Pompeii. One afternoon I

persuaded her to walk up here with me, and tried to make her confess

that this view was beautiful. She grudged making any such admission. It

is her nature to _distrust_ the beautiful."

"To be sure. That is the badge of her persuasion."

"Last Sunday we didn't know whether to compassionate her or to be angry

with her. The Bradshaws are at Mrs. Gluck's. You know them by name, I

think? There again, an interesting study, in a very different way.

Twice in the day she shut herself up with them in their rooms, and they

held a dissident service. The hours she spent here were passed in the

solitude of her own room, lest she should witness our profane enjoyment

of the fine weather. Eleanor refrained from touching the piano, and at

meals kept the gravest countenance, in mere kindness. I doubt whether

that is right. It isn't as though we were dealing with a woman whose

mind is hopelessly--immatured; she is only a girl still, and I know she

has brains if she could be induced to use them."

"Mrs. Baske has a remarkable face, it seems to me," said Mallard.

"It enrages me to talk of the matter."

They were now on the road which runs along the ridge of Posillipo; at a

point where it is parted only by a low wall from the westward

declivity, they paused and looked towards the setting sun.

"What a noise from Fuorigrotta!" murmured Spence, when he had leaned

for a moment on the wall. "It always amuses me. Only in this part of

the world could so small a place make such a clamour."

They were looking away from Naples. At the foot of the vine-covered

hillside lay the noisy village, or suburb, named from its position at

the outer end of the tunnel which the Romans pierced to make a shorter

way between Naples and Puteoli; thence stretched an extensive plain,

set in a deep amphitheatre of hills, and bounded by the sea. Vineyards

and maizefields, pine-trees and poplars, diversify its surface, and

through the midst of it runs a long, straight road, dwindling till it

reaches the shore at the hamlet of Bagnoli. Follow the enclosing ridge

to the left, to where its slope cuts athwart plain and sea and sky;

there close upon the coast lies the island rock of Nisida,

meeting-place of Cicero and Brutus after Caesar's death. Turn to the

opposite quarter of the plain. First rises the cliff of Camaldoli,

where from their oak-shadowed lawn the monks look forth upon as fair a

prospect as is beheld by man. Lower hills succeed, hiding Pozzuoli and

the inner curve of its bay; behind them, too, is the nook which

shelters Lake Avernus; and at a little distance, by the further shore,

are the ruins of Cumae, first home of the Greeks upon Italian soil. A

long promontory curves round the gulf; the dark crag at the end of it

is Cape Misenum, and a little on the hither side, obscured in

remoteness, lies what once was Baiae. Beyond the promontory gleams

again a blue line of sea. The low length of Procida is its limit, and

behind that, crowning the view, stands the mountain-height of Ischia.

Over all, the hues of an autumn evening in Campania. From behind a bulk

of cloud, here and there tossed by high wind currents into fantastic

shapes, sprang rays of fire, burning to the zenith. Between the

sea-beach at Bagnoli and the summit of Ischia, tract followed upon

tract of colour that each moment underwent a subtle change, darkening

here, there fading into exquisite transparencies of distance, till by

degrees the islands lost projection and became mere films against the

declining day. The plain was ruddy with dead vine-leaves, and golden

with the decaying foliage of the poplars; Camaldoli and its neighbour

heights stood gorgeously enrobed. In itself, a picture so beautiful

that the eye wearied with delight; in its memories, a source of solemn

joy, inexhaustible for ever.

"I suppose," said Mallard, in the undertone of reflection, "the pagan

associations of Naples are a great obstacle to Mrs. Baske's enjoyment

of the scenery."

"She admits that."

"By-the-bye, what are likely to be the relations between her and Miss

Doran?"

"I have wondered. They seem to keep on terms of easy correspondence.

But doesn't Cecily herself throw any light on that point?"

Mallard made a pause before answering.

"You must remember that I know very little of her. I have never spoken

more intimately with her than you yourself have. Naturally, since she

has ceased to be a child, I have kept my distance. In fact, I shall be

heartily glad when the next three years are over, and we can shake

hands with a definite good-bye."

"What irritates you?" inquired Spence, with a smile which recognized a

phase of his friend's character.

"The fact of my position. A nice thing for a fellow like me to have

charge of a fortune! It oppresses me--the sense of responsibility; I

want to get the weight off my shoulders. What the deuce did her father

mean by burdening me in this way?"

"He foresaw nothing of the kind," said Spence, amused. "Only the

unlikely event of Trench's death left you sole trustee. If Doran

purposed anything at all--why, who knows what it may have been?"

Mallard refused to meet the other's look; his eyes were fixed on the

horizon.

"All the same, the event was possible, and he should have chosen

another man of business. It's worse than being rich on my own account.

I have dreams of a national repudiation of debt; I imagine

dock-companies failing and banks stopping payment. It disturbs my work;

I am tired of it. Why can't I transfer the affair to some trustworthy

and competent person; yourself, for instance? Why didn't Doran select

you, to begin with--the natural man to associate with Trench?"

"Who never opened a book save his ledger; who was the model of a

reputable dealer in calicoes; who--"

"I apologize," growled Mallard. "But you know in what sense I spoke."

"Pray, what has Cecily become since I saw her in London?" asked the

other, after a pause, during which he smiled his own interpretation of

Mallard's humour.

"A very superior young person, I assure you," was the reply, gravely

spoken. "Miss Doran is a young woman of her time; she ranks with the

emancipated; she is as far above the Girton girl as that interesting

creature is above the product of an establishment for young ladies.

Miss Doran has no prejudices, and, in the vulgar sense of the word, no

principles. She is familiar with the Latin classics and with the

Parisian feuilletons; she knows all about the newest religion, and can

tell you Sarcey's opinion of the newest play. Miss Doran will discuss

with you the merits of Sarah Bernhardt in 'La Dame aux Camelias,' or

the literary theories of the brothers Goncourt. I am not sure that she

knows much about Shakespeare, but her appreciation of Baudelaire is

exquisite. I don't think she is naturally very cruel, but she can plead

convincingly the cause of vivisection. Miss Doran--"

Spence interrupted him with a burst of laughter.

"All which, my dear fellow, simply means that you--"

Mallard, in his turn, interrupted gruffly.

"Precisely: that I am the wrong man to hold even the position of

steward to one so advanced. What have I to do with heiresses and

fashionable ladies? I have my work to get on with, and it shall not

suffer from the intrusion of idlers."

"I see you direct your diatribe half against Mrs. Lessingham. How has

she annoyed you?"

"Annoyed me? You never were more mistaken. It's with myself that I am

annoyed."

"On what account?"

"For being so absurd as to question sometimes whether my responsibility

doesn't extend beyond stock and share. I ask myself whether Doran--who

so befriended me, and put such trust in me, and paid me so well in

advance for the duties I was to undertake--didn't take it for granted

that I should exercise some influence in the matter of his daughter's

education? Is she growing up what he would have wished her to be? And

if--"

"Why, it's no easy thing to say what views he had on this subject. The

lax man, we know, is often enough severe with his own womankind. But as

you have given me no description of what Cecily really is, I can offer

no judgment. Wait till I have seen her. Doubtless she fulfils her

promise of being beautiful?"

"Yes; there is no denying her beauty."

"As for her _modonite_, why, Mr. Ross Mallard is a singular person to

take exception on that score."

"I don't know about that. When did I say that the modern woman was my

ideal?"

"When had you ever a good word for the system which makes of woman a

dummy and a kill-joy?"

"That has nothing to do with the question," replied Mallard, preserving

a tone of gruff impartiality. "Have I been faithful to my stewardship?

When I consented to Cecily's--to Miss Doran's passing from Mrs. Elgar's

care to that of Mrs. Lessingham, was I doing right?"

"Mallard, you are a curious instance of the Puritan conscience

surviving in a man whose intellect is liberated. The note of your

character, including your artistic character, is this

conscientiousness. Without it, you would have had worldly success long

ago. Without it, you wouldn't talk nonsense of Cecily Doran. Had you

rather she were co-operating with Mrs. Baske in a scheme to rebuild all

the chapels in Lancashire?"

"There is a medium."

"Why, yes. A neither this nor that, an insipid refinement, a taste for

culture moderated by reverence for Mrs. Grundy."

"Perhaps you are right. It's only occasionally that I am troubled in

this way. But I heartily wish the three years remaining were over."

"And the 'definite good-bye' spoken. A good phrase, that of yours. What

possessed you to come here just now, if it disturbs you to be kept in

mind of these responsibilities?"

"I should find it hard to tell you. The very sense of responsibility, I

suppose. But, as I said, I am not going to stay in Naples."

"You'll come and give us a 'definite good-bye' before you leave?"

Mallard said nothing, but turned and began to move on. They passed one

of the sentry-boxes which here along the ridge mark the limits of

Neapolitan excise; a boy-soldier, musket in hand, cast curious glances

at them. After walking in silence for a few minutes, they began to

descend the eastern face of the hill, and before them lay that portion

of the great gulf which pictures have made so familiar. The landscape

was still visible in all its main details, still softly suffused with

warm colours from the west. About the cone of Vesuvius a darkly purple

cloud was gathering; the twin height of Somma stood clear and of a rich

brown. Naples, the many-coloured, was seen in profile, climbing from

the Castel dell' Ovo, around which the sea slept, to the rock of Sant'

Elmo; along the curve of the Chiaia lights had begun to glimmer. Far

withdrawn, the craggy promontory of Sorrento darkened to profoundest

blue; and Capri veiled itself in mist.

CHAPTER II

CECILY DORAN

Villa Sannazaro had no architectural beauty; it was a building of

considerable size, irregular, in need of external repair. Through the

middle of it ran a great archway, guarded by copies of the two

Molossian hounds which stand before the Hall of Animals in the Vatican;

beneath the arch, on the right-hand side, was the main entrance to the

house. If you passed straight through, you came out upon a terrace,

where grew a magnificent stone-pine and some robust agaves. The view

hence was uninterrupted, embracing the line of the bay from Posillipo

to Cape Minerva. From the parapet bordering the platform you looked

over a descent of twenty feet, into a downward sloping vineyard.

Formerly the residence of an old Neapolitan family, the villa had gone

the way of many such ancestral abodes, and was now let out among

several tenants.

The Spences were established here for the winter. On the occasion of

his marriage, three years ago, Edward Spence relinquished his

connection with a shipping firm, which he represented in Manchester,

and went to live in London; a year and a half later he took his wife to

Italy, where they had since remained. He was not wealthy, but had means

sufficient to his demands and prospects. Thinking for himself in most

matters, he chose to abandon money-making at the juncture when most men

deem it incumbent upon them to press their efforts in that direction;

business was repugnant to him, and he saw no reason why he should

sacrifice his own existence to put a possible family in more than easy

circumstances, He had the inclinations of a student, but was untroubled

by any desire to distinguish himself, freedom from the demands of the

office meant to him the possibility of living where he chose, and

devoting to his books the best part of the day instead of its

fragmentary leisure. His choice in marriage was most happy. Eleanor

Spence had passed her maiden life in Manchester, but with parents of

healthy mind and of more literature than generally falls to the lot of

a commercial family. Pursuing a natural development, she allied herself

with her husband's freedom of intellect, and found her nature's

opportunities in the life which was to him most suitable. By a rare

chance, she was the broader-minded of the two, the more truly

impartial. Her emancipation from dogma had been so gradual, so

unconfused by external pressure, that from her present standpoint she

could look back with calmness and justice on all the stages she had

left behind. With her cousin Miriam she could sympathize in a way

impossible to Spence, who, by-the-bye, somewhat misrepresented his wife

in the account he gave to Mallard of their Sunday experiences.

Puritanism was familiar to her by more than speculation; in the

compassion with which she regarded Miriam there was no mixture of

contempt, as in her husband's case. On the other hand, she did not

pretend to read completely her cousin's heart and mind; she knew that

there was no simple key to Miriam's character, and the quiet study of

its phases from day to day deeply interested her.

Cecily Doran had been known to Spence from childhood; her father was

his intimate friend. But Eleanor had only made the girl's acquaintance

in London, just after her marriage, when Cecily was spending a season

there with her aunt, Mrs. Lessingham. Mallard's ward was then little

more than fifteen; after several years of weak health, she had entered

upon a vigorous maidenhood, and gave such promise of free, joyous,

aspiring life as could not but strongly affect the sympathies of a

woman like Eleanor. Three years prior to that, at the time of her

father's death, Cecily was living with Mrs. Elgar, a widow, and her

daughter Miriam, the latter on the point of marrying (at eighteen) one

Mr. Baske, a pietistic mill-owner, aged fifty. It then seemed very

doubtful whether Cecily would live to mature years; she had been

motherless from infancy, and the difficulty with those who brought her

up was to repress an activity of mind which seemed to be one cause of

her bodily feebleness. In those days there was a strong affection

between her and Miriam Elgar, and it showed no sign of diminution in

either when, on Mrs. Elgar's death, a year and a half after Miriam's

marriage, Cecily passed into the care of her father's sister, a lady of

moderate fortune, of parts and attainments, and with a great love of

cosmopolitan life. A few months more and Mrs. Baske was to be a widow,

childless, left in possession of some eight hundred a year, her house

at Bartles, and a local importance to which she was not indifferent.

With the exception of her brother, away in London, she had no near kin.

It would now have been a great solace to her if Cecily Doran could have

been her companion; but the young girl was in Paris, or Berlin, or St.

Petersburg, and, as Miriam was soon to learn, the material distance

between them meant little in comparison with the spiritual remoteness

which resulted from Cecily's education under Mrs. Lessingham. They

corresponded, however, and at first frequently; but letters grew

shorter on both sides, and arrived less often. The two were now to meet

for the first time since Cecily was a child of fourteen.

The ladies arrived at the villa about eleven o'clock. Miriam had shown

herself indisposed to speak of them, both last evening, when Mallard

was present, and again this morning when alone with her relatives; at

breakfast she was even more taciturn than usual, and kept her room for

an hour after the meal. Then, however, she came to sit with Eleanor,

and remained when the visitors were announced.

Mrs. Lessingham did not answer to the common idea of a strong-minded

woman. At forty-seven she preserved much natural grace of bearing, a

good complexion, pleasantly mobile features. Her dress was in excellent

taste, tending to elaboration, such as becomes a lady who makes some

figure in the world of ease. Little wrinkles at the outer corners of

her eyes assisted her look of placid thoughtfulness; when she spoke,

these were wont to disappear, and the expression of her face became an

animated intelligence, an eager curiosity, or a vivacious good-humour.

Her lips gave a hint of sarcasm, but this was reserved for special

occasions; as a rule her habit of speech was suave, much observant of

amenities. One might have imagined that she had enjoyed a calm life,

but this was far from being the case. The daughter of a country

solicitor, she married early--for love, and the issue was disastrous.

Above her right temple, just at the roots of the hair, a scar was

discoverable; it was the memento of an occasion on which her husband

aimed a blow at her with a mantelpiece ornament, and came within an ace

of murder. Intimates of the household said that the provocation was

great--that Mrs. Lessingham's gift of sarcasm had that morning

displayed itself much too brilliantly. Still, the missile was an

extreme retort, and on the whole it could not be wondered at that

husband and wife resolved to live apart in future. Mr. Lessingham was,

in fact, an aristocratic boor, and his wife never puzzled so much over

any intellectual difficulty as she did over the question how, as a

girl, she came to imagine herself enamoured of him. She was not,

perhaps, singular in her concernment with such a personal problem.

"It is six years since I was in Italy," she said, when greetings were

over, and she had seated herself. "Don't you envy me my companion, Mrs.

Spence? If anything could revive one's first enjoyment, it would be the

sight of Cecily's."

Cecily was sitting by Miriam, whose hand she had only just

relinquished. Her anxious and affectionate inquiries moved Miriam to a

smile which seemed rather of indulgence than warm kindness.

"How little we thought where our next meeting would be!" Cecily was

saying, when the eyes of the others turned upon her at her aunt's

remark.

Noble beauty can scarcely be dissociated from harmony of utterance;

voice and visage are the correspondent means whereby spirit addresses

itself to the ear and eye. One who had heard Cecily Doran speaking

where he could not see her, must have turned in that direction, have

listened eagerly for the sounds to repeat themselves, and then have

moved forward to discover the speaker. The divinest singer may leave

one unaffected by the tone of her speech. Cecily could not sing, but

her voice declared her of those who think in song, whose minds are

modulated to the poetry, not to the prose, of life.

Her enunciation had the peculiar finish which is acquired in

intercourse with the best cosmopolitan society, the best in a worthy

sense. Four years ago, when she left Lancashire, she had a touch of

provincial accent,--Miriam, though she spoke well, was not wholly free

from it,--but now it was impossible to discover by listening to her

from what part of England she came. Mrs. Lessingham, whose admirable

tact and adaptability rendered her unimpeachable in such details, had

devoted herself with artistic zeal to her niece's training for the

world; the pupil's natural aptitude ensured perfection in the result.

Cecily's manner accorded with her utterance; it had every charm

derivable from youth, yet nothing of immaturity. She was as completely

at her ease as Mrs. Lessingham, and as much more graceful in her

self-control as the advantages of nature made inevitable.

Miriam looked very cold, very severe, very English, by the side of this

brilliant girl. The thinness and pallor of her features became more

noticeable; the provincial faults of her dress were painfully obvious.

Cecily was not robust, but her form lacked no development appropriate

to her years, and its beauty was displayed by Parisian handiwork. In

this respect, too, she had changed remarkably since Miriam last saw

her, when she was such a frail child. Her hair of dark gold showed

itself beneath a hat which Eleanor Spence kept regarding with frank

admiration, so novel it was in style, and so perfectly suitable to its

wearer. Her gloves, her shoes, were no less perfect; from head to foot

nothing was to be found that did not become her, that was not faultless

in its kind.

At the same time, nothing that suggested idle expense or vanity. To

dwell at all upon the subject would be a disproportion, but for the

note of contrast that was struck. In an assembly of well-dressed

people, no one would have remarked Cecily's attire, unless to praise

its quiet distinction. In the Spences' sitting-room it became another

matter; it gave emphasis to differences of character; it distinguished

the atmosphere of Cecily's life from that breathed by her old friends.

"We are going to read together Goethe's 'Italienische Reise,'"

continued Mrs. Lessingham. "It was of quite infinite value to me when I

first was here. In each town I _tuned_ my thoughts by it, to use a

phrase which sounds like affectation, but has a very real significance."

"It was much the same with me," observed Spence.

"Yes, but you had the inestimable advantage of knowing the classics.

And Cecily, I am thankful to say, at least has something of Latin; an

ode of Horace, which I look at with fretfulness, yields her its

meaning. Last night, when I was tired and willing to be flattered, she

tried to make me believe it was not yet too late to learn."

"Surely not," said Eleanor, gracefully.

"But Goethe--you remember he says that the desire to see Italy had

become an illness with him. I know so well what that means. Cecily will

never know; the happiness has come before longing for it had ceased to

be a pleasure."

It was not so much affection as pride that her voice expressed when she

referred to her niece; the same in her look, which was less tender than

gratified and admiring. Cecily smiled in return, but was not wholly

attentive; her eyes constantly turned to Miriam, endeavouring, though

vainly, to exchange a glance.

Mrs. Lessingham was well aware of the difficulty of addressing to Mrs.

Baske any remark on natural topics which could engage her sympathy, yet

to ignore her presence was impossible.

"Do you think of seeing Rome and the northern cities when your health

is established?" she inquired, in a voice which skilfully avoided any

presumption of the reply. "Or shall you return by sea?"

"I am not a very good sailor," answered Miriam, with sufficient

suavity, "and I shall probably go back by land. But I don't think I

shall stop anywhere."

"It will be wiser, no doubt," said Mrs. Lessingham, "to leave the rest

of Italy for another visit. To see Naples first, and then go north, is

very much like taking dessert before one's substantial dinner. I'm a

little sorry that Cecily begins here; but it was better to come and

enjoy Naples with her friends this winter. I hope we shall spend most

of our time in Italy for a year or two."

Conversation took its natural course, and presently turned to the

subject--inexhaustible at Naples--of the relative advantages of this

and that situation for an abode. Mrs. Lessingham, turning to the

window, expressed her admiration of the view it afforded.

"I think it is still better from Mrs. Baske's sitting-room," said

Eleanor, who had been watching Cecily, and thought that she might be

glad of an opportunity of private talk with Miriam. And Cecily at once

availed herself of the suggestion.

"Would you let me see it, Miriam?" she asked. "If it is not

troublesome--"

Miriam rose, and they went out together. In silence they passed along

the corridor, and when they had entered her room Miriam walked at once

to the window. Then she half turned, and her eyes fell before Cecily's

earnest gaze.

"I did so wish to be with you in your illness!" said the girl, with

affectionate warmth. "Indeed, I would have come if I could have been of

any use. After all the trouble you used to have with my wretched

headaches and ailments--"

"You never have anything of the kind now," said Miriam, with her

indulgent smile.

"Never. I am in what Mr. Mallard calls aggressive health. But it shocks

me to see how pale you still are Miriam. I thought the voyage and these

ten days at Naples--And you have such a careworn look. Cannot you throw

off your troubles under this sky?"

"You know that the sky matters very little to me, Cecily."

"If I could give you only half my delight! I was awake before dawn this

morning, and it was impossible to lie still. I dressed and stood at the

open window. I couldn't see the sun itself as it rose, but I watched

the first beams strike on Capri and the sea; and I tried to make a

drawing of the island as it then looked,--a poor little daub, but it

will be precious in bringing back to my mind all I felt when I was busy

with it. Such feeling I have never known; as if every nerve in me had

received an exquisite new sense. I keep saying to myself, 'Is this

really Naples?' Let us go on to the balcony. Oh, you _must_ be glad

with me!"

Freed from the constraint of formal colloquy, and overcoming the slight

embarrassment caused by what she knew of Miriam's thoughts, Cecily

revealed her nature as it lay beneath the graces with which education

had endowed her. This enthusiasm was no new discovery to Miriam, but in

the early days it had attached itself to far other things. Cecily

seemed to have forgotten that she was ever in sympathy with the mood

which imposed silence on her friend. Her eyes drank light from the

landscape; her beauty was transfigured by passionate reception of all

the influences this scene could exercise upon heart and mind. She

leaned on the railing of the balcony, and gazed until tears of ecstasy

made her sight dim.

"Let us see much of each other whilst we are here," she said suddenly,

turning to Miriam. "I could never have dreamt of our being together in

Italy; it is a happy fate, and gives me all kinds of hope. We will be

often alone together in glorious places. We will talk it over; that is

better than writing. You shall understand me, Miriam. You shall get as

well and strong as I am, and know what I mean when I speak of the joy

of living. We shall be sisters again, like we used to be."

Miriam smiled and shook her head.

"Tell me about things at home. Is Miss Baske well?"

"Quite well. I have had two letters from her since I was here. She

wished me to give you her love."

"I will write to her. And is old Don still alive?"

"Yes, but very feeble, poor old fellow. He forgets even to be angry

with the baker's boy."

Cecily laughed with a moved playfulness.

"He has forgotten me. I don't like to be forgotten by any one who ever

cared for me."

There was a pause. They came back into the room, and Cecily, with a

look of hesitation, asked quietly,--

"Have you heard of late from Reuben?"

Miriam, with averted eyes, answered simply, "No." Again there was

silence, until Cecily, moving about the room, came to the "St. Cecilia."

"So my patron saint is always before you. I am glad of that. Where is

the original of this picture, Miriam? I forget."

"I never knew."

"Oh, I wished to speak to you of Mr. Mallard. You met him yesterday.

Had you much conversation?"

"A good deal. He dined with us."

"Did he? I thought it possible. And do you like him?"

"I couldn't say until I knew him better."

"It isn't easy to know him, I think," said Cecily, in a reflective and

perfectly natural tone, smiling thoughtfully. "But he is a very

interesting man, and I wish he would be more friendly with me. I tried

hard to win his confidence on the journey from Genoa, but I didn't seem

to have much success. I fancy"--she laughed--"that he is still in the

habit of regarding me as a little girl, who wouldn't quite understand

him if he spoke of serious things. When I wished to talk of his

painting, he would only joke. That annoyed me a little, and I tried to

let him see that it did, with the result that he refused to speak of

anything for a long time."

"What does Mr. Mallard paint?" Miriam asked, half absently.

"Landscape," was the reply, given with veiled surprise. "Did you never

see anything of his?"

"I remember; the Bradshaws have a picture by him in their dining-room.

They showed it me when I was last in Manchester. I'm afraid I looked at

it very inattentively, for it has never re-entered my mind from that

day to this. But I was ill at the time."

"His pictures are neglected," said Cecily, "but people who understand

them say they have great value. If he has anything accepted by the

Academy, it is sure to be hung out of sight. I think he is wrong to

exhibit there at all. Academies are foolish things, and always give

most encouragement to the men who are worth least. When there is talk

of such subjects, I never lose an opportunity of mentioning Mr.

Mallard's name, and telling all I can about his work. Some day I shall,

perhaps, be able to help him. I will insist on every friend of mine who

buys pictures at all possessing at least one of Mr. Mallard's; then,

perhaps, he will condescend to talk with me of serious things."

She added the last sentence merrily, meeting Miriam's look with the

frankest eyes.

"Does Mrs. Lessingham hold the same opinion?" Miriam inquired.

"Oh yes! Aunt, of course, knows far more about art than I do, and she

thinks very highly indeed of Mr. Mallard. Not long ago she met M.

Lambert at a friend's house in Paris--the French critic who has just

been writing about English landscape--and he mentioned Mr. Mallard with

great respect. That was splendid, wasn't it?"

She spoke with joyous spiritedness. However modern, Cecily, it was

clear, had caught nothing of the disease of pococurantism. Into

whatever pleased her or enlisted her sympathies, she threw all the glad

energies of her being. The scornful remark on the Royal Academy was,

one could see, not so much a mere echo of advanced opinion, as a piece

of championship in a friend's cause. The respect with which she

mentioned the name of the French critic, her exultation in his dictum,

were notes of a youthful idealism which interpreted the world nobly,

and took its stand on generous beliefs.

"Mr. Mallard will help you to see Naples, no doubt," said Miriam.

"Indeed, I wish he would. But he distinctly told us that he has no

time. He is going to Amalfi in a few days, to work. I begged him at

least to go to Pompeii with us, but he frowned--as he so often

does--and seemed unwilling to be persuaded; so I said no more. There

again, I feel sure he was afraid of being annoyed by trifling talk in

such places. But one mustn't judge an artist like other men. To be

sure, anything I could say or think would be trivial compared with what

is in _his_ mind."

"But isn't it rather discourteous?" Miriam observed impartially.

"Oh, I could never think of it in that way! An artist is privileged; he

must defend his time and his sensibilities. The common terms of society

have no application to him. Don't you feel that, Miriam?"

"I know so little of art and artists. But such a claim seems to me very

strange."

Cecily laughed.

"This is one of a thousand things we will talk about. Art is the

grandest thing in the world; it means everything that is strong and

beautiful--statues, pictures, poetry, music. How could one live without

art? The artist is born a prince among men. What has he to do with the

rules by which common people must direct their lives? Before long, you

will feel this as deeply as I do, Miriam. We are in Italy, Italy!"

"Shall we go back to the others?" Miriam suggested, in a voice which

contrasted curiously with that exultant cry.

"Yes; it is time."

Cecily's eyes fell on the plans of the chapel, which were still lying

open.

"What is this?" she asked. "Something in Naples? Oh no!"

"It's nothing," said Miriam, carelessly. "Come, Cecily."

The visitors took their leave just as the midday cannon boomed from

Sant' Elmo. They had promised to come and dine in a day or two. After

their departure, Miriam showed as little disposition to make comments

as she had to indulge in expectation before their arrival. Eleanor and

her husband put less restraint upon themselves.

"Heavens!" cried Spence, when they were alone; "what astounding

capacity of growth was in that child!"

"She is a swift and beautiful creature!" said Eleanor, in a warm

undertone characteristic of her when she expressed admiration.

"I wish I could have overheard the interview in Miriam's room."

"I never felt more curiosity about anything. Pity one is not a

psychological artist. I should have stolen to the keyhole and committed

eavesdropping with a glow of self-approval."

"I half understand our friend Mallard."

"So do I, Ned."

They looked at each other and smiled significantly.

That evening Spence again had a walk with the artist. He returned to

the villa alone, and only just in time to dress for dinner. Guests were

expected, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw of Manchester, old acquaintances of the

Spences and of Miriam. When it had become known that Mrs. Baske,

advised to pass the winter in a mild climate, was about to accept an

invitation from her cousin and go by sea to Naples, the Bradshaws, to

the astonishment of all their friends, offered to accompany her. It was

the first time that either of them had left England, and they seemed

most unlikely people to be suddenly affected with a zeal for foreign

travel. Miriam gladly welcomed their proposal, and it was put into

execution.

When Spence entered the room his friends had already arrived. Mr.

Bradshaw stood in the attitude familiar to him when on his own

hearthrug, his back turned to that part of the wall where in England

would have been a fireplace, and one hand thrust into the pocket of his

evening coat.

"I tell you what it is, Spence!" he exclaimed, "I'm very much afraid I

shall be committing an assault. Certainly I shall if I don't soon learn

some good racy Italian. I must make out a little list of sentences, and

get you or Mrs. Spence to translate them. Such as 'Do you take me for a

fool?' or 'Be off, you scoundrel!' or 'I'll break every bone in your

body!' That's the kind of thing practically needed in Naples, I find."

"Been in conflict with coachmen again?" asked Spence, laughing.

"Slightly! Never got into such a helpless rage in my life. Two fellows

kept up with me this afternoon for a couple of miles or so. Now, what

makes me so mad is the assumption of these blackguards that I don't

know my own mind. I go out for a stroll, and the first cabby I pass

wants to take me to Pozzuoli or Vesuvius--or Jericho, for aught I know.

It's no use showing him that I haven't the slightest intention of going

to any such place. What the deuce! does the fellow suppose he can

persuade me or badger me into doing what I've no mind to do? Does he

take me for an ass? It's the insult of the thing that riles me! The

same if I look in at a shop window; out rushes a gabbling swindler, and

wants to drag me in--"

"Only to _take_ you in, Mr. Bradshaw," interjected Eleanor.

"Good! To take me in, with a vengeance. Why, if I've a mind to buy,

shan't I go in of my own accord? And isn't it a sure and certain thing

that I shall never spend a halfpenny with a scoundrel who attacks me

like that?"

"How can you expect foreigners to reason, Jacob?" exclaimed Mrs.

Bradshaw.

"You should take these things as compliments," remarked Spence. "They

see an Englishman coming along, and as a matter of course they consider

him a person of wealth and leisure, who will be grateful to any one for

suggesting how he can kill time. Having nothing in the world to do but

enjoy himself, why shouldn't the English lord drive to Baiae and back,

just to get an appetite?"

"Lord, eh?" growled Mr. Bradshaw, rising on his toes, and smiling with

a certain satisfaction.

Threescore years all but two sat lightly on Jacob Bush Bradshaw. His

cheek was ruddy, his eyes had the lustre of health; in the wrinkled

forehead you saw activity of brain, and on his lips the stubborn

independence of a Lancashire employer of labour. Prosperity had set its

mark upon him, that peculiarly English prosperity which is so

intimately associated with spotless linen, with a good cut of clothes,

with scant but valuable jewellery, with the absence of any perfume save

that which suggests the morning tub. He was a manufacturer of silk. The

provincial accent notwithstanding, his conversation on general subjects

soon declared him a man of logical mind and of much homely information.

A sufficient self-esteem allied itself with his force of character, but

robust amiability prevented this from becoming offensive; he had the

sense of humour, and enjoyed a laugh at himself as well as at other

people. Though his life had been absorbed in the pursuit of solid gain,

he was no scorner of the attainments which lay beyond his own scope,

and in these latter years, now that the fierce struggle was decided in

his favour, he often gave proof of a liberal curiosity. With regard to

art and learning, he had the intelligence to be aware of his own

defects; where he did not enjoy, he at least knew that he ought to have

done so, and he had a suspicion that herein also progress could be made

by stubborn effort, as in the material world. Finding himself abroad,

he had set himself to observe and learn, with results now and then not

a little amusing. The consciousness of wealth disposed him to

intellectual generosity; standing on so firm a pedestal, he did not

mind admitting that others might have a wider outlook. Italy was an

impecunious country; personally and patriotically he had a pleasure in

recognizing the fact, and this made it easier for him to concede the

points of superiority which he had heard attributed to her. Jacob was

rigidly sincere; he had no touch of the snobbery which shows itself in

sham admiration. If he liked a thing he said so, and strongly; if he

felt no liking where his guide-book directed him to be enthusiastic, he

kept silence and cudgelled his brains.

Equally ingenuous was his wife, but with results that argued a

shallower nature. Mrs. Bradshaw had the heartiest and frankest contempt

for all things foreign; in Italy she deemed herself among a people so

inferior to the English that even to discuss the relative merits of the

two nations would have been ludicrous. Life "abroad" she could not take

as a serious thing; it amused or disgusted her, as the case might

be--never occasioned her a grave thought. The proposal of this

excursion, when first made to her, she received with mockery; when she

saw that her husband meant something more than a joke, she took time to

consider, and at length accepted the notion as a freak which possibly

would be entertaining, and might at all events be indulged after a

lifetime of sobriety. Entertainment she found in abundance. Though

natural beauty made little if any appeal to her, she interested herself

greatly in Vesuvius, regarding it as a serio-comic phenomenon which

could only exist in a country inhabited by childish triflers. Her

memory was storing all manner of Italian absurdities--everything being

an absurdity which differed from English habit and custom--to furnish

her with matter for mirthful talk when she got safely back to

Manchester and civilization. With respect to the things which Jacob was

constraining himself to study--antiquities, sculptures, paintings,

stored in the Naples museum--her attitude was one of jocose

indifference or of half-tolerant contempt. Puritanism diluted with

worldliness and a measure of common sense directed her views of art in

general. Works such as the Farnese Hercules and the group about the

Bull she looked upon much as she regarded the wall-scribbling of some

dirty-minded urchin; the robust matron is not horrified by such

indecencies, but to be sure will not stand and examine them. "Oh, come

along, Jacob!" she exclaimed to her husband, when, at their first visit

to the Museum, he went to work at the antiques with his Murray. "I've

no patience! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

The Bradshaws were staying at the _pension_ selected by Mrs.

Lessingham. Naturally the conversation at dinner turned much on that

lady and her niece. With Cecily's father Mr. Bradshaw had been well

acquainted, but Cecily herself he had not seen since her childhood, and

his astonishment at meeting her as Miss Doran was great.

"What kind of society do they live among?" he asked of Spence. "Tip-top

people, I suppose?"

"Not exactly what we understand by tip-top in England. Mrs.

Lessingham's family connections are aristocratic, but she prefers the

society of authors, artists--that kind of thing."

"Queer people for a young girl to make friends of, eh?"

"Well, there's Mallard, for instance."

"Ah, Mallard, to be sure."

Mrs. Bradshaw looked at her hostess and smiled knowingly.

"Miss Doran is rather fond of talking about Mr. Mallard," she remarked.

"Did you notice that, Miriam?"

"Yes, I did."

Jacob broke the silence.

"How does he get on with his painting?" he asked--and it sounded very

much as though the reference were to a man busy on the front door.

"He's never likely to be very popular," replied Spence, adapting his

remarks to the level of his guests' understanding. "There was something

of his in this year's Academy, and it sold at a tolerable price."

"That thing of his that I bought, you remember--I find people don't see

much in it. They complain that the colour's so dull. But then, as I

always say, what else could you expect on a bit of Yorkshire moor in

winter? Is he going to paint anything here? Now, if he'd do me a bit of

the bay, with Vesuvius smoking."

"That would be something like!" assented Mrs. Bradshaw.

When the ladies had left the dining-room, Mr. Bradshaw, over his

cigarette, reverted to the subject of Cecily.

"I suppose the lass has had a first-rate education?"

"Of the very newest fashion for girls. I am told she reads Latin."

"By Jove!" cried the other, with sudden animation. "That reminds me of

something I wanted to talk about. When I was leaving Manchester, I got

together a few books, you know, that were likely to be useful over

here. My friend Lomax, the bookseller, suggested them. 'Got a classical

dictionary?' says he. 'Not I!' As you know, my schooling never went

much beyond the three R's, and hanged if I knew what a classical

dictionary was. 'Better take one,' says Lomax. 'You'll want to look up

your gods and goddesses.' So I took it, and I've been looking into it

these last few days."

"Well?"

Jacob had a comical look of perplexity and indignation. He thumped the

table.

"Do you mean to tell me that's the kind of stuff boys are set to learn

at school?"

"A good deal of it comes in."

"Then all I can say is, no wonder the colleges turn out such a lot of

young blackguards. Why, man, I could scarcely believe my eyes! You mean

to say that, if I'd had a son, he'd have been brought up on that kind

of literature, and without me knowing anything about it? Why, I've

locked the book up; I was ashamed to let it lay on the table."

"It's the old Lempriere, I suppose," said Spence, vastly amused. "The

new dictionaries are toned down a good deal; they weren't so squeamish

in the old days."

"But the lads still read the books these things come out of, eh?"

"Oh yes. It has always been one of the most laughable inconsistencies

in English morality. Anything you could find in the dictionary is milk

for babes compared with several Greek plays that have to be read for

examinations."

"It fair caps me, Spence! Classical education that is, eh? That's what

parsons are bred on? And, by the Lord, you say they're beginning it

with girls?"

"Very zealously."

"Nay--!"

Jacob threw up his arms, and abandoned the effort to express himself.

Later, when the guests were gone, Spence remembered this, and, to

Eleanor's surprise, he broke into uproarious laughter.

"One of the best jokes I ever heard! A fresh, first-hand judgment on

the morality of the Classics by a plain-minded English man of

business." He told the story. "And Bradshaw's perfectly right; that's

the best of it."

CHAPTER III

THE BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA

The year was 1878. A tourist searching his Baedeker for a genteel but

not oppressively aristocratic _pension_ in the open parts of Naples

would have found himself directed by an asterisk to the establishment

kept by Mrs. Gluck on the Mergellina;--frequented by English and

Germans, and very comfortable. The recommendation was a just one. Mrs.

Gluck enjoyed the advantage of having lived as many years in England as

she had in Germany; her predilections leaned, if anything, to the

English side, and the arrival of a "nice" English family always put her

in excellent spirits. She then exhibited herself as an Anglicized

matron, perfectly familiar with all the requirements, great and little,

of her guests, and, when minutiae were once settled, capable of meeting

ladies and gentlemen on terms of equality in her drawing-room or at her

table, where she always presided. Indeed, there was much true

refinement in Mrs. Gluck. You had not been long in her house before she

found an opportunity of letting you know that she prided herself on

connection with the family of the great musician, and under her roof

there was generally some one who played or sang well. It was her desire

that all who sat at her dinner-table--the English people, at all

events--should be in evening dress. She herself had no little art in

adorning herself so as to appear, what she was, a lady, and yet not to

conflict with the ladies whose presence honoured her.

In the drawing-room, a few days after the arrival of Mrs. Lessingham

and her niece, several members of the house hold were assembled in

readiness for the second dinner-bell. There was Frau Wohlgemuth, a

middle-aged lady with severe brows, utilizing spare moments over a

German work on Greek sculpture. Certain plates in the book had caught

the eye of Mrs. Bradshaw, with the result that she regarded this

innocent student as a person of most doubtful character, who, if in

ignorance admitted to a respectable boardinghouse, should certainly

have been got rid of as soon as the nature of her reading had been

discovered. Frau Wohlgemuth had once or twice been astonished at the

severe look fixed upon her by the buxom English lady, but happily would

never receive an explanation of this silent animus. Then there was

Fraulein Kriel, who had unwillingly incurred even more of Mrs.

Bradshaw's displeasure, in that she, an unmarried person, had actually

looked over the volume together with its possessor, not so much as

blushing when she found herself observed by strangers. The remaining

persons were an English family, a mother and three daughters, their

name Denyer.

Mrs. Denyer was florid, vivacious, and of a certain size. She had seen

much of the world, and prided herself on cosmopolitanism; the one thing

with which she could not dispense was intellectual society. This would

be her second winter at Naples, but she gave her acquaintances to

understand that Italy was by no means the country of her choice; she

preferred the northern latitudes, because there the intellectual

atmosphere was more bracing. But for her daughters' sake she abode

here: "You know, my gills _adore_ Italy."

Of these young ladies, the two elder--Barbara and Madeline were their

seductive names--had good looks. Barbara, perhaps twenty-two years old,

was rather colourless, somewhat too slim, altogether a trifle limp; but

she had a commendable taste in dress. Madeline, a couple of years

younger, presented a more healthy physique and a less common

comeliness, but in the matter of costume she lacked her sister's

discretion. Her colours were ill-matched, her ornaments awkwardly worn;

even her hair sought more freedom than was consistent with grace. The

youngest girl, Zillah, who was about nineteen, had been less kindly

dealt with by nature; like Barbara, she was of very light complexion,

and this accentuated her plainness. She aimed at no compensation in

attire, unless it were that her sober garments exhibited perfect

neatness and complete inoffensiveness. Zillah's was a good face, in

spite of its unattractive features; she had a peculiarly earnest look,

a reflective manner, and much conscientiousness of speech.

Common to the three was a resolve to be modern, advanced, and

emancipated, or perish in the attempt. Every one who spoke with them

must understand that they were no every-day young ladies, imbued with

notions and prejudices recognized as feminine, frittering away their

lives amid the follies of the drawing-room and of the circulating

library. Culture was their pursuit, heterodoxy their pride. If indeed

it were true, as Mrs. Bradshaw somewhat acrimoniously declared, that

they were all desperately bent on capturing husbands, then assuredly

the poor girls went about their enterprise with singular lack of

prudence.

Each had her _role_. Barbara's was to pose as the adorer of Italy, the

enthusiastic glorifier of Italian unity. She spoke Italian feebly, but,

with English people, never lost an opportunity of babbling its phrases.

Speak to her of Rome, and before long she was sure to murmur

rapturously, "Roma capitale d'Italia!"--the watch-word of antipapal

victory. Of English writers she loved, or affected to love, those only

who had found inspiration south of the Alps. The proud mother repeated

a story of Barbara's going up to the wall of Casa Guidi and kissing it.

In her view, the modern Italians could do no wrong; they were divinely

regenerate. She praised their architecture.

Madeline--whom her sisters addressed affectionately as "Mad"--professed

a wider intellectual scope; less given to the melting mood than

Barbara, less naive in her enthusiasms, she took for her province

aesthetic criticism in its totality, and shone rather in censure than

in laudation. French she read passably; German she had talked so much

of studying that it was her belief she had acquired it; Greek and Latin

were beyond her scope, but from modern essayists who wrote in the

flamboyant style she had gathered enough knowledge of these literatures

to be able to discourse of them with a very fluent inaccuracy. With all

schools of painting she was, of course, quite familiar; the great

masters--vulgarly so known--interested her but moderately, and to

praise them was, in her eyes, to incur a suspicion of philistinism.

From her preceptors in this sphere, she had learnt certain names, old

and new, which stood for more exquisite virtues, and the frequent

mention of them with a happy vagueness made her conversation very

impressive to the generality of people. The same in music. It goes

without saying that Madeline was an indifferentist in politics and on

social questions; at the introduction of such topics, she smiled.

Zillah's position was one of more difficulty. With nothing of her

sisters' superficial cleverness, with a mind that worked slowly, and a

memory irretentive, she had a genuine desire to instruct herself, and

that in a solid way. She alone studied with real persistence, and, by

the irony of fate, she alone continually exposed her ignorance,

committed gross blunders, was guilty of deplorable lapses of memory.

Her unhappy lot kept her in a constant state of nervousness and shame.

She had no worldly tact, no command of her modest resources, yet her

zeal to support the credit of the family was always driving her into

hurried speech, sure to end in some disastrous pitfall. Conscious of

aesthetic defects, Zillah had chosen for her speciality the study of

the history of civilization. But for being a Denyer, she might have

been content to say that she studied history, and in that case her life

might also have been solaced by the companionship of readable books;

but, as modernism would have it, she could not be content to base her

historical inquiries on anything less than strata of geology and

biological elements, with the result that she toiled day by day at

perky little primers and compendia, and only learnt one chapter that it

might be driven out of her head by the next. Equally out of deference

to her sisters, she smothered her impulses to conventional piety, and

made believe that her spiritual life supported itself on the postulates

of science. As a result of all which, the poor girl was not very happy,

but in that again did she not give proof of belonging to her time?

There existed a Mr. Denyer, but this gentleman was very seldom indeed

in the bosom of his family. Letters--and remittances--came from him

from the most surprising quarters of the globe. His profession was that

of speculator at large, and, with small encouragement of any kind, he

toiled unceasingly to support his wife and daughters in their elegant

leisure. At one time he was eagerly engaged in a project for making

starch from potatoes in the south of Ireland. When this failed, he

utilized a knowledge of Spanish--casually picked up, like all his

acquirements--and was next heard of at Vera Cruz, where he dealt in

cochineal, indigo, sarsaparilla, and logwood. Yellow fever interfered

with his activity, and after a brief sojourn with his family in the

United States, where they had joined him with the idea of making a

definite settlement, he heard of something promising in Egypt, and

thither repaired. A spare, vivacious, pathetically sanguine man, always

speaking of the day when he would "settle down" in enjoyment of a

moderate fortune, and most obviously doomed never to settle at all,

save in the final home of mortality.

Mrs. Lessingham and her niece entered the room. On Cecily, as usual,

all eyes were more or less openly directed. Her evening dress was

simple--though with the simplicity not to be commanded by every one who

wills--and her demeanour very far from exacting general homage; but her

birthright of distinction could not be laid aside, and the suave Mrs.

Gluck was not singular in recognizing that here was such a guest as did

not every day grace her _pension_. Barbara and Madeline Denyer never

looked at her without secret pangs. In appearance, however, they were

very friendly, and Cecily had met their overtures from the first with

the simple goodwill natural to her. She went and seated herself by

Madeline, who had on her lap a little portfolio.

"These are the drawings of which I spoke," said Madeline, half opening

the portfolio.

"Mr. Marsh's? Oh, I shall be glad to see them!"

"Of course, we ought to have daylight, but we'll look at them again

to-morrow. You can form an idea of their character."

They were small water-colours, the work--as each declared in fantastic

signature--of one Clifford Marsh, spoken of by the Denyers, and by

Madeline in particular, as a personal friend. He was expected to arrive

any day in Naples. The subjects, Cecily had been informed, were natural

scenery; the style, impressionist. Impressionism was no novel term to

Cecily, and in Paris she had had her attention intelligently directed

to good work in that kind; she knew, of course, that, like every other

style, it must be judged with reference to its success in achieving the

end proposed. But the first glance at the first of Mr. Marsh's

productions perplexed her. A study on the Roman Campagna, said

Madeline. It might just as well, for all Cecily could determine, have

been a study of cloud-forms, or of a storm at sea, or of anything, or

of nothing; nor did there seem to be any cogent reason why it should be

looked at one way up rather than the other. Was this genius, or

impudence?

"You don't know the Campagna, yet," remarked Madeline, finding that the

other kept silence. "Of course, you can't appreciate the marvellous

truthfulness of this impression; but it gives you new emotions, doesn't

it?"

Mrs. Lessingham would have permitted herself to reply with a pointed

affirmative. Cecily was too considerate of others' feelings for that,

yet had not the habit of smooth falsehood.

"I am not very familiar with this kind of work," she said. "Please let

me just look and think, and tell me your own thoughts about each."

Madeline was not displeased. Already she had discovered that in most

directions Miss Doran altogether exceeded her own reach, and that it

was not safe to talk conscious nonsense to her. The tone of modesty

seemed unaffected, and, as Madeline had reasons for trying to believe

in Clifford Marsh, it gratified her to feel that here at length she

might tread firmly and hold her own. The examination of the drawings

proceeded, with the result that Cecily's original misgiving was

strongly confirmed. What would Ross Mallard say? Mallard's own work was

not of the impressionist school, and he might suffer prejudice to

direct him; but she had a conviction of how his remarks would sound

were this portfolio submitted to him. Genius--scarcely. And if not,

then assuredly the other thing, and that in flagrant degree.

Most happily, the dinner-bell came with its peremptory interruption.

"I must see them again to-morrow," said Cecily, in her pleasantest

voice.

At table, the ladies were in a majority. Mr. Bradshaw was the only man

past middle life. Next in age to him came Mr. Musselwhite, who looked

about forty, and whose aquiline nose, high forehead, light bushy

whiskers, and air of vacant satisfaction, marked him as the aristocrat

of the assembly. This gentleman suffered under a truly aristocratic

affliction--the ever-reviving difficulty of passing his day. Mild in

demeanour, easy in the discharge of petty social obligations, perfectly

inoffensive, he came and went like a vivified statue of gentlemanly

_ennui_. Every morning there arrived for him a consignment of English

newspapers; these were taken to his bedroom at nine o'clock, together

with a cup of chocolate. They presumably occupied him until he appeared

in the drawing-room, just before the hour of luncheon, when, in spite

of the freshness of his morning attire, he seemed already burdened by

the blank of time, always sitting down to the meal with an audible sigh

of gratitude. Invariably he addressed to his neighbour a remark on the

direction of the smoke from Vesuvius. If the neighbour happened to be

uninformed in things Neapolitan, Mr. Musselwhite seized the occasion to

explain at length the meteorologic significance of these varying fumes.

Luncheon over, he rose like one who is summoned to a painful duty; in

fact, the great task of the day was before him--the struggle with time

until the hour of dinner. You would meet him sauntering sadly about the

gardens of the Villa Nazionale, often looking at his watch, which he

always regulated by the cannon of Sant' Elmo: or gazing with

lack-lustre eye at a shop-window in the Toledo; or sitting with a

little glass of Marsala before him in one of the fashionable _cafes_,

sunk in despondency. But when at length he appeared at the

dinner-table, once more fresh from his toilet, then did a gleam of

animation transform his countenance; for the victory was won; yet again

was old time defeated. Then he would discourse his best. Two topics

were his: the weather, and "my brother the baronet's place in

Lincolnshire." The manner of his monologue on this second and more

fruitful subject was really touching. When so fortunate as to have a

new listener, he began by telling him or her that he was his father's

fourth son, and consequently third brother to Sir Grant

Musselwhite--"who goes in so much for model-farming, you know." At the

hereditary "place in Lincolnshire" he had spent the bloom of his life,

which he now looked back upon with tender regrets. He did not mention

the fact that, at the age of five-and-twenty, he had been beguiled from

that Arcadia by wily persons who took advantage of his innocent youth,

who initiated him into the metropolitan mysteries which sadden the soul

and deplete the pocket, who finally abandoned him upon the shoal of a

youngest brother's allowance when his father passed away from the place

in Lincolnshire, and young Sir Grant, reigning in the old baronet's

stead, deemed himself generous in making the family scapegrace any

provision at all. Yet such were the outlines of Mr. Musselwhite's

history. Had he been the commonplace spendthrift, one knows pretty well

on what lines his subsequent life would have run; but poor Mr.

Musselwhite was at heart a domestic creature. Exiled from his home, he

wandered in melancholy, year after year, round a circle of continental

resorts, never seeking relief in dissipation, never discovering a

rational pursuit, imagining to himself that he atoned for the

disreputable past in keeping far from the track of his distinguished

relatives.

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, in 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 me."

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.

"Is he waiting?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The note was of two or three lines:--"Will you let me see you? Of

course I mean alone. It's a long time since we saw each other.--R. E."

"I will see him in this room."

The footstep of the maid as she came back along the tiled corridor was

accompanied by one much heavier. Miriam kept her eyes turned to the

door; her look was of pained expectancy and of sternness. She stood

close by the window, as if purposely drawing as far away as possible.

The visitor was introduced, and the door closed behind him.

He too, stood still, as far from Miriam as might be. His age seemed to

be seven- or eight-and-twenty, and the cast of his features so strongly

resembled Miriam's that there was no doubt of his being her brother.

Yet he had more beauty as a man than she as a woman. Her traits were in

him developed so as to lose severity and attain a kind of vigour, which

at first sight promised a rich and generous nature; his excellent

forehead and dark imaginative eyes indicated a mind anything but likely

to bear the trammels in which Miriam had grown up. In the attitude with

which he waited for his sister to speak there was both pride and shame;

his look fell before hers, but the constrained smile on his lips was

one of self-esteem at issue with adversity. He wore the dress of a

gentleman, but it was disorderly. His light overcoat hung unbuttoned,

and in his hand he crushed together a hat of soft felt.

"Why have you come to see me, Reuben?" Miriam asked at length, speaking

with difficulty and in an offended tone.

"Why shouldn't I, Miriam?" he returned quietly, stepping nearer to her.

"Till a few days ago I knew nothing of the illness you have had, or I

should, at all events, have written. When I heard you had come to

Naples, I--well, I followed. I might as well be here as anywhere else,

and I felt a wish to see you."

"Why should you wish to see me? What does it matter to you whether I am

well or ill?"

"Yes, it matters, though of course you find it hard to believe."

"Very, when I remember the words with which you last parted from me. If

I was hateful to you then, how am I less so now?"

"A man in anger, and especially one of my nature, often says more than

he means. It was never _you_ that were hateful to me, though your

beliefs and your circumstances might madden me into saying such a

thing."

"My beliefs, as I told you then, are a part of myself--_are_ myself."

She said it with irritable insistence--an accent which would doubtless

have been significant in the ears of Eleanor Spence.

"I don't wish to speak of that. Have you recovered your health, Miriam?"

"I am better."

He came nearer again, throwing his hat aside.

"Will you let me sit down? I've had a long journey in third-class, and

I feel tired. Such weather as this doesn't help to make me cheerful. I

imagined Naples with a rather different sky."

Miriam motioned towards a chair, and looked drearily from the window at

the dreary sea. Neither spoke again for two or three minutes. Reuben

Elgar surveyed the room, but inattentively.

"What is it you want of me?" Miriam asked, facing him abruptly.

"Want? You hint that I have come to ask you for money?"

"I shouldn't have thought it impossible. If you were in need--you spoke

of a third-class journey--I am, at all events, the natural person for

your thoughts to turn to."

Reuben laughed dispiritedly.

"No, no, Miriam; I haven't quite got to that. You are the very last

person I should think of in such a case."

"Why?"

"Simply because I am not quite so contemptible as you think me. I don't

quarrel with my sister, and come back after some years to make it up

just because I want to make a demand on her purse."

"You haven't accustomed me to credit you with high motives, Reuben."

"No. And I have never succeeded in making you understand me. I suppose

it's hopeless that you ever will. We are too different. You regard me

as a vulgar reprobate, who by some odd freak of nature happens to be

akin to you. I can picture so well what your imagination makes of me.

All the instances of debauchery and general blackguardism that the

commerce of life has forced upon your knowledge go towards completing

the ideal. It's a pity. I have always felt that you and I might have

been a great deal to each other if you had had a reasonable education.

I remember you as a child rebelling against the idiocies of your

training, before your brain and soul had utterly yielded; then you were

my sister, and even then, if it had been possible, I would have dragged

you away and saved you."

"I thank Heaven," said Miriam, "that my childhood was in other hands

than yours!"

"Yes; and it is very bitter to me to hear you say so."

Miriam kept silence, but looked at him less disdainfully.

"I suppose," he said, "the people you are staying with have much the

same horror of my name as you have."

"You speak as loosely as you think. The Spences can scarcely respect

you."

"You purpose remaining with them all the winter?"

"It is quite uncertain. With what intentions have you come here? Do you

wish me to speak of you to the Spences or not?"

He still kept looking about the room. Perhaps upon him too the baleful

southern wind was exercising its influence, for he sat listlessly when

he was not speaking, and had a weary look.

"You may speak of me or not, as you like. I don't see that anything's

to be gained by my meeting them; but I'll do just as you please."

"You mean to stay in Naples?"

"A short time. I've never been here before, and, as I said, I may as

well be here as anywhere else."

"When did you last see Mr. Mallard?"

"Mallard? Why, what makes you speak of him?"

"You made his acquaintance, I think, not long after you last saw me."

"Ha! I understand. That was why he sought me out. You and your friends

sent him to me as a companion likely to 'do me good.'"

"I knew nothing of Mr. Mallard then--nothing personally. But he doesn't

seem to be the kind of man whose interest you would resent."

"Then you know him?" Reuben asked, in a tone of some pleasure.

"He is in Naples at present."

"I'm delighted to hear it. Mallard is an excellent fellow, in his own

way, Somehow I've lost sight of him for a long time. He's painting

here, I suppose? Where can I find him?"

"I don't know his address, but I can at once get it for you. You are

sure that he will welcome you?"

"Why not? Have you spoken to him about me?"

"No," Miriam replied distantly.

"Why shouldn't he welcome me, then? We were very good friends. Do you

attribute to him such judgments as your own?"

His way of speaking was subject to abrupt changes. When, as in this

instance, he broke forth impulsively, there was a corresponding gleam

in his fine eyes and a nervous tension in all his frame. His voice had

an extraordinary power of conveying scornful passion; at such moments

he seemed to reveal a profound and strong nature.

"I am very slightly acquainted with Mr. Mallard," Miriam answered, with

the cold austerity which was the counterpart in her of Reuben's fiery

impulsiveness, "but I understand that he is considered trustworthy and

honourable by people of like character."

Elgar rose from his chair, and in doing so all but flung it down.

"Trustworthy and honourable! Why, so is many a greengrocer. How the

artist would be flattered to hear this estimate of his personality! The

honourable Mallard! I must tell him that."

"You will not dare to repeat words from my lips!" exclaimed Miriam,

sternly. "You have sunk lower even than I thought."

"What limit, then, did you put to my debasement? In what direction had

I still a scrap of trustworthiness and honour left?"

"Tell me that yourself, instead of talking to no purpose in this

frenzied way. Why do you come here, if you only wish to renew our old

differences?"

"You were the first to do so."

"Can I pretend to be friendly with you, Reuben? What word of penitence

have you spoken? In what have you amended yourself? Is not every other

sentence you speak a defence of yourself and scorn upon me?"

"And what right have you to judge me? Of course I defend myself, and as

scornfully as you like, when I am despised and condemned by one who

knows as little of me as the first stranger I pass on the road. Cannot

you come forward with a face like a sister's, and leave my faults for

my own conscience? _You_ judge me! What do you, with your nun's

experiences, your heart chilled, your paltry view of the world through

a chapel window, know of a man whose passions boil in him like the fire

in yonder mountain? I should subdue my passions. Excellent text for a

copy book in a girls' school! I should be another man than I am; I

should remould myself; I should cool my brain with doctrine. With a

bullet, if you like; say that, and you will tell the truth. But with

the truth you have nothing to do; too long ago you were taught that you

must never face that. Do you deal as truthfully with yourself as I with

my own heart? I wonder, I wonder."

Miriam's eyes had fallen. She stood quite motionless, with a face of

suffering.

"You want me to confess my sins?" Reuben continued, walking about in

uncontrollable excitement. "What is your chapel formula? Find one

comprehensive enough, and let me repeat it after you; only mind that it

includes hypocrisy, for the sake of the confession. I tell you I am

conscious of no sins. Of follies, of ignorances, of miseries--as many

as you please. And to what account should they all go? Was I so

admirably guided in childhood and boyhood that my subsequent life is

not to be explained? It succeeded in your case, my poor sister. Oh,

nobly! Don't be afraid that I shall outrage you by saying all I think.

But just think of _me_ as a result of Jewish education applied to an

English lad, and one whose temperament was plain enough to eyes of

ordinary penetration. My very name! Your name, too! You it has made a

Jew in soul; upon me it weighs like a curse as often as I think of it.

It symbolizes all that is making my life a brutal failure--a failure--a

failure!"

He threw himself upon the couch and became silent, his strength at an

end, even his countenance exhausted of vitality, looking haggard and

almost ignoble. Miriam stirred at length, for the first time, and gazed

steadily at him.

"Reuben, let us have an end of this," she said, in a voice half choked.

"Stay or go as you will; but I shall utter no more reproaches. You must

make of your life what you can. As you say, I don't understand you.

Perhaps the mere fact of my being a woman is enough to make that

impossible. Only don't throw your scorn at me for believing what you

can't believe. Talk quietly; avoid those subjects; tell me, if you wish

to, what you are doing or think of doing."

"You should have spoken like this earlier, Miriam. It would have spared

my memory its most wretched burden."

"How?"

"You know quite well that I valued your affection, and that it had no

little importance in my life. Instead of still having my sister, I had

only the memory of her anger and injustice, and of my own cursed

temper."

"I had no influence for good."

"Perhaps not in the common sense of the words. I am not going to talk

humbug about a woman's power to make a man angelic; that will do for

third-rate novels and plays. But I shouldn't have thrown myself away as

I have done if you had cared to know what I was doing."

"Did I not care, Reuben?"

"If so, you thought it was your duty not to show it. You thought

harshness was the only proper treatment for a case such as mine. I had

had too much of that."

"What did you mean just now by speaking as though you were poor?"

"I have been poor for a long time--poor compared with what I was. Most

of my money has gone--on the fool's way. I haven't come here to lament

over it. It's one of my rules never, if I can help it, to think of the

past. What has been, has been; and what will be, will be. When I fume

and rage like an idiot, that's only the blood in me getting the better

of the brain; an example of the fault that always wrecks me. Do you

think I cannot see myself? Just now, I couldn't keep back the insensate

words--insensate because useless--but I judged myself all the time as

distinctly as I do now it's over."

"Your money gone, Reuben?" murmured his sister, in consternation.

"You might have foreseen that. Come and sit down by me, Miriam. I am

tired and wretched. Where is the sun? Surely one may have sunshine at

Naples!"

He was now idly fretful. Miriam seated herself at his side, and he took

her hand.

"I thought you might perhaps receive me like this at first. I came only

with that hope. I wish you looked better, Miriam. How do you employ

yourself here?"

"I am much out of doors. I get stronger."

"You spoke of old Mallard. I'm glad he is here, really glad. You know,

Mallard's a fellow of no slight account; I should think you might even

like him."

"But yourself, Reuben?"

"No, no; let me rest a little. I'm sick and tired of myself. Let's talk

of old Mallard. And what's become of little Cecily Doran?"

"She is here--with her aunt."

"She here too! By Jove! Well, of course, I shall have nothing to do

with them. Mallard still acting as her guardian, I suppose. Rather a

joke, that. I never could get him to speak on the subject. But I feel

glad you know him. He's a solid fellow, tremendously conscientious;

just the things you would like in a man, no doubt. Have you seen any of

his paintings?"

Miriam shook her head absently, unable to find voice for the topic,

which was remote from her thoughts.

"He's done fine things, great things. I shall look him up, and we'll

drink a bottle of wine together."

He kept stroking Miriam's hand, a white hand with blue veins--a strong

hand, though so delicately fashioned. The touch of the wedding-ring

again gave a new direction to his discursive thoughts.

"After this, shall you go back to that horrible hole in Lancashire?"

"I hope to go back home, certainly."

"Home, home!" he muttered, impatiently. "It has made you ill, poor

girl. Stay in Italy a long time, now you are once here. For you to be

here at all seems a miracle; it gives me hopes."

Miriam did not resent this, in word at all events. She was submitting

again to physical oppression; her head drooped, and her abstracted gaze

was veiled with despondent lassitude. Reuben talked idly, in loose

sentences.

"Do you think of me as old or young, Miriam?" he asked, when both had

kept silence for a while.

"I no longer think of you as older than myself."

"That is natural. I imagined that. In one way I am old enough, but in

another I am only just beginning my life, and have all my energies

fresh. I shall do something yet; can you believe it?"

"Do what?" she asked, wearily.

"Oh, I have plans; all sorts of plans."

He joined his hands together behind his head, and began to stir with a

revival of mental energy.

"But plans of what sort?"

"There is only one direction open to me. My law has of course gone

to--to limbo; it was always an absurdity. Most of my money has gone the

same way, and I'm not sorry for it. If I had never had anything, I

should have set desperately to work long ago. Now I am bound to work,

and you will see the results. Of course, in our days, there's only one

road for a man like me. I shall go in for literature."

Miriam listened, but made no comment.

"My life hitherto has not been wasted," Elgar pursued, leaning forward

with a new light on his countenance. "I have been gaining experience.

Do you understand? Few men at my age have seen more of life--the kind

of life that is useful as literary material. It's only quite of late

that I have begun to appreciate this, to see all the possibilities that

are in myself. It has taken all this time to outgrow the miserable

misdirection of my boyhood, and to become a man of my time. Thank the

fates, I no longer live in the Pentateuch, but at the latter end of the

nineteenth century. Many a lad has to work this deliverance for himself

nowadays. I don't wish to speak unkindly any more, Miriam, but I must

tell you plain facts. Some fellows free themselves by dint of hard

study. In my case that was made impossible by all sorts of

reasons--temperament mainly, as you know. I was always a rebel against

my fetters; I had not to learn that liberty was desirable, but how to

obtain it, and what use to make of it. All the disorder through which I

have gone was a struggle towards self-knowledge and understanding of my

time. You and others are wildly in error in calling it dissipation,

profligacy, recklessness, and so on. You at least, Miriam, ought to

have judged me more truly; you, at all events, should not have classed

me with common men."

His eyes were now agleam, and the beauty of his countenance fully

manifest. He held his head in a pose of superb confidence. There was

too much real force in his features to make this seem a demonstration

of idle vanity. Miriam regarded him, and continued to do so.

"To be sure, my powers are in your eyes valueless," he pursued; "or

rather, your eyes have never been opened to anything of the kind. The

nineteenth century is nothing to you; its special opportunities and

demands and characteristics would revolt you if they were made clear to

your intelligence. If I tell you I am before everything a man of my

time, I suppose this seems only a cynical confession of all the

weaknesses and crimes you have already attributed to me? It shall not

always be so! Why, what are you, after all, Miriam? Twenty-three,

twenty-four--which is it? Why, you are a child still; your time of

education is before you. You are a child come to Italy to learn what

can be made of life!"

She averted her face, but smiled, and not quite so coldly as of wont.

She could not but think of Cecily, whose words a few days ago had been

in spirit so like these, so like them in the ring of enthusiasm.

"Some day," Elgar went on, exalting himself more and more, "you shall

wonder in looking back on this scene between us--wonder how you could

have been so harsh to me. It is impossible that you and I, sole brother

and sister, should move on constantly diverging paths. Tell me--you are

not really without some kind of faith in my abilities?"

"You know it has always been my grief that you put them to no use."

"Very well. But it remains for you to learn what my powers really are,

and to bring yourself to sympathize with my direction. You are a

child--there is my hope. You shall be taught--yes, yes! Your obstinacy

shall be overcome; you shall be made to see your own good!"

"And who is to be so kind as to take charge of my education?" Miriam

asked, without looking at him, in an idly contemptuous tone.

"Why not old Mallard?" cried Reuben, breaking suddenly into jest. "The

tutorship of children is in his line."

Miriam showed herself offended.

"Please don't speak of me. I am willing to hear what you purpose for

yourself, but don't mix my name with it."

Elgar resumed the tone of ambition. Whether he had in truth definite

literary schemes could not be gathered from the rhetoric on which he

was borne. His main conviction seemed to be that he embodied the spirit

of his time, and would ere long achieve a work of notable significance,

the fruit of all his experiences. Miriam, though with no sign of strong

interest, gave him her full attention.

"Do you intend to work here?" she asked at length.

"I can't say. At present I am anything but well, and I shall get what

benefit I can from Naples first of all. I suppose the sun will shine

again before long? This sky is depressing."

He stood up, and went to the windows; then came back with uncertain

step.

"You'll tell the Spences I've been?"

"I think I had better. They will know, of course, that I have had a

visitor."

"Should I see them?" he asked, with hesitation.

"Just as you please."

"I shall have to, sooner or later. Why not now?"

Miriam pondered.

"I'll go and see if they are at leisure."

During her absence, Elgar examined the books on the table. He turned

over each one with angry mutterings. The chapel plans were no longer

lying about; only yesterday Miriam had rolled them up and put them

away--temporarily. Before the "St. Cecilia" he stood in thoughtful

observation, and was still there when Miriam returned. She had a look

of uneasiness.

"Miss Doran and her aunt are with Mrs. Spence, Reuben."

"Oh, in that case--" he began carelessly, with a wave of the arm.

"But they will be glad to see you."

"Indeed? I look rather seedy, I'm afraid."

"Take off your overcoat."

"I'm all grimy. I came here straight from the railway."

"Then go into my bedroom and make yourself presentable."

A few moments sufficed for this. As she waited for his return, Miriam

stood with knitted brows, her eyes fixed on the floor. Reuben

reappeared, and she examined him.

"You're bitterly ashamed of me, Miriam."

She made no reply, and at once led the way along the corridor.

Mrs. Spence had met Reuben in London, since her marriage; by invitation

he came to her house, but neglected to repeat the visit. To Mrs.

Lessingham he was personally a stranger. But neither of these ladies

received the honour of much attention from him for the first few

moments after he had entered the room; his eyes and thoughts were

occupied with the wholly unexpected figure of Cecily Doran. In his

recollection, she was a slight, pale, shy little girl, fond of keeping

in corners with a book, and seemingly marked out for a life of

dissenting piety and provincial surroundings. She had interested him

little in those days, and seldom did anything to bring herself under

his notice. He last saw her when she was about twelve. Now he found

himself in the presence of a beautiful woman, every line of whose

countenance told of instruction, thought, spirit; whose bearing was

refined beyond anything he had yet understood by that word; whose

modest revival of old acquaintance made his hand thrill at her touch,

and his heart beat confusedly as he looked into her eyes. With

difficulty he constrained himself to common social necessities, and

made show of conversing with the elder ladies. He wished to gaze

steadily at the girl's face, and connect past with present; to revive

his memory of six years ago, and convince himself that such development

was possible. At the same time he became aware of a reciprocal

curiosity in Cecily. When he turned towards her she met his glance, and

when he spoke she gave him a smile of pleased attentiveness. The

consequence was that he soon began to speak freely, to pick his words,

no balance his sentences and shun the commonplace.

"I saw Florence and Rome in '76," he replied to a question from Mrs.

Lessingham. "In Rome my travelling companion fell ill, and we returned

without coming further south. It is wrong, however, to say that I _saw_

anything; my mind was in far too crude a state to direct my eyes to any

purpose. I stared about me a good deal, and got some notions of

topography, and there the matter ended for the time."

"The benefit came with subsequent reflection, no doubt," said Mrs.

Lessingham, who found one of her greatest pleasures in listening to the

talk of young men with brains. Whenever it was possible, she gathered

such individuals about her and encouraged them to discourse of

themselves, generally quite as much to their satisfaction as to her

own. Already she had invited with some success the confidence of Mr.

Clifford Marsh, who proved interesting, but not unfathomable; he

belonged to a class with which she was tolerably familiar. Reuben

Elgar, she perceived at once, was not without characteristics linking

him to that same group of the new generation, but it seemed probable

that its confines were too narrow for him. There was comparatively

little affectation in his manner, and none in his aspect; his voice

rang with a sincerity which claimed serious audience, and his eyes had

something more than surface gleamings. Possibly he belonged to the

unclassed and the unclassable, in which case the interest attaching to

him was of the highest kind.

"Subsequent reflection," returned Elgar, "has, at all events, enabled

me to see myself as I then was; and I suppose self-knowledge is the

best result of travel."

"If one agrees that self-knowledge is ever a good at all," said the

speculative lady, with her impartial smile.

"To be sure." Elgar looked keenly at her, probing the significance of

the remark. "The happy human being will make each stage of his journey

a phase of more or less sensual enjoyment, delightful at the time and

valuable in memory. The excursion will be his life in little. I envy

him, but I can't imitate him."

"Why envy him?" asked Eleanor.

"Because he is happy; surely a sufficient ground."

"Yet you give the preference to self-knowledge."

"Yes, I do. Because in that direction my own nature tends to develop

itself. But I envy every lower thing in creation. I won't pretend to

say how it is with other people who are forced along an upward path; in

my own case every step is made with a groan, and why shouldn't I

confess it?"

"To do so enhances the merit of progress," observed Mrs. Lessingham,

mischievously.

"Merit? I know nothing of merit. I spoke of myself being _forced_

upwards. If ever I feel that I am slipping back, I shall state it with

just as little admission of shame."

Miriam heard this modern dialogue with grave features. At Bartles, such

talk would have qualified the talker for social excommunication, and

every other pain and penalty Bartles had in its power to inflict. She

observed that Cecily's interest increased. The girl listened frankly;

no sense of anything improper appeared in her visage. Nay, she was

about to interpose a remark.

"Isn't there a hope, Mr. Elgar, that this envy of which you speak will

be one of the things that the upward path leaves behind?"

"I should like to believe it, Miss Doran," he answered, his eyes

kindling at hers. "It's true that I haven't yet gone very far."

"I like so much to believe it that I _do_ believe it," the girl

continued impulsively.

"Your progress in that direction exceeds mine."

"Don't be troubled by the compliment," interjected Eleanor, before

Cecily could speak. "There is no question of merit."

Mrs. Lessingham laughed.

The rain still fell, and the grey heavens showed no breaking. Shortly

after this, Elgar would have risen to take his leave, but Mrs. Spence

begged him to remain and lunch with them. The visitors from the

Mergellina declined a similar invitation.

Edward Spence was passing his morning at the Museum. On his return at

luncheon-time, Eleanor met him with the intelligence that Reuben Elgar

had presented himself, and was now in his sister's room.

"_In forma pauperis_, presumably," said Spence, raising his eyebrows.

"I can't say, but I fear it isn't impossible. Cecily and her aunt

happened to call this morning, and he had some talk with them."

"Is he very much of a blackguard?" inquired her husband,

disinterestedly.

"Indeed, no. That is to say, externally and in his conversation. It's a

decided improvement on our old impressions of him."

"I'm glad to hear it," was the dry response.

"He has formed himself in some degree. Hints that he is going to

produce literature."

"Of course." Spence laughed merrily. "The last refuge of a scoundrel."

"I don't like to judge him so harshly, Ned. He has a fine face."

"And is Miriam killing the fatted calf?"

"His arrival seems to embarrass rather than delight her."

"Depend upon it, the fellow has come to propose a convenient division

of her personal property."

When he again appeared, Elgar was in excellent spirits. He met Spence

with irresistible frankness and courtesy; his talk made the luncheon

cheery, and dismissed thought of sirocco. It appeared that he had as

yet no abode; his luggage was at the station. A suggestion that he

should seek quarters under the same roof with Mallard recommended

itself to him.

"I feel like a giant refreshed," he declared, in privately taking leave

of Miriam. "Coming to Naples was an inspiration."

She raised her lips to his for the first time, but said nothing.

CHAPTER V

THE ARTIST ASTRAY

From the Strada di Chiaia, the narrow street winding between immense

houses, all day long congested with the merry tumult of Neapolitan

traffic, where herds of goats and milch cows placidly make their way

among vehicles of every possible and impossible description; where

_cocchieri_ crack their whips and belabour their hapless cattle, and

yell their "Ah--h--h! Ah--h--h!"--where teams of horse, ox, and ass,

the three abreast, drag piles of country produce, jingling their

fantastic harness, and primitive carts laden with red-soaked wine-casks

rattle recklessly along; where bare-footed, girdled, and tonsured monks

plod on their no-business, and every third man one passes is a rotund

ecclesiastic, who never in his life walked at more than a mile an hour;

where, at evening, carriages returning from the Villa Nazionale cram

the thoroughfare from side to side, and make one aware, if one did not

previously know it, that parts of the street have no pedestrians'

pavement;--from the Strada di Chiaia (now doomed, alas! by the

exigencies of _lo sventramento_ and _il risanamento_) turn into the

public staircase and climb through the dusk, with all possible

attention to where you set your foot, past the unmelodious beggars, to

the Ponte di Chiaia bridge which spans the roadway and looks down upon

its crowd and clamour as into a profound valley; thence proceed uphill

on the lava paving, between fruit-shops and sausage-shops and

wine-shops, always in an atmosphere of fried oil and roasted chestnuts

and baked pine-cones; and presently turn left into a still narrower

street, with tailors and boot-makers and smiths all at work in the open

air; and pass through the Piazzetta Mondragone, and turn again to the

left, but this time downhill; then lose yourself amid filthy little

alleys, where the scent of oil and chestnuts and pine-cones is stronger

than ever; then emerge on a little terrace where there is a noble view

of the bay and of Capri; then turn abruptly between walls overhung with

fig-trees and orange-trees and lemon-trees,--and you will reach Casa

Rolandi.

It is an enormous house, with a great arched entrance admitting to the

inner court, where on the wall is a Madonna's shrine, lamp-illumined of

evenings. A great staircase leads up from floor to floor. On each story

are two tenements, the doors facing each other. In 1878, one of the

apartments at the very top--an ascent equal to that of a moderate

mountain--was in the possession of a certain Signora Bassano, whose

name might be read on a brass plate. This lady had furnished rooms to

let, and here it was that Ross Mallard established himself for the few

days that he proposed to spend at Naples.

Already he had lingered till the few days were become more than a

fortnight, and still the day of his departure was undetermined. This

was most unwonted waste of time, not easily accounted for by Mallard

himself. A morning of sunny splendour, coming after much cloudiness and

a good deal of rain, plucked him early out of bed, strong in the

resolve that to-morrow should see him on the road to Amalfi. He had

slept well--an exception in the past week--and his mind was open to the

influences of sunlight and reason. Before going forth for breakfast he

had a letter to write, a brief account of himself addressed to the

murky little town of Sowerby Bridge, in Yorkshire. This finished, he

threw open the big windows, stepped out on to the balcony, and drank

deep draughts of air from the sea. In the street below was passing a

flock of she-goats, all ready to be milked, each with a bell tinkling

about her neck. The goat-herd kept summoning his customers with a long

musical whistle. Mallard leaned over and watched the clean-fleeced,

slender, graceful animals with a smile of pleasure. Then he amused

himself with something that was going on in the house opposite. A woman

came out on to a balcony high up, bent over it, and called, "Annina!

Annina!" until the call brought another woman on to the balcony

immediately below; whereupon the former let down a cord, and her

friend, catching the end of it, made it fast to a basket which

contained food covered with a cloth. The basket was drawn up, the women

gossiped and laughed for a while in pleasant voices, then they

disappeared. All around, the familiar Neapolitan clamour was beginning.

Church bells were ringing as they ring at Naples--a great crash,

followed by a rapid succession of quivering little shakes, then the

crash again. Hawkers were crying fruit and vegetables and fish in

rhythmic cadence; a donkey was braying obstreperously.

Mallard had just taken a light overcoat on his arm, and was ready to

set out, when some one knocked. He turned the key in the door, and

admitted Reuben Elgar.

"I'm off to Pompeii," said Elgar, vivaciously.

"All right. You'll go to the 'Sole'? I shall be there myself to-morrow

evening."

"I'm likely to stay several days, so we shall have more talk."

They left the house together, and presently parted with renewed

assurance of meeting again on the morrow.

Mallard went his way thoughtfully, the smile quickly passing from his

face. At a little _caffe_, known to him of old, he made a simple

breakfast, glancing the while over a morning newspaper, and watching

the children who came to fetch their _due soldi_ of coffee in tiny

tins. Then he strolled away and supplemented his meal with a fine bunch

of grapes, bought for a penny at a stall that glowed and was fragrant

with piles of fruit. Heedless of the carriage-drivers who shouted at

him and even dogged him along street after street, he sauntered in the

broad sunshine, plucking his grapes and relishing them. Coming out by

the sea-shore, he stood for a while to watch the fishermen dragging in

their nets--picturesque fellows with swarthy faces and suntanned legs

of admirable outline, hauling slowly in files at interminable rope,

which boys coiled lazily as it came in; or the oyster-dredgers, poised

on the side of their boats over the blue water. At the foot of the

sea-wall tumbled the tideless breakers; their drowsy music counselled

enjoyment of the hour and carelessness of what might come hereafter.

With no definite purpose, he walked on and on, for the most part

absorbed in thought. He passed through the long _grotta_ of Posillipo,

gloomy, chilly, and dank; then out again into the sunshine, and along

the road to Bagnoli. On walls and stone-heaps the little lizards darted

about, innumerable; in vineyards men were at work dismantling the

vine-props, often singing at their task. From Bagnoli, still walking

merely that a movement of his limbs might accompany his busy thoughts,

he went along by the seashore, and so at length, still long before

midday, had come to Pozzuoli. A sharp conflict with the swarm of guides

who beset the entrance to the town, and again he escaped into

quietness, wandered among narrow streets, between blue, red, and yellow

houses, stopping at times to look at some sunny upper window hung about

with clusters of _sorbe_ and _pomidori_. By this time he had won

appetite for a more substantial meal. In the kind of eating-house that

suited his mood, an obscure _bettola_ probably never yet patronized by

Englishman, he sat down to a dish of maccheroni and a bottle of red

wine. At another table were some boatmen, who, after greeting him, went

on with their lively talk in a dialect of which he could understand but

few words.

Having eaten well and drunk still better, he lit a cigar and sauntered

forth to find a place for dreaming. Chance led him to the patch of

public garden, with its shrubs and young palm-trees, which looks over

the little port. Here, when once he had made it clear to a succession

of rhetorical boatmen that he was not to be tempted on to the sea, he

could sit as idly and as long as he liked, looking across the sapphire

bay and watching the bright sails glide hither and thither. With the

help of sunlight and red wine, he could imagine that time had gone back

twenty centuries--that this was not Pozzuoli, but Puteoli; that over

yonder was not Baia, but Baiae; that the men among the shipping talked

to each other in Latin, and perchance of the perishing Republic.

But Mallard's fancy would not dwell long in remote ages As he watched

the smoke curling up from his cigar, he slipped back into the world of

his active being, and made no effort to obscure the faces that looked

upon him. They were those of his mother and sisters, thought of whom

carried him to the northern island, now grim, cold, and sunless beneath

its lowering sky. These relatives still lived where his boyhood had

been passed, a life strangely unlike his own, and even alien to his

sympathies, but their house was still all that he could call home. Was

it to be always the same?

Fifteen years now, since, at the age of twenty, he painted his first

considerable landscape, a tract of moorland on the borders of

Lancashire and Yorkshire. This was his native ground. At Sowerby

Bridge, a manufacturing town, which, like many others in the same part

of England, makes a blot of ugliness on country in itself sternly

beautiful, his father had settled as the manager of certain rope-works.

Mr. Mallard's state was not unprosperous, for he had invented a process

put in use by his employers, and derived benefit from it. He was a man

of habitual gravity, occasionally severe in the rule of his household,

very seldom unbending to mirth. Though not particularly robust, he

employed his leisure in long walks about the moors, walks sometimes

prolonged till after midnight, sometimes begun long before dawn. His

acquaintances called him unsociable, and doubtless he was so in the

sense that he could not find at Sowerby Bridge any one for whose

society be greatly cared. It was even a rare thing for him to sit down

with his wife and children for more than a few minutes; if he remained

in the house, he kept apart in a room of his own, musing over, rather

than reading, a little collection of books--one of his favourites being

Defoe's "History of the Devil." He often made ironical remarks, and

seemed to have a grim satisfaction when his hearers missed the point.

Then he would chuckle, and shake his head, and go away muttering.

Young Ross, who made no brilliant figure at school, and showed a turn

for drawing, was sent at seventeen to the factory of Messrs. Gilstead,

Miles and Doran, to become a designer of patterns. The result was

something more than his father had expected, for Mr. Doran, who had his

abode at Sowerby Bridge, quickly discovered that the lad was meant for

far other things, and, by dint of personal intervention, caused Mr.

Mallard to give his son a chance of becoming an artist.

A remarkable man, this Mr. Doran. By nature a Bohemian, somehow made

into a Yorkshire mill-owner; a strong, active, nobly featured man, who

dressed as no one in the factory regions ever did before or probably

ever will again--his usual appearance suggesting the common notion of a

bushranger; an artist to the core; a purchaser of pictures by unknown

men who had a future--at the sale of his collection three Robert

Cheeles got into the hands of dealers, all of them now the boasted

possessions of great galleries; a passionate lover of music--he had

been known to make the journey to Paris merely to hear Diodati sing;

finally, in common rumour a profligate whom no prudent householder

would admit to the society of his wife and daughters. However, at the

time of young Mallard's coming under his notice he had been married

about a year. Mrs. Doran came from Manchester; she was very beautiful,

but had slight education, and before long Sowerby Bridge remarked that

the husband was too often away from home.

Doran and the elder Mallard, having once met, were disposed to see more

of each other; in spite of the difference of social standing, they

became intimates, and Mr. Mallard had at length some one with whom he

found pleasure in conversing. He did not long enjoy the new experience.

In the winter that followed, he died of a cold contracted on one of his

walks when the hills were deep in snow.

Doran remained the firm friend of the family. Local talk had inspired

Mrs. Mallard with a prejudice against him, but substantial services

mitigated this, and the widow was in course of time less uneasy at her

son's being practically under the guardianship of this singular man of

business. Mallard, after preliminary training, was sent to the studio

of a young artist whom Doran greatly admired, Cullen Banks, then

struggling for the recognition he was never to enjoy, death being

beforehand with him. Mrs. Mallard was given to understand that no

expenses were involved save those of the lad's support in Manchester,

where Banks lived, and Mallard himself did not till long after know

that his friend had paid the artist a fee out of his own pocket. Two

things did Mallard learn from Doran himself which were to have a marked

influence on his life--a belief that only in landscape can a painter of

our time hope to do really great work, and a limitless contempt of the

Royal Academy. In Manchester he made the acquaintance of several people

with whom Doran was familiar, among them Edward Spence, then in the

shipping-office, and Jacob Bush Bradshaw, well on his way to making a

fortune out of silk. On Banks's death, Mallard, now nearly twenty-one,

went to London for a time. His patrimony was modest, but happily, if

the capital remained intact, sufficient to save him from the cares that

degrade and waste a life. His mother and sisters had also an income

adequate to their simple habits.

In the meantime, Mrs. Doran was dead. After giving birth to a daughter,

she fell into miserable health; her husband took her abroad, and she

died in Germany. Thereafter Sowerby Bridge saw no more of its bugbear;

Doran abandoned commerce and became a Bohemian in earnest--save that

his dinner was always assured. He wandered over Europe; he lived with

Bohemian society in every capital; he kept adding to his collection of

pictures (stored in a house at Woolwich, which he freely lent as an

abode to a succession of ill-to-do artists); and finally he was struck

with paralysis whilst conducting to their home the widow and child of a

young painter who had suddenly died in the Ardennes. The poor woman

under his protection had to become his guardian. He was brought to the

house at Woolwich, and there for several months lay between life and

death. A partial recovery followed, and he was taken to the Isle of

Wight, where, in a short time, a second attack killed him.

His child, Cecily, was twelve years old. For the last five years she

had been living in the care of Mrs. Elgar at Manchester. This lady was

an intimate friend of Mrs. Doran's family, and in entrusting his child

to her, Doran had given a strong illustration of one of the

singularities of his character. Though by no means the debauchee that

Sowerby Bridge declared him, he was not a man of conventional morality;

yet, in the case of people who were in any way entrusted to his care,

he showed a curious severity of practice. Ross Mallard, for instance;

no provincial Puritan could have instructed the lad more strenuously in

the accepted moral code than did Mr. Doran on taking him from home to

live in Manchester. In choosing a wife, he went to a family of

conventional Dissenters; and he desired his daughter to pass the years

of her childhood with people who he knew would guide her in the very

straitest way of Puritan doctrine. What his theory was in this matter

(if he had one) he told nobody. Dying, he left it to the discretion of

the two trustees to appoint a residence for Cecily, if for any reason

she could not remain with Mrs. Elgar. This occasion soon presented

itself, and Cecily passed into the care of Doran's sister, Mrs.

Lessingham, who was just entered upon a happy widowhood. Mallard, most

unexpectedly left sole trustee, had no choice but to assent to this

arrangement; the only other home possible for the girl was with Miriam

at Redbeck House, but Mr. Baske did not look with favour on that

proposal. Hitherto, Mr. Trench, the elder trustee, who lived in

Manchester, had alone been in personal relations with Mrs. Elgar and

little Cecily; even now Mallard did not make the personal acquaintance

of Mrs. Elgar (otherwise he would doubtless have met Miriam), but saw

Mrs. Lessingham in London, and for the first time met Cecily when she

came to the south in her aunt's care. He knew what an extreme change

would be made in the manner of the girl's education, and it caused him

some mental trouble; but it was clear that Cecily might benefit greatly

in health by travel, and, as for the moral question, Mrs. Lessingham

strongly stirred his sympathies by the dolorous account she gave of the

child's surroundings in the north. Cecily was being intellectually

starved; that seemed clear to Mallard himself after a little

conversation with her. It was wonderful how much she had already

learnt, impelled by sheer inner necessity, of things which in general

she was discouraged from studying. So Cecily left England, to return

only for short intervals, spent in London. Between that departure and

this present meeting, Mallard saw her only twice; but the girl wrote to

him with some regularity. These letters grew more and more delightful.

Cecily addressed herself with exquisite frankness as to an old friend,

old in both senses of the word; collected, they made a history of her

rapidly growing mind such as the shy artist might have gloried in

possessing. In reality, he did nothing of the kind; he wished the

letters would not come and disturb him in his work. He sent gruff

little answers, over which Cecily laughed, as so characteristic.

Yes, there was a distinct connection between those homely memories and

picturings which took him in thought to Sowerby Bridge, and the image

of Cecily Doran which had caused him to waste all this time in Naples.

They represented two worlds, in both of which he had some part; but it

was only too certain with which of them he was the more closely linked.

What but mere accident put him in contact with the world which was

Cecily's? Through her aunt she had aristocratic relatives; her wealth

made her a natural member of what is called society; her beauty and her

brilliancy marked her to be one of society's ornaments. What could she

possibly be to him, Ross Mallard, landscape-painter of small if any

note, as unaristocratic in mind and person as any one that breathed? To

put the point with uncompromising plainness, and therefore in all its

absurdity, how could he possibly imagine Cecily Doran called Mrs.

Mallard?

The thing was flagrantly, grossly, palpably absurd. He tingled in the

ears in trying to represent to himself how Cecily would think of it, if

by any misfortune it were ever suggested to her.

Then why not, in the name of common sense, cease to ponder such

follies, and get on with the work which waited for him? Why this

fluttering about a flame which scorched him more and more dangerously?

It was not the first time that he had experienced temptations of this

kind; a story of five years ago, its scene in London, should have

reminded him that he could stand a desperate wrench when convinced that

his life's purpose depended upon it. Here were three years of

trusteeship before him--he could not, or would not, count on her

marrying before she came of age. Her letters would still come; from

time to time doubtless he must meet her. It had all resulted from this

confounded journey taken together! Why, knowing himself sufficiently,

did he consent to meet the people at Genoa, loitering there for a

couple of days in expectancy? Why had he come to Italy at all just now?

The answers to all such angry queries were plain enough, however he had

hitherto tried to avoid them. He was a lonely man like his father, but

not content with loneliness; friendship was always strong to tempt him,

and when the thought of something more than friendship had been

suffered to take hold upon his imagination, it held with terrible grip,

burning, torturing. He had come simply to meet Cecily; there was the

long and short of it. It was a weakness, such as any man may be guilty

of, particularly any artist who groans in lifelong solitude. Let it he

recognized; let it be flung savagely into the past, like so many others

encountered and overcome on his course.

The other day, when it was rainy and sunless, he had seemed all at once

to find his freedom. In a moment of mental languor, he was able to view

his position clearly, as though some other man were concerned, and to

cry out that he had triumphed; but within the same hour an event befell

which revived all the old trouble and added new. Reuben Elgar entered

his room, coming directly from Villa Sannazaro, in a state of

excitement, talking at once of Cecily Doran as though his acquaintance

with her had been unbroken from the time when she was in his mother's

care to now. Irritation immediately scattered the thoughts Mallard had

been ranging; he could barely make a show of amicable behaviour; a cold

fear began to creep about his heart. The next morning he woke to a new

phase of his conflict, the end further off than ever. Unable to command

thought and feeling, he preserved at least the control of his action,

and could persevere in the resolve not to see Cecily; to avoid casual

meetings he kept away even from the Spences. He shunned all places

likely to be visited by Cecily, and either sat at home in dull idleness

or strayed about the swarming quarters of the town, trying to entertain

himself with the spectacle of Neapolitan life. To-day the delicious

weather had drawn him forth in a heedless mood. And, indeed, it did not

much matter now whether he met his friends or not; he had spoken the

word--to-morrow he would go his way.

At the very moment of thinking this thought, when his cigar was nearly

finished and he had begun to stretch his limbs, wearied by remaining in

one position, shadows and footsteps approached him. He looked up, and--

"Mr. Mallard! So we have caught you at last! It only needed this to

complete our enjoyment. Now you will go across to Baiae 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 Baiae. 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.

Elgar was one of the company. When he became aware of Mallard's

arrival, he stood up with a cry of "All hail!" and pointed to a seat

near him.

"I began to be afraid you wouldn't come this evening. Try the risotto;

it's excellent. Ye gods! what an appetite I had when I sat down! To-day

have I ascended Vesuvius. How many bottles of wine I drank between

starting and returning I cannot compute; I never knew before what it

was to be athirst. Why, their vino di Vesuvio is for all the world like

cider; I thought at first I was being swindled--not an impossible thing

in these regions. I must tell you a story about a party of Americans I

encountered at Bosco Reale."

The guests numbered seven or eight; with one exception besides Elgar,

they were Germans, all artists of one kind or another, fellows of

genial appearance, loud in vivacious talk. The exception was a young

Englishman, somewhat oddly dressed, and with a great quantity of auburn

hair that rolled forward upon his distinguished brow. At a certain

_pension_ on the Mergellina he was well known. He sat opposite Elgar,

and had been in conversation with him.

Mallard cared little what he ate, and ate little of any thing. Neither

was he in the mood for talk; but Elgar, who had finished his solid

meal, and now amused himself with grapes (in two forms), spared him the

necessity of anything but an occasional monosyllable. The young man was

elated, and grew more so as he proceeded with his dessert; his cheeks

were deeply flushed; his eyes gleamed magnificently.

In the meantime Clifford Marsh had joined in conversation with the

Germans; his use of their tongue was far from idiomatic, but by sheer

determination to force a way through linguistic obstacles, he talked

with a haphazard fluency which was amusing enough. No false modesty

imposed a check upon his eloquence. It was to the general table that he

addressed himself on the topic that had arisen; in an English dress his

speech ran somewhat as follows:--

"Gentlemen, allow me to say that I have absolutely no faith in the

future of which you speak! It is my opinion that democracy is the fatal

enemy of art. How can you speak of ancient and mediaeval states?

Neither in Greece nor in Italy was there ever what we understand by a

democracy."

"Factisch! Der Herr hat Recht!" cried some one, and several other

voices strove to make themselves heard; but the orator raised his note

and overbore interruption.

"You must excuse me, gentlemen, if I say that--however it may be from

other points of view--from the standpoint of art, democracy is simply

the triumph of ignorance and brutality."

("Gewisz!"--"Nimmermehr!"--"Vortrefflich!") "I don't care to draw

distinctions between forms of the thing. Socialism, communism,

collectivism, parliamentarism,--all these have one and the same end: to

put men on an equality; and in proportion as that end is approached, so

will art in every shape languish. Art, gentlemen, is nourished upon

inequalities and injustices!" ("Ach!"--"Wie kann man so etwas

sagen!"--"Hoch! verissime!") "I am not representing this as either good

or bad. It may be well that justice should be established, even though

art perish. I simply state a fact!" ("Doch!"--"Erlauben Sie!")

"Supremacy of the vulgar interest means supremacy of ignoble judgment

in all matters of mind. See what plutocracy already makes of art!"

Here one of the Germans insisted on a hearing; a fine fellow, with

Samsonic locks and a ringing voice.

"Sir! sir! who talks of a genuine democracy with mankind in its present

state? Before it comes about, the multitude will be instructed,

exalted, emancipated, humanized!"

"Sir!" shouted Marsh, "who talks of the Millennium? I speak of things

possible within a few hundred years. The multitude will _never_ be

humanized. Civilization is attainable only by the few; nature so

ordains it."

"Pardon me for saying that is a lie! I use the word controversially."

"It is a manifest truth!" cried the other. "Who ever doubted it but a

_Dummkopf_? I use the word with reference to this argument only."

So it went on for a long time. Mallard and Elgar knew no German, so

could derive neither pleasure nor profit from the high debate.

"Are you as glum here as in London?" Reuben asked of his companion, in

a bantering voice. "I should have pictured you grandly jovial, wreathed

perhaps with ruddy vine-leaves, the light of inspiration in your eye,

and in your hand a mantling goblet! Drink, man, drink! you need a

stimulant, an exhilarant, an anti-phlegmatic, a counter-irritant

against English spleen. You are still on the other side of the Alps, of

the Channel; the fogs yet cling about you. Clear your brow, O painter

of Ossianic wildernesses! Taste the foam of life! We are in the land of

Horace, and _nunc est bibendum_!--Seriously, do you never relax?"

"Oh yes. You should see me over the fifth tumbler of whiskey at

Stornoway."

"Bah! you might as well say the fifth draught of fish-oil at North Cape.

How innocent this wine is! A gallon of it would give one no more than a

pleasant glow, the faculty of genial speech. Take a glass with me to

the health of your enchanting ward."

"Please to command your tongue," growled Mallard, with a look that was

not to be mistaken.

"I beg your pardon. It shall be to the health of that superb girl we

saw in the Mercato. But, as far as I can judge yet, the Neapolitan type

doesn't appeal to me very strongly. It is finely animal, and of course

that has its value; but I prefer the suggestion of a soul, don't you? I

remember a model old Langton had in Rome, a girl fresh from the

mountains; by Juno! a glorious creature! I dare say you have seen her

portrait in his studio; he likes to show it. But it does her nothing

like justice; she might have sat for the genius of the Republic.

Utterly untaught, and intensely stupid; but there were marvellous

things to be read in her face. Ah, but give me the girls of Venice! You

know them, how they walk about the piazza; their tall, lithe forms, the

counterpart of the gondolier; their splendid black hair, elaborately

braided and pierced with large ornaments; their noble, aristocratic,

grave features; their long shawls! What natural dignity! What eloquent

eyes! I like to imagine them profoundly intellectual, which they are

unhappily not."

Marsh had withdrawn from colloquy with the Germans, and kept glancing

across the table at his compatriots, obviously wishing that he might

join them. Mallard, upon whom Elgar's excited talk jarred more and

more, noticed the stranger's looks, and at length leaned forward to

speak to him.

"As usual, we are in a minority among the sun-worshippers."

"Sun-worshippers! Good!" laughed the other. "Yes, I have never met more

than one or two chance Englishmen at the 'Sole.'"

"But you are at your ease with our friends there.--I think you know as

little German as I do, Elgar?"

"Devilish bad at languages! To tell you the truth, I can't endure the

sense of inferiority one has in beginning to smatter with foreigners. I

read four or five, but avoid speaking as much as possible."

Marsh took an early opportunity of alluding to the argument in which he

had recently taken part. The subject was resumed. At Elgar's bidding

the waiter had brought cigars, and things looked comfortable; the

Germans talked with more animation than ever.

"One of the worst evils of democracy in England," said Reuben,

forcibly, "is its alliance with Puritan morality."

"Oh, that is being quickly outgrown," cried Marsh. "Look at the spread

of rationalism."

"You take it for granted that Puritanism doesn't survive religious

dogma? Believe me, you are greatly mistaken. I am sorry to say I have a

large experience in this question. The mass of the English people have

no genuine religious belief, but none the less they are Puritans in

morality. The same applies to the vastly greater part of those who even

repudiate Christianity."

"One must take account of the national hypocrisy," remarked the younger

man, with an air of superiority, shaking his head as his habit was.

"It's a complicated matter. The representative English bourgeois is a

hypocrite in essence, but is perfectly serious in his judgment of the

man next door; and the latter characteristic has more weight than the

former in determining his life. Puritanism has aided the material

progress of England; but its effect on art! But for it, we should have

a school of painters corresponding in greatness to the Elizabethan

dramatists. Depend upon it, the democracy will continue to be Puritan.

Every picture, every book, will be tried by the same imbecile test.

Enforcement of Puritan morality will be one of the ways in which the

mob, come to power, will revenge itself on those who still remain its

superiors."

Marsh was not altogether pleased at finding his facile eloquence

outdone. In comparing himself with Elgar, he was conscious of but

weakly representing the tendencies which were a passionate force in

this man with the singularly fine head, with such a glow of wild life

about him. He abandoned the abstract argument, and struck a personal

note.

"However it may be in the future, I grant you the artist has at present

no scope save in one direction. For my own part, I have fallen back on

landscape. Let those who will, paint Miss Wilhelmina in the nursery,

with an interesting doll of her own size; or a member of Parliament

rising to deliver a great speech on the liquor traffic; or Mrs.

What-do-you-call-her, lecturing on woman's rights. These are the

subjects our time affords."

Mallard eyed with fresh curiosity the gentleman who had "fallen back on

landscape."

"What did you formerly aim at?" he inquired, with a sort of suave

gruffness.

"Things which were hopelessly out of the question. I worked for a long

time at a 'Death of Messalina.' That was in Rome. I had a splendid

inspiration for Messalina's face. But my hand was paralyzed when I

thought of the idiotic comments such a picture would occasion in

England. One fellow would say I had searched through history in a

prurient spirit for something sensational; another, that I read a moral

lesson of terrible significance; and so on."

"A grand subject, decidedly!" exclaimed Elgar, with genuine enthusiasm,

which restored Marsh to his own good opinion. "Go on with it! Bid the

fools be hanged! Have you your studies here?"

"Unfortunately not. They are in Rome."

Mallard delivered himself of a blunt opinion.

"That is no subject for a picture. Use it for literature, if you like."

The inevitable discussion began, the discussion so familiar nowadays,

and which would have sounded so odd to the English painters who were

wont to call themselves "historical." Where is the line between

subjects for the easel and subjects for the desk? What distinguishes

the art of the illustrator from the art of the artist?

That was a great evening round the table at the Albergo del Sole. How

gloriously the air thickened with tobacco-smoke! What removal of empty

bottles and replacing them with full! The Germans were making it a set

_Kneipe_; the Englishmen, unable to drink quite so heroically, were

scarce behind in vehemence of debate. Mallard, grimly accepting the

help of wine against his inner foes, at length earned Elgar's approval;

he had relaxed indeed, and was no longer under the oppression of

English fog. But with him such moods were of brief duration; he

suddenly quitted the table, and went out into the night air.

The late moon was rising, amber-coloured on a sky of dusky azure. He

walked from the garden, across the road, and towards the ruins of the

Amphitheatre, which lie some distance apart from the Pompeian streets

that have been unearthed; he passed beneath an arch, and stood looking

down into the dark hollow so often thronged with citizens of Latin

speech. Small wonder that Benvenuto's necromancer could evoke his

myriads of flitting ghosts in the midnight Colosseum; here too it

needed but to stand for a few minutes in the dead stillness, and the

air grew alive with mysterious presences, murmurous with awful

whisperings. Mallard enjoyed it for awhile, but at length turned away

abruptly, feeling as if a cold hand had touched him.

As he re-entered the inn-precincts, he heard voices still uproarious in

the dining-room; but he had no intention of going among them again. His

bedroom was one of a row which opened immediately upon the garden. He

locked himself in, went to bed, but did not sleep for a long time. A

wind was rising, and a branch of a tree constantly tapped against the

pane. It might have been some centuries-dead inhabitant of Pompeii

trying to deliver a message from the silent world.

The breakfast-party next morning lacked vivacity. Clifford Marsh was

mute and dolorous of aspect; no doubt his personal embarrassments were

occupying him. Yesterday's wine had become his foe, instead of an ally

urging him to dare all in the cause of "art." He consumed his coffee

and roll in the manner of ordinary mortals, not once flourishing his

dainty hand or shaking his ambrosial hair. Elgar was very stiff from

his ascent of Vesuvius, and he too found that "the foam of life" had an

unpleasant after-taste, suggestive of wrecked fortunes and a dubious

future. Mallard was only a little gruffer than his wonted self.

"I am going on at once to Sorrento," he said, meeting Elgar afterwards

in the garden. "To-morrow I shall cross over the hills to Positano and

Amalfi. Suppose you come with me?"

The other hesitated.

"You mean you are going to walk?"

"No. I have traps to carry on from the station. We should have a

carriage to Sorrento, and to-morrow a donkey for the baggage."

They paced about, hands in pockets. It was a keen morning; the

tramontana blew blusterously, causing the smoke of Vesuvius to lie all

down its long slope, a dense white cloud, or a vast turbid torrent,

breaking at the foot into foam and spray. The clearness of the air was

marvellous. Distance seemed to have no power to dim the details of the

landscape. The Apennines glistened with new-fallen snow.

"I hadn't thought of going any further just now," said Elgar, who

seemed to have a difficulty in simply declining the invitation, as he

wished to do.

"What should you do, then?"

"Spend another day here, I think,--I've only had a few hours among the

ruins, you know,--and then go back to Naples."

"What to do there?" asked Mallard, bluntly.

"Give a little more time to the museum, and see more of the

surroundings."

"Better come on with me. I shall be glad of your company."

It was said with decision, but scarcely with heartiness. Elgar looked

about him vaguely.

"To tell you the truth," he said at last, "I don't care to incur much

expense."

"The expenses of what I propose are trivial."

"My traps are at Naples, and I have kept the room there. No, I don't

see my way to it, Mallard."

"All right."

The artist turned away. He walked about the road for ten minutes.--

Very well; then he too would return to Naples. Why? What was altered?

Even if Elgar accompanied him to Amalfi, it would only be for a few

days; there was no preventing the fellow's eventual return--his visits

to the villa, perhaps to Mrs. Gluck's. Again imbecile and insensate

What did it all matter?

He stopped short. He would sit down and write a letter to Mrs.

Baske.--A pretty complication, that! What grounds for such a letter as

he meditated?

The devil! Had he not a stronger will than Reuben Elgar? If he wished

to carry a point with such a weakling, was he going to let himself be

thwarted? Grant it was help only for a few days, no matter; Elgar

should go with him.

He walked back to the garden. Good; there the fellow loitered,

obviously irresolute.

"Elgar, you'd better come, after all," he said, with a grim smile. "I

want to have some talk with you. Let us pay our shot, and walk on to

the station."

"What kind of talk, Mallard?"

"Various. Get whatever you have to carry; I'll see to the bill."

"But how can I go on without a shirt?"

"I have shirts in abundance. A truce to your obstacles. March!"

And before very long they were side by side in the vehicle, speeding

along the level road towards Castellammare and the mountains. This

exertion of native energy had been beneficial to Mallard's temper; he

talked almost genially. Elgar, too, had subdued his restiveness, and

began to look forward with pleasure to the expedition.

"I only wish this wind would fall!" he exclaimed. "It's cold, and I

hate a wind of any kind."

"Hate a wind? You're effeminate; you're a boulevardier. It would do you

good to be pitched in a gale about the coast of Skye. A fellow of your

temperament has no business in these relaxing latitudes. You want

tonics."

"Too true, old man. I know myself at least as well as you know me."

"Then what a contemptible creature you must be! If a man knows his

weakness, he is inexcusable for not overcoming it."

"A preposterous contradiction, allow me to say. A man is what he is,

and will be ever the same. Have you no tincture of philosophy? You talk

as though one could govern fate."

"And you, very much like the braying jackass in the field there."

Mallard had a savage satisfaction in breaking all bounds of civility.

He overwhelmed his companion with abuse, revelled in insulting

comparisons. Elgar laughed, and stretched himself on the cushions so as

to avoid the wind as much as possible.

They clattered through the streets of Castellammare, pursued by

urchins, crying, "Un sordo, signori!" Thence on by the seaside road to

Vico Equense, Elgar every now and then shouting his ecstasy at the

view. The hills on this side of the promontory climb, for the most

part, softly and slowly upwards, everywhere thickly clad with olives

and orange-trees, fig-trees and aloes. Beyond Vico comes a jutting

headland; the road curves round it, clinging close on the hillside,

turns inland, and all at once looks down upon the Piano di Sorrento.

Instinctively, the companions rose to their feet, as though any other

attitude on the first revelation of such a prospect were irreverent. It

is not really a plain, but a gently rising wide and deep lap,

surrounded by lofty mountains and ending at a line of sheer cliffs

along the sea-front. A vast garden planted for Nature's joy; a

pleasance of the gods; a haunt of the spirit of beauty set between

sun-smitten crags and the enchanted shore.

"Heaven be praised that you forced me to come!" muttered Elgar, in his

choking throat.

Mallard could say nothing. He had looked upon this scene before, but it

affected him none the less.

They drove into the town of Tasso, and to an inn which stood upon the

edge of a profound gorge, cloven towards the sea-cliffs. Sauntering in

the yard whilst dinner was made ready, they read an inscription on a

homely fountain:

"Sordibus abstersis, instructo marmore, priscus Fons nitet, et manat

gratior unda tibi."

"Eternal gratitude to our old schoolmasters," cried Elgar, "who

thrashed us through the Eton Latin grammar! What is Italy to the man

who cannot share our feelings as we murmur that distich? I marvel that

I was allowed to learn this heathen tongue. Had my parents known what

it would mean to me, I should never have chanted my _hic, haec, hoc_."

He was at his best this afternoon; Mallard could scarcely identify him

with the reckless, and sometimes vulgar, spendthrift who had been

rushing his way to ruin in London. His talk abounded in quotation, in

literary allusion, in high-spirited jest, in poetical feeling. When had

he read so much? What a memory he had! In a world that consisted of but

one sex, what a fine fellow he would have been!

"What do you think of my sister?" he asked, _a propos_ of nothing, as

they idled about the Capo di Sorrento and on the road to Massa.

"An absurd question."

"You mean that I cannot suppose you would tell me the truth."

"And just as little the untruth. I do not know your sister."

"We had a horrible scene that day I turned up. I behaved brutally to

her, poor girl."

"I'm afraid you have often done so."

"Often. I rave at her superstition; how can she help it? But she's a

good girl, and has wit enough if she might use it. Oh, if some

generous, large-brained man would drag her out of that slough of

despond!--What a marriage that was! Powers of darkness, what a

marriage!"

Mallard was led to no question.

"I shall never understand it, never," went on Elgar, in excitement. "If

you had seen that oily beast! I don't know what criterion girls have.

Several of my acquaintance have made marriages that set my hair on end.

Lives thrown away in accursed ignorance--that's my belief."

Mallard waited for the next words, expecting that they would torture

him. There was a long pause, however, and what he awaited did not come.

"Do you hate the name Miriam, as I do?"

"Hate it, no."

"I wonder they didn't call her Keziah, and me Mephibosheth. It isn't a

nice thing to detest the memory of one's parents, Mallard. It doesn't

help to make one a well-balanced man. How on earth did I get my

individuality? And you mustn't think that Miriam is just what she

seems--I mean, there _are_ possibilities in her; I am convinced of it."

"Did it ever occur to you that your own proceedings may have acted as a

check upon those possibilities?"

"I don't know that I ever thought of it," said Elgar, ingenuously.

"You never reflected that her notion of the liberated man is yourself?"

"You are right, Mallard. I see it. What other example had she?"

They walked as far as Massa Lubrense, a little town on the steep shore;

over against it the giant cliffs of Capri, every cleft and scar and

jutting rock discernible through the pellucid air, every minutest

ruggedness casting its clear-cut shadow. But the surpassing glory was

the prospect at the Cape of Sorrento when they reached it on their walk

back. Before them the entire sweep of the gulf, from Ischia to Capri;

Naples in its utmost extent, an unbroken line of delicate pink, from

Posillipo to Torre Annunziata. Far below their feet the little _marina_

of Sorrento, with its row of boats drawn up on the strand; behind them

noble limestone heights. The sea was foaming under the tramontana, and

its foam took colour from the declining sun.

Next morning they set forth again as Mallard had proposed, their

baggage packed on a donkey, a guide with them to lead the way over the

mountains to the other shore. A long climb, and at the culminating

point of the ridge they rested to look the last on Naples;

thenceforward their faces were set to the far blue hills of Calabria.

"Yonder lies Paestum," said Mallard, pointing to the dim plain beyond

the Gulf of Salerno; and his companion's eyes were agleam.

Early in the afternoon they reached the coast at Positano, and thence

took boat for Amalfi. Elgar was like one possessed at his first sight

of the wonderful old town, nested in its mountain gorge, overlooked by

wild crags; this relic saved from the waste of mediaeval glory. When

they had put up at an inn less frequented and much cheaper than the

"Cappuccini," he would not rest until he had used the last hour of

sunlight in clambering about the little maze of streets, or rather of

mountain paths and burrows beneath houses piled one upon another

indistinguishably. Forced back by hunger, he still lingered upon the

window-balcony, looking up at the hoary riven tower set high above the

town on what seems an inaccessible peak, or at the cathedral and its

many-coloured campanile.

How could Mallard help comparing these manifestations of ardent temper

with what he had witnessed in Cecily? The resemblance was at moments

more than he could endure; once or twice he astonished Elgar with a

reply of unprovoked savageness. The emotions of the day, even more than

its bodily exercise, had so wearied him that he went early to bed. They

had a double-bedded room, and Elgar continued talking for hours. Even

without this, Mallard felt that he would have been unable to sleep. To

add to his torments, the clock of the cathedral, which was just on the

opposite side of the street, had the terrible southern habit of

striking the whole hour after the chime at each quarter; by midnight

the clangour was all but incessant. Elgar sank at length into oblivion,

but to his companion sleep came not. Very early in the morning there

sounded the loud blast of a horn, all through the town and away into

remoteness. Signify what it might, the practical result seemed to be a

rousing of the population to their daily life; lively voices, the tramp

of feet, the clatter of vehicles began at once, and waxed with the

spread of daylight.

The sun rose, but only to gleam for an hour on clouds and vapours which

it had not power to disperse. The mountain summits were hidden, and

down their sides crept ominously the ragged edges of mist; a thin rain

began to fall, and grew heavier as the sky dulled. Having breakfasted,

the two friends spent an hour in the cathedral, which was dark and

chill and gloomy. Two or three old people knelt in prayer, their heads

bowed against column or wall; remarking the strangers, they came up to

them and begged.

"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, cared 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. I am 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 cared 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.

A day or two of moderate intimacy with any person whatsoever always led

Clifford to a revelation of his private circumstances; it was not long

before Mr. Bradshaw was informed not only of Mr. Hibbert's harshness,

but of the painful treatment to which Clifford was being subjected at

the hands of Mrs. Denyer and Madeline. The latter point was handled

with a good deal of tact, for Clifford had it in view that through Mr.

Bradshaw his words would one way or other reach Mrs. Lessingham, and so

perchance come to Miss Doran's ears. He made no unworthy charges; he

spoke not in anger, but in sorrow; he was misunderstood, he was

depreciated, by those who should have devoted themselves to supporting

his courage under adversity. And as he talked, he became the embodiment

of calm magnanimity; the rhetoric which was meant to impress his

listener had an exalting effect upon himself--as usual.

"You mean to hold out, then?" asked the bluff Jacob, with a smile which

all but became a chuckle.

"I am an artist," was the noble reply. "I cannot abandon my life's

work."

"But how about bread and cheese? They are necessary to an artist, as

much as to other men, I'm afraid."

Clifford smiled calmly.

"I shall not be the first who has starved in such a cause."

Jacob roared as he related this conversation to his wife.

"I must keep an eye on the lad," he said. "When I hear he's given in,

I'll write him a letter of congratulation."

CHAPTER VIII

PROOF AGAINST ILLUSION

An interesting conversation took place one morning between Mrs. Spence

and Mrs. Lessingham with regard to Cecily. They were alone together at

the villa; Cecily and Miriam had gone for a drive with the Bradshaws.

After speaking of Reuben Elgar, Mrs. Lessingham passed rather abruptly

to what seemed a disconnected subject.

"I don't think it's time yet for Cecily to give up her set studies. I

should like to find some one to read with her regularly again before

long--say Latin and history; there would be no harm in a little

mathematics. But there's a difficulty in finding the suitable person."

She smiled. "I'm afraid only a lady will answer the purpose."

"Better, no doubt," assented Eleanor, also with a smile.

"And ladies who would be any good to Cecily are not at one's

disposition every day. What an admirable mind she has! I never knew any

one acquire with so little effort. Of course, she has long ago left me

behind in everything. The only use I can be to her is to help her in

gaining knowledge of the world--not to be learnt entirely out of books,

we know."

"What is your system with her?"

"You see that I have one," said Mrs. Lessingham, gratified, and

rustling her plumage a little as a lady does when she is about to speak

in confidence of something that pleases her. "Of course, I very soon

understood that the ordinary _surveillance_ and restrictions and moral

theories were of little use in her case. (I may speak with you quite

freely, I am sure.) I'm afraid the results would have been very sad if

Cecily had grown up in Lancashire."

"I doubt whether she would have grown up at all."

"Indeed, it seemed doubtful. If her strength had not utterly failed,

she must have suffered dreadfully in mind. I studied her carefully

during the first two years; then I was able to pursue my method with a

good deal of confidence. It has been my aim to give free play to all

her faculties; to direct her intelligence, but never to check its

growth--as is commonly done. We know what is meant by a girl's

education, as a rule; it is not so much the imparting of knowledge as

the careful fostering of special ignorances. I think I put it rightly?"

"I think so."

"It is usual to say that a girl must know nothing of this and that and

the other thing--these things being, in fact, the most important for

her to understand. I won't say that every girl can safely be left so

free as I have left Cecily; but when one has to deal with exceptional

intelligence, why not yield it the exceptional advantages? Then again,

I had to bear in mind that Cecily has strong emotions. This seemed to

me only another reason for releasing her mind from the misconceptions

it is usual to encourage. I have done my best to help her to see things

as they _are_, not as moral teachers would like them to be, and as

parents make-believe to their girls that they are indeed."

Mrs. Lessingham ended on a suave note of triumph, and smiled very

graciously as Eleanor looked approval.

"The average parent says," she pursued, "that his or her daughter must

be kept pure-minded, and therefore must grow up in a fool's paradise. I

have no less liking for purity, but I understand it in rather a

different sense; certain examples of the common purity that I have met

with didn't entirely recommend themselves to me. Then again, the

average parent says that the daughter's lot in life is marriage, and

that after marriage is time enough for her to throw away the patent

rose-coloured spectacles. I, on the other hand, should be very sorry

indeed to think that Cecily has no lot in life besides marriage; to me

she seemed a human being to be instructed and developed, not a pretty

girl to be made ready for the market. The rose coloured spectacles had

no part whatever in my system. I have known some who threw them aside

at marriage, in the ordinary way, with the result that they thenceforth

looked on everything very obliquely indeed. I'm sorry to say that it

was my own fate to wear those spectacles, and I know only too well how

hard a struggle it cost me to recover healthy eyesight."

"Mine fell off and got broken long before I was married," said Eleanor,

"and my parents didn't think it worth while to buy new ones."

"Wise parents! No, I have steadily resisted the theory that a girl must

know nothing, think nothing, but what is likely to meet the approval of

the average husband--that is to say, the foolish, and worse than

foolish, husband. I see no such difference between girl and boy as

demands a difference in moral training; we know what comes of the

prevalent contrary views. And in Cecily's case, I believe I have

vindicated my theory. She respects herself; she knows all that lack of

self-respect involves. She has been fed on wholesome victuals, not on

adulterated milk. She is not haunted with that vulgar shame which

passes for maiden modesty. Do you find fault with her, as a girl?"

"I should have to ponder long for an objection."

"And what is the practical result? In whatever society she is, I am

quite easy in mind about her. Cecily will never do anything foolish.

It's only the rose-coloured spectacles that cause stumbling. And I mean

by 'stumbling' all the silliness to which girls are subject. Ah! if I

could live _my_ girlhood over again, and with some sensible woman to

guide me! If I could have been put on my guard against idiotic

illusions, as Cecily is!"

"We mustn't expect too much of education," Eleanor ventured to remark.

"There is no way of putting experience into a young girl's head. It

would say little for her qualities if a girl could not make a generous

mistake."

"Such mistakes are not worthy of being called generous, as a rule. They

are too imbecile. That state of illusion is too contemptible. There is

very little danger of Cecily's seeing any one in a grossly false light."

Eleanor did not at once assent.

"You seem to doubt that?" added the other, with a searching look.

"I think she is as well guarded as a girl can be; but, as I said

before, education is no substitute for experience. Don't think me

captious, however. I sympathize entirely with the course you have

taken. If I had a daughter, I should like her to be brought up on the

same principles."

"Cecily is very mature for her age," continued Mrs. Lessingham, with

evident pleasure in stating and restating her grounds of confidence.

"She feels strongly, but never apart from judgment. Now and then she

astonishes me with her discernment of character; clearness of thought

seems almost to anticipate in her the experience on which you lay such

stress. Have you noticed her with Mr. Mallard? How differently many

girls would behave! But Cecily understands him so well; she knows he

thinks of her as a child, and nothing could be more simply natural than

her friendship for him. I suppose Mr. Mallard is one of the artists who

never marry?"

"I don't know him well enough to decide that," answered Eleanor, with a

curious smile.

It was in the evening of this day, when the Spences and Miriam were

sitting together after dinner, that a servant announced a visit of

Reuben Elgar, adding that he was in his sister's room. Miriam went to

join him.

"You can spare me a minute or two?" he asked cheerily, as she entered.

"Certainly. You are just back from Pompeii?"

"From Castellamare--from Sorrento the indescribable--from Amalfi the

unimaginable--from Salerno! Leave Naples without seeing those places,

and hold yourself for ever the most wretched of mortals! Old Mallard

forced me to go with him, and I am in his debt to eternity!"

This exalted manner of speech was little to Miriam's taste, especially

from her brother. Sobriety was what she desired in him. It seemed a

small advantage that his extravagance should exhibit itself in this way

rather than in worse; the danger was still there.

"Sit down, and talk more quietly. You say Mr. Mallard _forced_ you to

go?"

"I was coming back to Naples from Pompeii. By-the-bye, I went up

Vesuvius, and descended shoeless. The guides ought to have metal boots

on hire. I was coming back, but Mallard clutched me by the coat-collar.

Even now I've come sorely against his will. I left him at Amalfi. I'm

going to settle my affairs here to-morrow, and join him again. He's

persuaded me to try and work at Amalfi."

"How long do you think of staying there?"

"It all depends. Perhaps I shan't be able to do anything, after all."

"But surely that depends on yourself."

"Not a bit! If I were a carpenter or bricklayer, one might say so--in a

sense. But such work as I am going to do is a question of mood,

influences, caprices--"

Miriam reflected.

"Mr. Mallard was unwilling to let you return here?"

"Naturally. He knows my uncertainty. But I have promised him; I shall

keep my word."

"He is working himself?"

"Will be by now; we had horrible day of rain at Amalfi. He seems rather

glummer than usual, but that won't hinder his work. I wish I had the

old fellow's energy. After all, though, one can force one's self to use

pencils and brushes; it's a different thing when all has to come from

the brain. If you haven't a quiet mind--"

"What disturbs you?" Miriam asked, watching him.

"Oh, there's always something. I wish you could give me a share of your

equanimity. Never mind, I shall try. By-the-bye, I ought to have a word

with Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily before I go. Are they likely to be here

tomorrow?"

"I can't say."

"Then I shall call at their place. When will they be at home?"

"Do you think you ought to do that?" Miriam asked, without looking at

him.

"Why on earth not?"

His brow darkened, and he seemed about to utter something not unlike

his vehemencies on the day of arrival.

"You must judge for yourself, of course," said Miriam. "We won't talk

about it."

Reuben nodded agreement carelessly. Then he began to talk of his

proposed work, and presently they went to join the Spences. For an hour

or more, Reuben held forth rapturously on what he had seen these last

few days. He could not rest seated, but paced up and down the room,

gesticulating, fervidly eloquent.

"Do play me something, will you, Mrs. Spence?" he asked at length. (His

cousinship with Eleanor had never been affirmed by intimate

association, and he had not the habit of addressing her by the personal

name.) "Just for ten minutes; then I'll be off and trouble you no more.

Something to invigorate! A rugged piece!"

Eleanor made a choice from Beethoven, and, whilst she played, Elgar

leant forward on the back of a chair. Then he bade them good-bye, his

pulse at fever-time.

Half-past ten next morning found him walking hither and thither on the

Mergellina, frequently consulting his watch. He decided at length to

approach the house in which his acquaintances dwelt. Passing through

the _portone_, whom should he encounter but Clifford Marsh, known to

him only from the casual meeting at Pompeii, not by name. They stopped

to speak. Elgar inquired if the other lived at Mrs. Gluck's.

"For the present."

"I have friends here," Reuben added. "You know Mrs. Lessingham?"

"Oh yes," replied Clifford, eyeing his collocutor. "If you are calling

to see those ladies," he continued, "they went out half an hour ago. I

saw them drive away."

Elgar muttered his annoyance. Though he disliked doing so, he asked

Marsh whether he knew when the ladies were likely to return. Clifford

declared his ignorance. The two looked at each other, smiled, said good

morning, and turned different ways.

Reuben walked about the sea-front for a couple of hours. "Who is that

confounded fellow?" he kept asking in his mind, adding the highly

ludicrous question, "What business has he to know them?" His impatience

waxed; now and then he strode at such a pace that perspiration covered

him. The most trivial discomposure had often much the same effect on

him; if he happened to have a difficulty in finding his way, for

instance, he would fume himself into exasperated heat.

"What business have they to live in a vulgar boarding house? It's

abominable bad taste and indiscretion in that woman. In fact, I don't

like Mrs. Lessingham.--And what the devil has it to do with me?"

He strode up to the villa. Possibly they were there; yet he didn't like

to call--for various reasons. He fretted about the roads, this way and

that, till hunger oppressed him. Having eaten at the first restaurant

he came to, he directed his steps towards the Mergellina again. At two

o'clock he reached the house and made inquiry. The ladies had not yet

returned.

He struck off towards the Chiaia, again paced backwards and forwards,

cursed at carriage-drivers who plagued him, tried to amuse himself on

the Santa Lucia. And pray what was all this fuss about? When he rose

this morning, he had half a mind to start at once for Amalfi, and not

see Mrs. Lessingham and her niece at all; he "didn't know that he cared

much." He had met Cecily Doran twice. The second time was on the Strada

Nuova di Posillipo, where he encountered a carriage in which Cecily and

her aunt were taking the air; he talked with them for three minutes. It

was the undeniable fact that he had broken away from "old Mallard"

merely to see Cecily again. He had never tried to blind himself to it;

that kind of thing was not in his way. None the less was it a truth

that he thought himself capable of saying good-bye to the wonderful

girl, and posting off to his literary work. Why expose himself to

temptation? Because he chose to; because it was pleasant; surely an

excellent reason.

If only he hadn't come up against that confounded artist-fellow! That

had upset him, most absurdly. A half good-looking sort of fellow: a

fellow who could prate with a certain _brio_; not unlikely to make

something of a figure in the eyes of a girl like Cecily. And what then?

Before now, Elgar had confessed to a friend that he couldn't read the

marriage-column in a newspaper without feeling a distinct jealousy of

all the male creatures there mentioned.

He sought out a _caffe_, and sat there for an hour, drinking a liquor

that called itself lacryma-Christi, but would at once have been

detected for a pretender by a learned palate. He drank it for the first

time, and tried to enjoy it, but his mind kept straying to alien

things. When it was nearly four o'clock, he again went forth, took a

carriage, and bade the man drive quickly.

This time he was successful. A servant conducted him by many stairs and

passages to Mrs. Lessingham's sitting-room. He entered, and found

himself alone with Cecily.

"Mrs. Lessingham will certainly be back very soon," she said, in

shaking hands with him. "They told me you had called before, and I

thought you would like better to wait a few minutes than to be

disappointed again."

"I think of going to Amalfi to-morrow morning, perhaps for a long

time," remarked the visitor. "I wished to say good bye."

The accumulated impatience and nervousness of the whole morning

disturbed his pulses and put a weight upon his tongue; he spoke with

awkward indecision, held himself awkwardly. His own voice sounded

boorish to him after Cecily's accents.

Cecily began to speak of how she had spent the day. Her aunt was making

purchases--was later in returning than had been expected. Then she

asked for an account of Elgar's doings since they last met. The

conversation grew easier Reuben began to recover his natural voice, and

to lose disagreeable self-consciousness in the delight of hearing

Cecily and meeting her look. Had he known her better, he would have

observed that she spoke with unusual diffidence, that she was not quite

so self-possessed as of wont, and that her manner was deficient in the

frank gaiety which as a rule made its great charm. Her tone softened

itself in questioning; she listened so attentively that, when he had

ceased speaking, her eyes always rose to his, as if she had expected

something further.

"Who is the young artist that lives here?" Elgar inquired. "I met him

at Pompeii, and to-day came upon him here in the courtyard. A slight,

rather boyish fellow."

"I think you mean Mr. Marsh," replied Cecily, smiling. "He has recently

been at Pompeii, I know."

"You are on friendly terms with him?"

"Not on _un_friendly," she answered, with amusement.

Elgar averted his face. Instantly the flow of his blood was again

turbid; he felt an inclination to fling out some ill-mannered remark.

"You must come in contact with all kinds of odd people in a place like

this."

"One or two are certainly odd," was the reply, in a gentle tone; "but

most of them are very pleasant to be with occasionally. Naturally we

see more of the Bradshaws than of any one else. There's a family named

Denyer--a lady with three daughters; I don't think you would dislike

them. Mr. Marsh is their intimate friend."

It was all but as though she pleaded against a mistaken judgment which

troubled her. To Mallard she had spoken of her fellow-boarders in quite

a different way, with merry though kindly criticism, or in the strain

of generous idealization which so often marked her language.

"Do you know anything of his work?" Elgar pursued.

"I have seen a few of his water-colour drawings."

"He showed you them?"

"No; one of the Miss Denyers did. He had given them to her."

"Oh!" He at once brightened. "And how did they strike you?"

"I'm sorry to say they didn't interest me much. But I have no right to

sit in judgment."

Elgar had the good taste to say nothing more on the subject. He let his

eyes rest on her down-turned face for a moment.

"You see a good deal of Miriam, I'm glad to hear."

"I am sometimes afraid I trouble her by going too often."

"Have no such fear. I wish you were living under the same roof with

her. No one's society could do her so much good as yours. The poor girl

has too long been in need of such an aid to rational cheerfulness."

They were interrupted by the entrance of an English maidservant, who

asked whether Miss Doran would have tea brought at once, or wait till

Mrs. Lessingham's return.

"You see how English we are," said Cecily to her visitor. "I think

we'll have it now; Mrs. Lessingham may be here any moment."

It was growing dusk. Whilst the conversation was diverted by trifles,

two lighted lamps were brought into the room. Elgar had risen and gone

to the window.

"We won't shut out the evening sky," said Cecily, standing not far from

him.

The door closed upon the servant who had carried in the tea-tray. Elgar

turned to his companion, and said in a musing tone, with a smile:

"How long is it since we saw each other every day in Manchester?"

"Seven years since that short time you spent with us."

"Seven; yes. You were not twelve then; I was not quite twenty-one. As

regards change, a lifetime might have passed since, with both of us.

Yet I don't feel very old, not oppressively ancient."

"And I'm sure I don't."

They laughed together.

"You are younger than you were then," he continued, in his most

characteristic voice, the voice which was musical and alluring, and

suggestive of his nature's passionate depths and heights. "You have

grown into health of body and soul, and out of all the evil things that

would have robbed you of natural happiness. Nothing ever made me more

glad than first seeing you at the villa. I didn't know what you had

become, and in looking at you I rejoiced on your account. You would

gladden even miserable old age, like sunlight on a morning of spring."

Cecily moved towards the tea-table in silence. She began to fill one of

the cups, but put the teapot down again and waited for a moment. Having

resumed her purpose, she looked round and saw Elgar seated sideways on

a chair by the window. With the cup of tea in her hand, she approached

him and offered it without speaking. He rose quickly to take it, and

went to another part of the room.

"I hope Miriam will stay here the whole winter," Cecily said, as she

seated herself by the table.

"I hope so," he assented absently, putting his tea aside. "How long are

you and Mrs. Lessingham likely to stay?"

"At least till February, I think."

"Shall you get as far as Amalfi some day?"

"Oh yes! And Miriam will come with us, I hope. And to Capri too."

"I must see Capri. I shouldn't wonder if I go there soon; probably it

would suit my purpose better than Amalfi. Yet I must be alone, if I am

to work. I haven't Mallard's detachment. That seems to you a paltry

confession of weakness."

"No, indeed. I am told that Mr. Mallard is quite exceptional in his

power of disregarding everything but his work."

"Exceptional in many things, no doubt. I must seem very insignificant

in comparison."

"Why should you? Mr. Mallard is so much older; he has long been fixed

in his course."

"Older, yes," assented Elgar, with satisfaction. "Perhaps at his age I

too may have done something worth doing."

"Who could doubt it?"

"It does me good to hear you say that!"

He moved from his distant place, and threw himself in one of his usual

careless attitudes on a nearer chair. "But Miriam has no faith in me,

not a jot! Does she speak harshly of me to you?"

"No."

Cecily shook her head, and seemed unable to speak more than the

monosyllable.

"But she has nothing encouraging to say? She shows that she looks upon

me as one of whom no good can come? That is the impression you have

received from her?"

Cecily looked at him gravely.

"She has scarcely spoken of you at all--scarcely more than the few

words that were inevitable."

"In itself a condemnation."

Cecily was mute. Before Elgar could say anything more, the door opened.

With a sudden radiance on her features, the girl looked up to greet

Mrs. Lessingham's entrance.

"How long you have been, aunt!"

"Yes; I am sorry. How do you do, Mr. Elgar? Tea, Cecily, lest I perish!"

From the doorway her quick glance had scrutinized both the young

people. Of course she betrayed no surprise; neither did she make

exhibition of pleasure. Her greeting of the visitor was gracefully

casual, given in passing. She sank upon a low chair as if overcome with

weariness. Mrs. Lessingham had nothing to learn in the arts wherewith

social intercourse is kept smooth in spite of nature's improprieties.

When she chose, she could be the awe-inspiring chaperon, no less

completely than she was at other times the contemner of the commonplace.

"So you leave us to-morrow, Mr. Elgar? I have just met Mr. Spence, and

heard the news from him. I am glad you could find a moment to call. You

are going to be very busy, I hear, for the rest of the winter."

"I hope so," Elgar replied, walking across the room to fetch his

half-emptied teacup.

"We shall look eagerly for the results of your work."

For ten minutes the conversation kept a rather flat course. Cecily only

spoke when addressed by her aunt; then quite in her usual way. Elgar

took the first opportunity to signal departure. When Cecily gave him

her hand, it was with a moment's unfaltering look--a look very

different from that which charmed everyday acquaintances at their

coming and going, unlike anything man or woman had yet seen on her

countenance. The faintest smile hovered about her lips as she said,

"Good-bye;" her steadfast eyes added the hope which there was no need

to speak.

When he was gone, Mrs. Lessingham sipped her tea in silence. Cecily

moved about and presently brought a book to her chair by the tea-table.

"No doubt you had the advantage of hearing Mr. Elgar's projects

detailed," said her aunt, with irony which presumed a complete

understanding between them.

"No." Cecily shook her head and smiled.

"Curious how closely he and Mr. Marsh resemble each other at times."

"Do you think so?"

"Haven't you noticed it? There are differences, of course. Mr. Elgar is

originally much better endowed; though at present I should think he is

even less to be depended upon, either intellectually or morally. But

they belong to the same species. What numbers of such young men I have

met!"

"What are the characteristics of the species, aunt?" Cecily inquired,

with a pleasant laugh.

"I dare say you know them almost as well as I do. You might write an

essay on 'The Young Man of Promise' of our day. I should be rather too

severe; you would treat them with a lighter hand, and therefore more

effectually."

In speaking, she kept her eyes on the girl, who appeared to muse the

subject with sportful malice.

"I am not sure," said Cecily, "that Mr. Elgar would come into the

essay."

"You mean that his promise is too obviously delusive?"

"Not exactly that. I rather think he should have an essay to himself."

"Of what tendency?" asked Mrs. Lessingham, still closely observant.

"Oh, it would need much meditation; but I think I could make it

interesting."

With another laugh, she dismissed the subject; nor did her aunt

endeavour to revive it.

The morrow was Sunday. Elgar knew at what time his tram left for

Salerno; the time-table was the same as for other days. Yet he lay in

bed till nearly noon, till the train had long since started. No, he

should not go to-day.

It irked him to rise at all. He had not slept; his head was hot, and

his hands shook nervously. Dressed, he sat down for a minute, and

remained seated half an hour, gazing at the wall. When at length he

left the house, he walked without seeing anything, stumbling against

things and people.

Of course, he knew last night that there was no journey for him to-day.

Promise? A promise is void when its fulfilment has become impossible.

Very likely Mallard had a conviction that he would not come back at the

appointed time. To-morrow, perhaps; and perhaps not even to-morrow. It

had got beyond his control.

He ate, and returned to his room. Just now his need was physical

repose, undisturbed indulgence of reverie. And the reverie of a man in

his condition is a singular process. It consists of a small number of

memories, forecasts, imaginings, repeated over and over again, till one

would think the brain must weary itself beyond endurance. It can go on

for many hours consecutively, and not only remain a sufficient and

pleasurable employment, but render every other business repulsive, all

but impossible.

At evening there came a change. He was now unable to keep still; he

went into the town, and exhausted himself with walking up and down the

hilly streets. Society would have helped him, but he could find none.

He would not go to the villa; still less could he visit the

boarding-house.

What a night! At times he moved about his room like one in frantic

pain, finally flinging himself upon the bed and lying there till the

impulse of his fevered mind broke the beginnings of sleep. Or he walked

the length of the floor, with measured step, fifty times, counting each

time he turned--a sort of conscious insanity. Or he took his

pocket-knife, and drove the point into the flesh of his arm, satisfied

when the pang became intolerable. Then again a loss of all control in

mere frenzy, the desire to shout, to yell....

Elgar was out of the house at sunrise. He went down to the Chiaia,

loitered this way and that, always in the end facing towards Posillipo.

He drank his coffee, but ate nothing; then again walked along the

sea-front. Between nine and ten he turned into the upward road, and

went with purpose towards Villa Sannazaro.

CHAPTER IX

IN THE DEAD CITY

Through it was Sunday, Cecily resolved to go and spend the afternoon

with Miriam. She was restless, and could not take pleasure in Mrs.

Lessingham's conversation. Possibly her arrival at the villa would be

anything but welcome; but she must see Miriam.

She drove up by herself, and first of all saw the Spences. From them

she learnt that Miriam, as usual on Sunday, was keeping her own room.

"Do you think I may venture, Mrs. Spence?"

"Go and announce yourself, my dear. If you are bidden avaunt, come back

and cheer us old people with your brightness."

So Cecily went with light step along the corridor, and with light

fingers tapped at Miriam's room. The familiar voice bade her enter.

Miriam was sitting near the window, on her lap a closed book.

"May I--?"

"Of course you may," was the quiet answer.

Cecily closed the door, came forward, and bent to kiss her friend. Then

she glanced at the "St. Cecilia;" then examined herself for a moment in

one of the mirrors; then took off her hat, mantle, and gloves.

"I want to stay as long as your patience will suffer me."

"Do so."

"You avoid saying how long that is likely to be."

"How can I tell?"

"Oh, you have experience of me. You know how trying you find me in

certain moods. To-day I am in a very strange mood indeed; very

malicious, very wicked. And it is Sunday."

Miriam did not seem to resent this. She looked away at the window, but

smiled. Could Cecily have been aware how her face had changed when the

door opened, she would not have doubted whether she was truly welcome.

"What book is that, Miriam?"

Cecily had been half afraid to ask; to her surprise it proved to be

Dante.

"Do you read this on Sunday?"

Miriam deigned no reply. The other, sitting just in front of her, took

up the volume and rustled its leaves.

"How far have you got? This pencil mark? 'Amor ch'a null' amato amar

perdona.'"

She read the line in an undertone, slowly towards the close. Miriam's

face showed a sudden and curious emotion. Glancing at the book, she

said abruptly:

"No; that's an old mark--a difficulty I had. I'm long past that."

"So am I. 'Amor ch'a null'--'"

Miriam stretched out her hand and took the volume with impatience.

"I'm at the end of this canto," she said, pointing. "Never mind it now.

I should have thought you would have gone somewhere such a fine

afternoon."

"That sounds remarkably like a hint that patience is near its end."

"I didn't mean it for that."

"Then let us get a carriage and drive somewhere together, we two alone."

Miriam shook her head.

"Because it is Sunday?" asked Cecily, with a mischievous smile, leaning

her head aside.

"There is an understanding between us, Cecily. Don't break it."

"But I told you my mood was wicked. I feel disposed to break any and

every undertaking. I should like to fret and torment and offend you. I

should like to ask you why _I_ am allowed to enjoy the sunshine, and

you not? _Oggi e festa_! What a dreadful sound that must have in your

ears Miriam!"

"But they don't apply it to Sunday," returned the other, who seemed to

resign herself to this teasing.

"Indeed they do!" With a sudden change of subject, Cecily added, "Your

brother came to see us yesterday, to say good-bye."

"Did he?"

"It doesn't interest you. You care nothing where he goes, or what he

does--nothing whatever, Miriam. He told me so; but I knew it already."

"He told you so?" Miriam asked, with cold surprise.

"Yes. You are unkind; you are unnatural."

"And you, Cecily, are childish. I never knew you so childish as to-day."

"I warned you. He and I had a long talk before aunt came home."

"I'm sorry he should have thought it necessary to talk about himself."

"What more natural, when he is beginning a new portion of life? Never

mind; we won't speak of it. May I play you a new piece I have learnt?"

"Do you mean, of sacred music?"

"Sacred? Why, all music is sacred. There are tunes and jinglings that I

shouldn't call so; but neither do I call them music, just as I

distinguish between bad or foolish verse, and poetry. Everything worthy

of being called art is sacred. I shall keep telling you that till in

self-defence you are forced to think about it. And now I shall play the

piece whether you like it or not."

She opened the piano. What she had in mind was one of the "Moments

Musicaux" of Schubert--a strain of exquisite melody, which ceased too

soon. Cecily sat for a few moments at the key-board after she had

finished, her head bent; then she came and stood before Miriam.

"Do you like it?"

There was no answer. She looked steadily at the troubled face, and, as

it still kept averted from her, she laid her arms softly, half

playfully, about Miriam's neck.

"Why must there always be such a distance between us, Miriam dear? Even

when I seem so near to you as this, what a deep black gulf really

separates us!"

"You were once on my side of it" said Miriam, her voice softened. "How

did you pass to the other?"

"How could I tell you? No one read me lectures, or taught me hard

arguments. The change came insensibly, like passing out of a dream into

the light of morning. I followed where my nature led, and my thoughts

about everything altered. I don't know how it might have been if I had

lived on with you. But my happiness was not there."

"Happiness!" murmured the other, scornfully.

"A word you don't, won't understand. Yet to me it means much. Who

knows? Perhaps there may come a day when I shall look back upon it, and

see it as empty of satisfaction as it now seems to you. But more likely

that I shall live to look back in sorrow for its loss."

The dialogue became such as they had held more than once of late,

fruitless it seemed, only saddening to both. And Cecily was to-day

saddened by it beyond her wont; her excessive gaiety yielded to a

dejection which passed indeed, but for a while made her very unlike

herself, silent, with troubled eyes.

"I had one valid excuse for coming to see you to-day," she said, when

gaiety and dejection had both gone by. "Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw seriously

think of going to Rome at the end of next week, and they wish to have

another day at Pompeii. They would like it so much if you would go with

them. If you do, I also will; we shall make four for a carriage, and

drive there, and come back by train."

"What day?"

"To-morrow, if it be fine. Let me take them your assent."

Miriam agreed.

On Monday morning, as arranged, she was driving down to the Mergellina,

when, with astonishment, she saw her brother standing by the roadside,

beckoning to her. The carriage stopped, and he came up to speak.

"Where are you off to?" he asked.

"You are still here?"

"I haven't been well. Didn't feel able to go yesterday. I was just

coming to see you."

"Not well, Reuben? Why didn't you come before?"

"I couldn't. I want to speak to you. Where are you going?"

She told him the plan for the day. Elgar turned aside, and meditated.

"I'll see you there--at Pompeii somewhere. It'll be on my way."

"I had rather not go at all. I'll ask them to excuse me; Mrs.

Lessingham will perhaps take my place, and--"

"No! I'll see you at Pompeii. I shall have no difficulty in finding you."

Miriam looked at him anxiously.

"I don't wish you to meet us there, Reuben."

"And I _do_ wish! Let me have my way, Miriam. Say nothing about me, and

let the meeting seem by chance."

"I can't do that. You make yourself ridiculous, after--"

"Let me judge for myself. Go on, or you'll be late."

She half rose, as if about to descend from the carriage. Elgar laid his

hand on her arm, and clutched it so strongly that she sank back and

regarded him with a look of anger.

"Miriam! Do as I wish, dear. Be kind to me for this once. If you

refuse, it will make no difference. Have some feeling for me. This one

day, Miriam."

Again she looked at him, and reflected. On account of the driver,

though of course he could not understand them, they had subdued their

voices, and Reuben's sudden action had not been noticeable.

"This one piece of sisterly kindness," he pleaded.

"It shall be as you wish," Miriam replied, her face cast down.

"Thank you, a thousand times. Avanti, cocchiere!"

Scrutiny less keen than Miriam's could perceive that Cecily had not her

usual pleasure in to-day's expedition. Even Mrs. Bradshaw, sitting over

against her in the carriage, noticed that the girl's countenance lacked

its natural animation, wore now and then a tired look; the lids hung a

little heavily over the beautiful eyes, and the cheeks were a thought

pale. When she forgot herself in conversation, Cecily was the same as

ever; mirthful, brightly laughing, fervent in expressing delight; but

her thoughts too often made her silent, and then one saw that she was

not heart and soul in the present. It was another Cecily than on that

day at Baiae. "She has been over-exciting herself since she came here,"

was Mrs. Bradshaw's mental remark. Miriam, anxiously observant, made a

different interpretation, and was harassed with a painful conflict of

thoughts.

Jacob Bush Bradshaw had no eyes for these trivialities. He sat in the

squared posture of a hearty Englishman, amusing himself with everything

they passed on the road self-congratulant on the knowledge and

experience he had been storing, joking as often as he spoke.

"The lad Marsh would have uncommonly liked an invitation to come with

us to-day," he said, about midway in the drive. "What precious mischief

we could have made by asking him, Hannah!"

"There's no room for him, fortunately."

"Oh yes; up on the box."

His eye twinkled as he looked at Cecily. She questioned him.

"Where would be the mischief, Mr. Bradshaw?"

"He talks nonsense, my dear," interposed Mrs. Bradshaw. "Pay no

attention to him."

Miriam had heard now and then of Clifford Marsh. She met Jacob's smile,

and involuntarily checked it by her gravity.

"We might have asked the Denyers as well," said Cecily, "and have had

another carriage, or gone by train."

Mr. Bradshaw chuckled for some minutes at this proposal, but his wife

would not allow him to pursue the jest.

They lunched at the Hotel Diomede before entering the precincts of the

ruins. Mr. Bradshaw had invariably a splendid appetite, and was by this

time skilled in ordering the meals that suited him. The few phrases of

Italian which he had appropriated were given forth _ore rotundo_, with

Anglo-saxon emphasis on the _o_'s, and accompanied with large gestures.

His mere appearance always sufficed to put landlords and waiters into

their most urbane mood; they never failed to take him for one of the

English nobility--a belief confirmed by the handsomeness of his

gratuities. Mrs. Bradshaw was not, perhaps, the ideal lady of rank, but

the fine self-satisfaction on her matronly visage, the good-natured

disdain with which she allowed herself to be waited upon by foolish

foreigners, her solid disregard of everything beyond the circle of her

own party, were impressive enough, and exacted no little subservience.

Strong in the experience of two former visits, Mr. Bradshaw would have

no guide to-day. Murray in hand, he knew just what he wished to see

again, and where to find it.

As Miriam was at Pompeii for the first time, he took her especially

under his direction, and showed her the city much as he might have led

her over his silk-mill in Manchester. Unimbued with history and

literature, he knew nothing of the scholar's or the poet's enthusiasm;

his gratification lay in exercising his solid intelligence on a lot of

strange and often grotesque facts. Here men had lived two thousand

years ago. There was no mistake about it; you saw the deep ruts of

their wheels along the rugged street; nay, you saw the wearing of their

very feet on the comically narrow pavements. And their life had been as

different as possible from that of men in Manchester. Everything

excited him to merriment.

"Now, this is the house of old Pansa--no doubt an ancestor of friend

Sancho"--with a twinkle in his eye. "We'll go over this carefully, Mrs.

Baske; it's one of the largest and completest in Pompeii. Here we are

in what they called the atrium."

Cecily spoke seldom. Of course, she would have preferred to be alone

here with Miriam; best of all--or nearly so--if they could have made

the same party as at Baiae. At times she lingered a little behind the

others, and seemed deep in contemplation of some object; or she stood

to watch the lizards darting about the sunny old walls. When all were

enjoying the view from the top of Jupiter's Temple, she gazed long

towards the Sorrento promontory, the height of St. Angelo.

"Amalfi is over on the far side," she said to Miriam. "They are both

working there now."

Miriam replied nothing.

When they were in the Street of Tombs, Cecily again paused, by the

sepulchre of the Priestess Mamia, whence there is a clear prospect

across the bay towards the mountains. Turning back again, she heard a

voice that made her tremble with delighted surprise. A wall concealed

the speaker from her; she took a few quick steps, and saw Reuben Elgar

shaking hands with the Bradshaws. He looked at her, and came forward.

She could not say any thing, and was painfully conscious of the blood

that rushed to her face; never yet had she known this stress of

heart-beats that made suffering of joy, and the misery of being unable

to command herself under observant eyes.

It was years since Elgar and the Bradshaws had met. As a boy he had

often visited their house, but from the time of his leaving home at

sixteen to go to a boarding-school, his acquaintance with them, as with

all his other Manchester friends, practically ceased. They had often

heard of him--too often, in their opinion. Aware of his arrival at

Naples, they had expressed no wish to see him. Still, now that he met

them in this unexpected way, they could not but assume friendliness.

Jacob, not on the whole intolerant, was willing enough to take "the

lad" on his present merits; Reuben had the guise and manners of a

gentleman, and perhaps was grown out of his reprobate habits. Mr.

Bradshaw and his wife could not but notice Cecily's agitation at the

meeting; they exchanged wondering glances, and presently found an

opportunity for a few words apart. What was going on? How had these two

young folks become so intimate? Well, it was no business of theirs.

Lucky that Mrs. Baske was one of the company.

And why should Cecily disguise that now only was her enjoyment of the

day begun--that only now had the sunshine its familiar brightness, the

ancient walls and ways their true enchantment? She did not at once

become more talkative, but the shadow had passed utterly from her face,

and there was no more listlessness in her movements.

"I have stopped here on my way to join Mallard," was all Reuben said,

in explanation of his presence.

All kept together. Mr. Bradshaw resumed his interest in antiquities,

but did not speak so freely about them as before.

"Your brother knows a good deal more about these things than I do, Mrs.

Baske," he remarked. "He shall give us the benefit of his Latin."

Miriam resolutely kept her eyes alike from Reuben and from Cecily.

Hitherto her attention to the ruins had been intermittent, but

occasionally she had forgotten herself so far as to look and ponder;

now she saw nothing. Her mind was gravely troubled; she wished only

that the day were over.

As for Elgar, he seemed to the Bradshaws singularly quiet, modest,

inoffensive. If he ventured a suggestion or a remark, it was in a

subdued voice and with the most pleasant manner possible. He walked for

a time with Mrs. Bradshaw, and accommodated himself with much tact to

her way of regarding foreign things, whether ancient or modern. In a

short time all went smoothly again.

Not since they shook hands had Elgar and Cecily encountered each

other's glance. They looked at each other often, very often, but only

when the look could not be returned; they exchanged not a syllable. Yet

both knew that at some approaching moment, for them the supreme moment

of this day, their eyes must meet. Not yet; not casually, and whilst

others regarded them. The old ruins would be kind.

It was in the house of Meleager. They had walked among the coloured

columns, and had visited the inner chamber, where upon the wall is

painted the Judgment of Paris. Mr. Bradshaw passed out through the

narrow doorway, and his voice was dulled; Miriam passed with him, and,

close after her, Mrs. Bradshaw. Reuben seemed to draw aside for Cecily,

but she saw his hand extended towards her--it held a spray of

maidenhair that he had just gathered. She took it, or would have taken

it, but her hand was closed in his.

"I have stayed only to see you again," came panting from his lips. "I

could not go till I had seen you again!"

And before the winged syllables had ceased, their eyes met; nor their

eyes alone, for upon both was the constraint of passion that leaps like

flame to its desire--mouth to mouth and heart to heart for one instant

that concentrated all the joy of being.

What hand, centuries ago crumbled into indistinguishable dust, painted

that parable of the youth making his award to Love? What eyes gazed

upon it, when this was a home of man and woman warm with life,

listening all day long to the music of uttered thoughts? Dark-buried

whilst so many ages of history went by, thrown open for the sunshine to

rest upon its pallid antiquity, again had this chamber won a place in

human hearts, witnessed the birth of joy and hope, blended itself with

the destiny of mortals. He who pictured Paris dreamt not of these

passionate lips and their unborn language, knew not that he wrought for

a world hidden so far in time. Though his white-limbed goddess fade

ghostlike, the symbol is as valid as ever. Did not her wan beauty smile

youthful again in the eyes of these her latest worshippers?

And they went forth among the painted pillars, once more shunning each

other's look. It was some minutes before Cecily knew that her fingers

still crushed the spray of maidenhair; then she touched it gently, and

secreted it within her glove. It must be dead when she reached home,

but that mattered nothing; would it not remain the sign of something

deathless?

She believed so. In her vision the dead city had a new and wonderful

life; it lay glorious in the light of heaven, its strait ways fit for

the treading of divinities, its barren temples reconsecrate with song

and sacrifice. She believed there was that within her soul which should

survive all change and hazard--survive, it might be, even this warm

flesh that it was hard not to think immortal.

She sought Miriam's side, took her hand, held it playfully as they

walked on together.

"Why do you look at me so sadly, Miriam?"

"I did not mean to."

"Yet you do. Let me see you smile once to-day."

But Miriam's smile was sadder than her grave look.

CHAPTER X

THE DECLARATION

It was true enough that Clifford Marsh would have relished an

invitation to accompany that party of four to Pompeii. For one thing,

he was beginning to have a difficulty in passing his days; if the

present state of things prolonged itself, his position might soon

resemble that of Mr. Musselwhite. But chiefly would he have welcomed

the prospect of spending some hours in the society of Miss Doran, and

under circumstances which would enable him to shine. Clifford had begun

to nurse a daring ambition. Allowing his vanity to caress him into the

half-belief that he was really making a noble stand against the

harshness of fate, he naturally spent much time in imagining how other

people regarded him--above all, what figure he made in the eyes of Miss

Doran. There could be no doubt that she knew, at all events, the main

items of his story; was it not certain that they must make some appeal

to her sympathies? His air of graceful sadness could not but lead her

to muse as often as she observed it; he had contemplated himself in the

mirror, and each time with reassurance on this point. Why should the

attractions which had been potent with Madeline fail to engage the

interest of this younger and more emotional girl? Miss Doran was far

beyond Madeline in beauty, and, there was every reason to believe, had

the substantial gifts of fortune which Madeline altogether lacked. It

was a bold thing to turn his eye to her with such a thought,

circumstances considered; but the boldness was characteristic of Marsh,

with whom at all times self-esteem had the force of an irresistible

argument.

He was incapable of passion. Just as he had made a pretence of pursuing

art, because of a superficial cleverness and a liking for ease and the

various satisfactions of his vanity in such a career, so did he now

permit his mind to be occupied with Cecily Doran, not because her

qualities blinded him to all other considerations, but in pleasant

yielding to a temptation of his fancy, which made a lively picture of

many desirable things, and flattered him into thinking that they were

not beyond his reach. For the present he could do nothing but wait,

supporting his pose of placid martyrdom. Wait, and watch every

opportunity; there would arrive a moment when seeming recklessness

might advance him far on the way to triumph.

And yet he never for a moment regarded himself as a schemer

endeavouring to compass vulgar ends by machination. He had the

remarkable faculty of viewing himself in an ideal light, even whilst

conscious that so many of his claims were mere pretence. Men such as

Clifford Marsh do not say to themselves, "What a humbug I am!" When

driven to face their conscience, it speaks to them rather in this way:

"You are a fellow of fine qualities, altogether out of the common way

of men. A pity that conditions do not allow you to be perfectly honest;

but people in general are so foolish that you would get no credit for

your superiority if you did not wear a little tinsel, practise a few

harmless affectations. Some day your difficulties will be at an end,

and then you can afford to show yourself in a simpler guise." When he

looked in the glass, Clifford admired himself without reserve; when he

talked freely, he applauded his own cleverness, and thought it the most

natural thing that other people should do so. When he meditated

abandoning Madeline, his sincere view of the matter was that she had

proved herself unworthy: however sensible her attitude, a girl had no

right to put such questions to her lover as she had done, to injure his

self-love. When he plotted with himself to engage Cecily's interest, he

said that it was the course any lover would have pursued. And in the

end he really persuaded himself that he was in love with her.

Yet none the less he thought of Madeline with affection. He was piqued

that she made no effort to bring him back to her feet. To be sure, her

mother's behaviour probably implied Madeline's desire of

reconciliation, but he wished her to make personal overtures; he would

have liked to see her approach him with humble eyes, not troubling

himself to debate how he should act in that event. With Mrs. Denyer he

was once more on terms of apparent friendliness, though he held no

private dialogue with her; he was willing that she should suppose him

gradually coming over to her views. Barbara and Zillah showed

constraint when he spoke with them, but this he affected not to

perceive. Only with Madeline he did not converse. Her air of

unconcernedness at length proved too much for his patience, and so it

came about that Madeline received by post a letter addressed in

Clifford's hand. She took it to her bedroom, and broke the envelope

with agitation.

"Your behaviour is heartless. Just when I am in deep distress, and need

all possible encouragement in the grave struggle upon which I have

entered--for I need not tell you that I am resolved to remain an

artist--you desert me, and do your best to show that you are glad at

being relieved of all concern on my account. It is well for me that I

see the result of this test, but, I venture to think, not every woman

would have chosen your course. I shall very shortly leave Naples. It

will no doubt complete your satisfaction to think of me toiling

friendless in London. Remember this as my farewell.--C. M."

The next morning Clifford received what he expected, a reply, also sent

by post. It was written in the clearest and steadiest hand, on

superfine paper.

"I am sorry you should have repeated your insult in a written form; I

venture to think that not every man would have followed this course.

For myself, it is well indeed that I see the result of the test to

which you have been exposed. But I shall say and think no more of it.

As you leave soon, I would suggest that we should be on the terms of

ordinary acquaintances for the remaining time; the present state of

things is both disagreeable and foolish. It will always seem to me a

very singular thing that you should have continued to live in this

house; but that, of course, was in your own discretion.--M. D."

This was on the morning when Cecily and her companions went to Pompeii.

Towards luncheon-time, Clifford entered the drawing-room, and there

found Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with Madeline. The former looked

towards him in a way which seemed to invite his approach.

"Another idle morning, Mr. Marsh?" was her greeting.

"I had a letter at breakfast that disturbed me," he replied, seating

himself away from Madeline.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Mr. Marsh is very easily disturbed," said Madeline, in a light tone of

many possible meanings.

"Yes," admitted Clifford, leaning back and letting his head droop a

little; "I can seldom do anything when I am not quite at ease in mind.

Rather a misfortune, but not an uncommon one with artists."

The conversation turned on this subject for a few minutes, Madeline

taking part in it in a way that showed her resolve to act as she had

recommended in her note. Then Mrs. Lessingham rose and left the two

together. Madeline seemed also about to move; she followed the

departing lady with her eyes, and at length, as though adding a final

remark, said to Clifford:

"There are several things you have been so kind as to lend me that I

must return before you go, Mr. Marsh. I will make a parcel of them, and

a servant shall take them to your room.

"Thank you."

Since the quarrel, Madeline had not worn her ring of betrothal, but

this was the first time she had spoken of returning presents.

"I am sorry you have had news that disturbed you," she continued, as if

in calm friendliness. "But I dare say it is something you will soon

forget. In future you probably won't think so much of little

annoyances."

"Probably not."

She smiled, and walked away, stopping to glance at a picture before she

left the room. Clifford was left with knitted brows and uneasy mind; he

had not believed her capable of this sedateness. For some reason,

Madeline had been dressing herself with unusual care of late (the

result, in fact, of frequent observation of Cecily), and just now, as

he entered, it had struck him that she was after all very pretty, that

no one could impugn his taste in having formerly chosen her. His

reference to her letter was a concession, made on the moment's impulse.

Her rejecting it so unmistakably looked serious. Had she even ceased to

be jealous?

In the course of the afternoon, one of Mrs. Gluck's servants deposited

a parcel in his chamber. When he found it, he bit his lips. Indeed,

things looked serious at last. He passed the hours till dinner in

rather comfortless solitude.

But at dinner he was opposite Cecily, and he thought he had never seen

her so brilliant. Perhaps the day in the open air--there was a fresh

breeze--had warmed the exquisite colour of her cheeks and given her

eyes an even purer radiance than of wont. The dress she wore was not

new to him, but its perfection made stronger appeal to his senses than

previously. How divine were the wreaths and shadowings of her hair!

With what gracile loveliness did her neck bend as she spoke to Mrs.

Lessingham! What hand ever shone with more delicate beauty than hers in

the offices of the meal? It pained him to look at Madeline and make

comparison.

Moreover, Cecily met his glance, and smiled--smiled with adorable

frankness. From that moment he rejoiced at what had taken place to-day.

It had left him his complete freedom. Good; he had given Madeline a

final chance, and she had neglected it. In every sense he was at

liberty to turn his thoughts elsewhither, and now he felt that he had

even received encouragement.

"We had an unexpected meeting with Mr. Elgar," were Cecily's words,

when she spoke to her aunt of the day's excursion.

Mrs. Lessingham showed surprise, and noticed that Cecily kept glancing

over the columns of a newspaper she had carelessly taken up.

"At Pompeii?"

"Yes; in the Street of Tombs. For some reason, he had delayed on his

journey."

"I'm not surprised."

"Why?"

"Delay is one of his characteristics, isn't it?" returned the elder

lady, with unaccustomed tartness. "A minor branch of the root of

inefficiency."

"I am afraid so."

Cecily laughed, and began to read aloud an amusing passage from the

paper. Her aunt put no further question; but after dinner sought Mrs.

Bradshaw, and had a little talk on the subject. Mrs. Bradshaw allowed

herself no conjectures; in her plain way she merely confirmed what

Cecily had said, adding that Elgar had taken leave of them at the

railway-station.

"Possibly Mrs. Baske knew that her brother would be there?" surmised

Mrs. Lessingham, as though the point were of no moment.

"Oh no! not a bit. She was astonished."

"Or seemed so," was Mrs. Lessingham's inward comment, as she smiled

acquiescence. "He has impressed me agreeably," she continued, "but

there's a danger that he will never do justice to himself."

"I don't put much faith in him myself," said Mrs. Bradshaw, meaning

nothing more by the phrase than that she considered Reuben a

ne'er-do-well. The same words would have expressed her lack of

confidence in a servant subjected to some suspicion.

Mrs. Lessingham was closely observant of her niece this evening, and

grew confirmed in distrust, in solicitude. Cecily was more than ever

unlike herself--whimsical, abstracted, nervous; she flushed at an

unexpected sound, could not keep the same place for more than a few

minutes. Much before the accustomed hour, she announced her retirement

for the night.

"Let me feel your pulse," said Mrs. Lessingham, as if in jest, when the

girl approached her.

Cecily permitted it, half averting her face.

"My child, you are feverish."

"A little, I believe, aunt. It will pass by the morning."

"Let us hope so. But I don't like that kind of thing at Naples. I trust

you haven't had a chill?"

"Oh dear, no! I never was better in my life!"

"Yet with fever? Go to bed. Very likely I shall look into your room in

the night.--Cecily!"

It stopped her at her door. She turned, and took a step back. Mrs.

Lessingham moved towards her.

"You haven't forgotten anything that you wished to say to me?"

"Forgotten? No, dear aunt."

"It just come back to my mind that you were on the point of saying

something a little while ago, and I interrupted you."

"No. Good night."

Mrs. Lessingham did enter the girl's room something after midnight,

carrying a dim taper. Cecily was asleep, but lay as though fatigue had

overcome her after much restless moving upon the pillow. Her face was

flushed; one of her hands, that on the coverlet, kept closing itself

with a slight spasm. The visitor drew apart and looked about the

chamber. Her eyes rested on a little writing-desk, where lay a directed

envelope. She looked at it, and found it was addressed to a French

servant of theirs in Paris, an excellent woman who loved Cecily, and to

whom the girl had promised to write from Italy. The envelope was

closed; but it could contain nothing of importance--was merely an

indication of Cecily's abiding kindness. By this lay a small book, from

the pages of which protruded a piece of white paper. Mrs. Lessingham

took up the volume--it was Shelley--and found that the paper within it

was folded about a spray of maidenhair, and bore the inscription "House

of Meleager Pompeii. Monday, December 8, 1878." Over this the

inquisitive lady mused, until a motion of Cecily caused her to restore

things rapidly to their former condition.

A movement, and a deep sigh; but Cecily did not awake. Mrs. Lessingham

again drew softly near to her, and, without letting the light fall

directly upon her face, looked at her for a long time. She whispered

feelingly, "Poor girl! poor child!" then, with a sigh almost as deep as

that of the slumberer, withdrew.

In the morning, Cecily was already dressed when a servant brought

letters to the sitting-room. There were three, and one of them,

addressed to herself, had only the Naples postmark. She went back to

her bedroom with it.

After breakfast Mrs. Lessingham spoke for a while of news contained in

her correspondence; then of a sudden asked:

"You hadn't any letters?"

"Yes, aunt; one."

"My child, you are far from well this morning. The fever hasn't gone.

Your face burns."

"Yes."

"May I ask from whom the letter was?"

"I have it here--to show you." A choking of her voice broke the

sentence. She held out the letter. Mrs. Lessingham found the following

lines:--

"DEAR CECILY,

"I have, of course, returned to Naples, and I earnestly hope I may see

you between ten and eleven to-morrow morning. I must see you alone. You

cannot reply; I will come and send my name in the ordinary way.

"Yours ever,

"R. ELGAR."

Mrs. Lessingham looked up. Cecily, who was standing before her, now met

her gaze steadily.

"The meaning of this is plain enough," said her aunt, with careful

repression of feeling. "But I am at a loss to understand how it has

come about."

"I cannot tell you, aunt. I cannot tell myself."

Cecily's true accents once more. It was as though she had recovered all

her natural self-command now that the revelation was made. The flush

still possessed her cheeks, but she had no look of embarrassment; she

spoke in a soft murmur, but distinctly, firmly.

"I am afraid that is only too likely, dear. Come and sit down, little

girl, and tell me, at all events, something about it."

"Little girl?" repeated Cecily, with a sweet, affectionate smile. "No;

that has gone by, aunt."

"I thought so myself the other day; but--I suppose you have met Mr.

Elgar several times at his sister's, and have said nothing to me about

it?"

"That would not have been my usual behaviour, I hope. When did I

deceive you, aunt?"

"Never, that I know. Where have you met then?"

"Only at the times and places of which you know."

"Where did you give Mr. Elgar the right to address you in this manner?"

"Only yesterday. I think you mustn't ask me more than that, aunt."

"I'm afraid your companions were rather lacking in discretion," said

the other, in a tone of annoyance.

"No; not in the sense you attach to the words. But, aunt, you are

speaking as if I _were_ a little girl, to be carefully watched at every

step."

Mrs. Lessingham mused, looking absently at the letter. She paid no heed

to her niece's last words, but at length said with decision:

"Cecily, this meeting cannot take place."

The girl replied with a look of uttermost astonishment.

"It is impossible, dear. Mr. Elgar should not have written to you like

this. He should have addressed himself to other people."

"Other people? But you don't understand, aunt. I cannot explain to you.

I expected this letter; and we must see each other."

Her voice trembled, failed.

"Shall you not treat my wish with respect, Cecily?"

"Will you explain to me all that you do wish, aunt?"

"Certainly. It is true that you are not a French girl, and I have no

desire to regard you as though we were a French aunt and niece talking

of this subject in the conventional way. But you are very young, dear,

and most decidedly it behoved Mr. Elgar to bear in mind both his and

your position. You have no parents, unhappily, but you know that Mr.

Mallard is legally appointed the guardian of your interests, and I

trust you know also that I am deeply concerned in all that affects you.

Let us say nothing, one way or another, of what has happened. Since it

_has_ happened, it was Mr. Elgar's duty to address himself to me, or to

Mr. Mallard, before making private appointments with you."

"Aunt, you can see that this letter is written so as to allow of my

showing it to you."

"I have noticed that, of course. It makes Mr. Elgar's way of proceeding

seem still more strange to me. He is good enough to ask you to relieve

him of what he thinks--"

"You misunderstand him, aunt, entirely. I cannot explain it to you.

Only trust me, I beg, to do what I know to be right. It is necessary

that I should speak with Mr. Elgar; do not pain me by compelling me to

say more. Afterwards, he will wish to see you, I know."

"Please to remember, dear--it astonishes me that you forget it--that I

have a responsibility to Mr. Mallard. I have no legal charge of you.

With every reason, Mr. Mallard may reproach me if I countenance what it

is impossible for him to approve."

Cecily searched the speaker's face.

"Do you mean," she asked gravely, "that Mr. Mallard will

disapprove--what I have done?"

"I can say nothing on that point. But I am very sure that he would not

approve of this meeting, if he could know what was happening. I must

communicate with him at once. Until he comes, or writes, it is your

duty, my dear, to decline this interview. Believe me, it is your duty."

Mrs. Lessingham spoke more earnestly than she ever had done to her

niece. Indeed, earnest speech was not frequent upon her lips when she

talked with Cecily. In spite of the girl's nature, there had never

existed between them warmer relations than those of fondness and

interest on one side, and gentleness with respect on the other. Cecily

was well aware of this something lacking in their common life; she had

wished, not seldom these last two years, to supply the want, but found

herself unable, and grew conscious that her aunt gave all it was in her

power to bestow. For this very reason, she found it impossible to utter

herself in the present juncture as she could have done to a mother--as

she could have done to Miriam; impossible, likewise, to insist on her

heart's urgent desire, though she knew not how she should forbear it.

To refuse compliance would have been something more than failure in

dutifulness; she would have felt it as harshness, and perhaps

injustice, to one with whom she involuntarily stood on terms of

ceremony.

"May I write a reply to this letter?" she asked, after a silence.

"I had rather you allowed me to speak for you to Mr. Elgar. To write

and to see him are the same thing. Surely you can forget yourself for a

moment, and regard this from my point of view."

"I don't know how far you may be led by your sense of responsibility.

Remember that you have insisted to me on your prejudice against Mr.

Elgar."

"Vainly enough," returned the other, with a smile. "If you prefer it, I

will myself write a line to be given to Mr. Elgar when he calls. Of

course, you shall see what I write."

Cecily turned away, and stood in struggle with herself. She had not

foreseen a conflict of this kind. Surprise, and probably vexation, she

was prepared for; irony, argument, she was quite ready to face; but it

had not entered her mind that Mrs. Lessingham would invoke authority to

oppose her. Such a step was alien to all the habits of their

intercourse, to the spirit of her education. She had deemed herself a

woman, and free; what else could result from Mrs. Lessingham's method

of training and developing her? This disillusion gave a shock to her

self-respect; she suffered from a sense of shame; with difficulty she

subdued resentment and impulses yet more rebellious. It was ignoble to

debate in this way concerning that of which she could not yet speak

formally with her own mind; to contend like an insubordinate

school-girl, when the point at issue was the dearest interest of her

womanhood.

"I think, aunt," she said, in a changed voice, speaking as though her

opinion had been consulted in the ordinary way, "it will be better for

you to see Mr. Elgar--if you are willing to do so."

"Quite."

"But I must ask you to let him know exactly why I have not granted his

request. You will tell him, if you please, just what has passed between

us. If that does not seem consistent with your duty, or dignity, then I

had rather you wrote."

"Neither my duty nor my dignity is likely to suffer, Cecily," replied

her aunt, with an ironical smile. "Mr. Elgar shall know the simple

state of the case. And I will forthwith write to Mr. Mallard."

"Thank you."

There was no further talk between them. Mrs. Lessingham sat down to

write. With the note-paper before her, and the pen in hand, she was a

long time before she began; she propped her forehead, and seemed lost

in reflection. Cecily, who stood by the window, glanced towards her

several times, and in the end went to her own room.

Mrs. Lessingham's letter was not yet finished when a servant announced

Elgar's arrival. He was at once admitted. On seeing who was to receive

him, he made an instant's pause before coming forward; there was merely

a bow on both sides.

Elgar knew well enough in what mood this lady was about to converse

with him. He did not like her, and partly, no doubt, because he had

discerned her estimate of his character, his faculties. That she alone

was in the room gave him no surprise, though it irritated him and

inflamed his impatience. He would have had her speak immediately and to

the point, that he might understand his position. Mrs. Lessingham,

quite aware of his perfervid state of mind, had pleasure in delaying.

Her real feeling towards him was anything but unfriendly; had it been

possible, she would have liked to see much of him, to enjoy his talk.

Young men of this stamp amused her, and made strong appeal to certain

of her sympathies. But those very sympathies enabled her to judge him

with singular accuracy, aided as she was by an outline knowledge of his

past. Her genuine affection for Cecily made her, now that the peril had

declared itself, his strenuous adversary. For Cecily to marry Reuben

Elgar would be a catastrophe, nothing less. She was profoundly

convinced of this, and the best elements of her nature came out in the

resistance she was determined to make.

A less worthy ground of vexation against Elgar might probably be

attributed to her. Skilful in judging men, she had not the same insight

where her own sex was concerned, and in the case of Cecily she was

misled, or rather misled herself, with curious persistence. Possibly

some slight, vague fear had already touched her when she favoured Mrs.

Spence with the description of her "system;" not impossibly she felt

the need of reassuring herself by making clear her attitude to one

likely to appreciate it. But at that time she had not dreamt of such a

sudden downfall of her theoretic edifice; she believed in its strength,

and did not doubt of her supreme influence with Cecily. It was not to

be wondered at that she felt annoyed with the man who, at a touch, made

the elaborate structure collapse like a bubble. She imagined Mrs.

Spence's remarks when she came to hear of what had happened, her fine

smile to her husband. The occurrence was mortifying.

"Miss Doran has put into my hands a letter she received from you this

morning, Mr. Elgar."

Reuben waited. Mrs. Lessingham had not invited him to sit down; she

also stood.

"You probably wished me to learn its contents?"

"Yes; I am glad you have read it."

"It didn't occur to you that Miss Doran might find the task you imposed

upon her somewhat trying?"

Elgar was startled. Just as little as Cecily had he pondered the

details of the situation; mere frenzy possessed him, and he acted as

desire bade. Had Cecily been embarrassed? Was she annoyed at his not

proceeding with formality? He had never thought of her in the light of

conventional obligations, and even now could not bring himself to do so.

"Did Miss Doran wish me to be told that?" he asked, bluntly, in

unconsidered phrase.

"Miss Doran's wish is, that no further step shall be taken by either of

you until her guardian, Mr. Mallard, has been communicated with."

"She will not see me?"

"She thinks it better neither to see you nor to write. I am bound to

tell you that this is the result of my advice. Her own intention was to

do as you request in this letter."

"What harm would there have been in that, Mrs. Lessingham? Why mayn't I

see her?"

"I really think Miss Doran must be allowed to act as seems best to her.

It is quite enough that I tell you what she has decided."

"But that is not her decision," broke out Elgar, moving impetuously.

"That is simply the result of your persuasion, of your authority. Why

may I not see her?"

"For reasons which would be plain enough to any but a very thoughtless

young gentleman. I can say no more."

Her caustic tone was not agreeable. Elgar winced under it, and had much

ado to restrain himself from useless vehemence.

"Do you intend to write to Mr. Mallard to-day?" he asked.

"I will write to-day."

Expostulation and entreaty seemed of no avail; Elgar recognized the

situation, and with a grinding of his teeth kept down the horrible pain

he suffered. His only comfort was that Mallard would assuredly come

post-haste; he would arrive by to-morrow evening. But two days of this

misery! Mrs. Lessingham was gratified with his look as he departed; she

had supplied him with abundant matter for speculation, yet had

fulfilled her promise to Cecily.

She finished her letter, then went to Cecily's room. The girl sat

unoccupied, and listened without replying. That day she took her meals

in private, scarcely pretending to eat. Her face kept its flush, and

her hands remained feverishly hot. Till late at night she sat in the

same chair, now and then opening a book, but unable to read; she spoke

only a word or two, when it was necessary.

The same on the day that followed. Seldom moving, seldomer speaking;

she suffered and waited.

CHAPTER XI

THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY

"Hic intus homo verus certus optumus recumbo, Publius Octavius Rufus,

decuno."

Mallard stood reading this inscription, graven on an ancient

sarcophagus preserved in the cathedral of Amalfi. A fool, probably,

that excellent Rufus--he said to himself,--but what a happy fool!

Unborn as yet, or to him unknown, the faith that would have bidden him

write himself a miserable sinner; what he deemed himself in life, what

perchance his friends and neighbours deemed him, why not declare it

upon the marble when he rested from all his virtues?

"Here lie I, Ross Mallard; who can say no good of myself, yet have as

little right to say ill; who had no faith whereby to direct my steps,

yet often felt that some such was needful; who spent all my strength on

a task which I knew to be vain; who suffered much and joyed rarely;

whose happiest day was his last."

Somehow like that would it run, if he were to write his own epitaph at

present.

The quiet of the dim sanctuary was helpful to such self-communing. He

relished being alone again, and after an hour's brooding had recovered

at all events a decent balance of thought, a respite from madness in

melancholy.

But he could not employ himself, could not even seek the relief of

bodily exertion; his mind grew sluggish, and threw a lassitude upon his

limbs. The greater part of the day he spent in his room at the hotel,

merely idle. This time he had no energy to attack himself with

adjurations and sarcasms; body and soul were oppressed with uttermost

fatigue, and for a time must lie torpid. Fortunately he was sure of

sleep to-night; the bell of the cathedral might clang its worst, and

still not rob him of the just oblivion.

The next day he strayed into the hills, and there in solitude faced the

enemy in his heart, bidding misery do its worst. In imagination he

followed Reuben Elgar to Naples, saw him speed to Villa Sannazaro,

where as likely as not he would meet Cecily. Mallard had no tangible

evidence of its being Reuben's desire to see Cecily, but he was none

the less convinced that for no other reason had his companion set

forth. And jealousy tormented him sorely. It was his first experience

of this cruellest passion: what hitherto had been only a name to him,

and of ignoble sound, became a disease clutching at his vitals. It

taught him fierceness, injustice, base suspicion, brutal conjecture; it

taught him that of which all these are constituents--hatred.

But it did not constrain him to any unworthy action. The temptation

that passed through his mind when he looked from the balcony on the

carriage that was to convey Elgar, did not return--or only as a bitter

desire, impossible of realization. Distant from Naples he must remain,

awaiting whatsoever might happen.

Ah, bright, gentle, sweet-faced Cecily! Inconceivable to her this

suffering that lay upon her friend. How it would pain her if she knew

of it! With what sad, wondering tenderness her eyes would regard him!

How kindly would she lay her soft hand in his, and entreat him to be

comforted!

If he asked her, would she not give him that hand, to be his always?

Perhaps, perhaps; in her gentleness she would submit to this change,

and do her best to love him. And in return he would give her gruff

affection, removal from the life to which she was accustomed,

loneliness, his uncertain humours, his dubious reputation. How often

most he picture these results, and convince himself of the

impossibility of anything of the kind?

He knew her better than did Mrs. Lessingham; oh, far better! He had

detected in her deep eyes the sleeping passion, some day to awake with

suddenness and make the whole world new to her. He knew how far from

impossible it was that Reuben Elgar should be the prince to break her

charmed slumber. There was the likeness and the unlikeness; common to

both that temperament of enthusiasm. On the one hand, Cecily with her

unsullied maidenhood; and on the other, Elgar with his reckless

experiences--contrasts which so commonly have a mutual attraction.

There was the singularity of their meeting after years, and seeing each

other in such a new light; the interest, the curiosity inevitably

resulting. What likelihood that any distrust would mingle with Cecily's

warmth of feeling, were that feeling once excited? He knew her too well.

How Mrs. Lessingham regarded Elgar he did not know. He had no

confidence in that lady's discretion; he thought it not improbable that

she would speak of Reuben to Cecily in the very way she should not,

making him an impressive figure. Then again, what part was Mrs. Baske

likely to have in such a situation? Could she be relied upon to

represent her brother unfavourably, with the right colour of

unfavourableness? Or was it not rather to be feared that the thought of

Cecily's influence might tempt her to encourage what otherwise she must

have condemned? He retraced in memory that curious dialogue he had held

with Miriam on the drive back from Baiae; could he gather from it any

hints of her probable behaviour?....

By a sudden revulsion of mind, Mallard became aware that in the long

fit of brooding just gone by he had not been occupied with Cecily at

all. Busying his thoughts with Mrs. Baske, he had slipped into a train

of meditation already begun on the evening in question, after the drive

with her. What was Mrs. Baske's true history? How had she come to marry

the man of whom Elgar's phrases had produced such a hateful image? What

was the state, in very deed, of her mind at present? What awaited her

in the future?

It was curious that Mrs. Baske's face was much more recoverable by his

mind's eye than Cecily's. In fact, to see Miriam cost him no effort at

all; equally at will, he heard the sound of her voice. There were times

when Cecily, her look and utterance, visited him very clearly; but this

was when he did not wish to be reminded of her. If he endeavoured to

make her present, as a rule the picturing faculty was irresponsive.

Welcome reverie! If only he could continue to busy himself with idle

speculation concerning the strange young Puritan, and so find relief

from the anguish that beset him. Suppose now, he set himself to imagine

Miriam in unlikely situations. What if she somehow fell into poverty,

was made absolutely dependent on her own efforts? Suppose she suffered

cruelly what so many women have to suffer--toil, oppression, solitude;

what would she become? Not, he suspected, a meek martyr; anything but

that, Miriam Baske. And how magnificent to see her flash out into

revolt against circumstances! Then indeed she would be interesting.

Nay, suppose she fell in love--desperately, with grim fate against her?

For somehow this came more easily to the fancy than the thought of her

loving without obstacle. Presumably she had never loved; her husband was out of

the question. Would she pass her life without that experience? One

thing could be affirmed with certainty; if she lost her heart to a man,

it would not be to a Puritan. He could conceive her being attracted by

a strong and somewhat rude fellow, a despiser of conventionalities,

without religion, a man of brains and blood; one whose look could

overwhelm her with tumultuous scorn, and whose hand, if need be, could

crush her life out at a blow. Why not, however, a highly polished

gentleman, critical, keen of speech, deeply read, brilliant in

conversation, at once man of the world and scholar? Might not that type

have power over her? In a degree, but not so decidedly as the

intellectual brute.

Pshaw! what brain-sickness was this! What was he fallen to! Yet it did

what nothing else would, amused him for a few minutes in his pain. He

recurred to it several times, and always successfully.

Sunday came. This evening would see Elgar back again.

No doubt of his return had yet entered his mind. Whether Reuben would

in reality settle to some kind of work was a different question; but of

course he would come back, if it were only to say that he had kept his

promise, but found he must set off again to some place or other.

Mallard dreaded his coming. News of some kind he would bring, and

Mallard's need was of silence. If he indeed remained here, the old

irritation would revive and go on from day to day. Impossible that they

should live together long.

It was pretty certain by what train he would journey from Naples to

Salerno; easy, therefore, to calculate the probable hour of his arrival

at Amalfi. When that hour drew near, Mallard set out to walk a short

distance along the road, to meet him. Unlike the Sorrento side of the

promontory, the mountains here rise suddenly and boldly out of the sea,

towering to craggy eminences, moulded and cleft into infinite variety

of slope and precipice, bastion and gorge. Cut upon the declivity,

often at vast sheer height above the beach, the road follows the

curving of the hills. Now and then it makes a deep loop inland, on the

sides of an impassable chasm; and set in each of these recesses is a

little town, white-gleaming amid its orchard verdure, with quaint and

many-coloured campanile, with the semblance of a remote time. Far up on

the heights are other gleaming specks, villages which seem utterly

beyond the traffic of man, solitary for ever in sun or mountain mist.

Mallard paid little heed to the things about him; he walked on and on,

watching for a vehicle, listening for the tread of horses. Sometimes he

could see the white road-track miles away, and he strained his eyes in

observing it. Twice or thrice he was deceived; a carriage came towards

him, and with agitation he waited to see its occupants, only to be

disappointed by strange faces.

There are few things more pathetic than persistency in hope due to

ignorance of something that has befallen beyond our ken. It is one of

those instances of the irony inherent in human fate which move at once

to tears and bitter laughter; the waste of emotion, the involuntary

folly, the cruel deception caused by limit of faculties--how they

concentrate into an hour or a day the essence of life itself!

He walked on and on; as well do this as go back and loiter fretfully at

the hotel. He got as far as the Capo d' Orso, the headland half-way

between Amalfi and Salerno, and there sat down by the wayside to rest.

From this point Salerno was first visible, in the far distance, between

the sea and the purple Apennines.

Either Elgar was not coming, or he had lingered long between the two

portions of his journey.

Mallard turned back; if the carriage came, it would overtake him. He

plodded slowly, the evening falling around him in still loveliness,

fragrance from the groves of orange and lemon spread on every motion of

the air.

And if he did not come? That must have some strange meaning. In any

case, he must surely write. And ten to one his letter would be a lie.

What was to be expected of him but a lie?

Monday, Tuesday, and now Wednesday morning. Hitherto not even a letter.

When it was clear that Elgar had disregarded his promise, and, for

whatever reason, did not even seek to justify or excuse himself, there

came upon Mallard a strong mood of scorn, which for some hours enabled

him to act as though all his anxiety were at an end. He set himself a

piece of work; a flash of the familiar energy traversed his mind. He

believed that at length his degradation was over, and that, come what

might, he could now face it sturdily. Mere self-deception, of course.

The sun veiled itself, and hope was as far as ever.

Never before had he utterly lost the power of working. In every

struggle he had speedily overcome, and found in work the one unfailing

resource. If he were robbed of this, what stay had life for him

henceforth? He could not try to persuade himself that his suffering

would pass, sooner or later, and time grant him convalescence; the

blackness ahead was too profound. He fell again into torpor, and let

the days go as they would; he cared not.

But this morning brought him a letter. At the first glance he was

surprised by a handwriting which was not Elgar's; recollecting himself,

he knew it for that of Mrs. Lessingham.

"DEAR MR. MALLARD,--

"It grieves me to be obliged to send you disquieting news so soon after

your departure from Naples, but I think you will agree with me that I

have no choice but to write of something that has this morning come to

my knowledge. You have no taste for roundabout phrases, so I will say

at once in plain words that Cecily and Mr. Elgar have somehow contrived

to fall in love with each other--or to imagine that they have done so,

which, as regards results, unfortunately amounts to the same thing. I

cannot learn by what process it came about, but I am assured by Cecily,

in words of becoming vagueness, that they plighted troth, or some thing

of the kind, yesterday at Pompeii. There was a party of four: Mr. and

Mrs. Bradshaw, Cecily, and Mrs. Baske. At Pompeii they were

unexpectedly (so I am told) joined by Mr. Elgar--notwithstanding that

he had taken leave of us on Saturday, with the information that he was

about to return to you at Amalfi, and there devote himself to literary

work of some indefinite kind. Perhaps you have in the meantime heard

from him. This morning Cecily received a letter, in which he made

peremptory request for an interview; she showed this to me. My duty

was plain. I declared the interview impossible, and Cecily gave way on

condition that I saw Mr. Elgar, told him why she herself did not

appear, and forthwith wrote to you. Our young gentleman was

disconcerted when he found that his visit was to be wasted on my

uninteresting self. I sent him about his business--only that,

unhappily, he has none--bidding him wait till we had heard from you.

"I fancy this will be as disagreeable to you as it is to me. The poor

child is in a sad state, much disposed, I fear, to regard me as her

ruthless enemy, and like to fall ill if she be kept long in idle

suspense. Do you think it worth while to come to Naples? It is very

annoying that your time should be wasted by foolish children. I had

given Cecily credit for more sense. For my own part, I cannot think

with patience of her marrying Mr. Elgar; or rather, I cannot think of

it without dread. We must save her from becoming wise through bitter

sorrow, if it can in any way be managed. I hope and trust that nothing

may happen to prevent your receiving this letter to-morrow, for I am

very uneasy, and not likely to become less so as time goes on.

"Believe me, dear Mr. Mallard,

"Sincerely yours,

"EDITH LESSINGHAM."

At seven o'clock in the evening, Mallard was in Naples. He did not go

to Casa Rolandi, but took a room in one of the musty hotels which

overlook the port. When he felt sure that Mrs. Gluck's guests must have

dined, he presented himself at the house and sent his name to Mrs.

Lessingham.

She took his hand with warm welcome.

"Thank you for coming so promptly. I have been getting into such a

state of nervousness. Cecily keeps her room, and looks ill; I have

several times been on the point of sending for the doctor, though it

seemed absurd."

Mallard seated himself without invitation; indeed, he had a difficulty

in standing.

"Hasn't she been out to-day?" he asked, in a voice which might have

signified selfish indifference.

"Nor yesterday. Mrs. Spence was here this morning, but Cecily would not

see her. I made excuses, and of course said nothing of what was going

on. I asked the child if she would like to see Mrs. Baske, but she

refused."

Mallard sat as if he had nothing to say, looking vaguely about the room.

"Have you heard from Mr. Elgar?" Mrs. Lessingham inquired.

"No. I know nothing about him. I haven't been to Casa Rolandi, lest I

should meet him. It was better to see you first."

"You were not prepared for this news?"

"His failure to return made me speculate, of course. I suppose they

have met several times at Mrs. Baske's?"

"That at once occurred to me, but Cecily assures me that is not so.

There is a mystery. I have no idea how they saw each other privately at

Pompeii on Monday. But, between ourselves, Mr. Mallard, I can't help

suspecting that he had learnt from his sister the particulars of the

excursion."

"You think it not impossible that Mrs. Baske connived at their meeting

in that way?"

"One doesn't like to use words of that kind, but--"

"I suppose one must use the word that expresses one's meaning," said

Mallard, bluntly. "But I didn't think Mrs. Baske was likely to aid her

brother for such a purpose. Have you any reason to think the contrary?"

"None that would carry any weight."

Mallard paused; then, with a restless movement on his chair exclaimed:

"But what has this to do with the matter? What has happened has

happened, and there's an end of it. The question is, what ought to be

done now? I don't see that we can treat Miss Doran like a child."

Mrs. Lessingham looked at him. She was resting one arm on a table by

which she sat, and supporting her forehead with her hand.

"You propose that things should take their natural course?"

"They will, whether I propose it or not."

"And if our next information is that they desire to be married as soon

as conveniently may be?"

"That is another matter. They will have no consent of mine to anything

of the kind."

"You relieve me."

Mallard looked at her frowningly.

"Miss Doran," he continued, "will not marry Elgar with my consent until

she be one-and-twenty. Then, of course, she may do as she likes."

"You will see Mr. Elgar, and make this clear to him?"

"Very clear indeed," was the grim reply. "As for any thing else, why,

what can we do? If they insist upon it, I suppose they must see each

other--of course, under reasonable restrictions. You cannot make

yourself a duenna of melodrama, Mrs. Lessingham."

"Scarcely. But I think our stay at Naples may reasonably be

shortened--unless, of course, Mr. Elgar leaves."

"You take it for granted, I see, that Miss Doran will be guided by our

judgment," said Mallard, after musing on the last remark.

"I have no fear of that," replied Mrs. Lessingham with confidence, "if

it is made to appear only a question of postponement. This will be a

trifle compared with my task of yesterday morning. You can scarcely

imagine how astonished she was at the first hint of opposition."

"I can imagine it very well," said the other, in his throat. "What else

could be expected after--" He checked himself on the point of saying

something that would have revealed his opinion of Mrs. Lessingham's

"system"--his opinion accentuated by unreasoning bitterness. "From all

we know of her," were the words he substituted.

"She is more like her father than I had supposed," said Mrs.

Lessingham, meditatively.

Mallard stood up.

"You will let her know that I have been here?"

"Certainly."

"She has expressed no wish to see me?"

"None. I had better report to her simply that you have no objection to

Mr. Elgar's visits."

"That is all I would say at present. I shall see Elgar tonight. He is

still at Casa Rolandi, I take it?"

"That was the address on his letter."

"Then, good-night. By-the-bye, I had better give you my address." He

wrote it on a leaf in his pocket-book. "I will see you again in a day

or two, when things have begun to clear up."

"It's too bad that you should have this trouble, Mr. Mallard."

"I don't pretend to like it, but there's no help."

And he left Mrs. Lessingham to make her comment on his candour.

Yes, Signor Elgar was in his chamber; he had entered but a quarter of

an hour since. The signor seemed not quite well, unhappily--said

Olimpia, the domestic, in her chopped Neapolitan. Mallard vouchsafed no

reply. He knocked sharply at the big solid door. There was a cry of

"Avanti!" and he entered.

Elgar advanced a few steps. He did not affect to smile, but looked

directly at his visitor, who--as if all the pain of the interview were

on him rather than the other--cast down his eyes.

"I was expecting you," said Reuben, without offering his hand.

"So was I you--three days ago."

"Sit down, and let us talk. I'm ashamed of myself, Mallard. I ought at

all events to have written."

"One would have thought so."

"Have you seen Mrs. Lessingham?"

"Yes."

"Then you understand everything. I repeat that I am ashamed of my

behaviour to you. For days--since last Saturday--I have been little

better than a madman. On Saturday I went to say good-bye to Mrs.

Lessingham and her niece; it was _bona fide_, Mallard."

"In your sense of the phrase. Go on."

"I tell you, I then meant to leave Naples," pursued Elgar, who had

repeated this so often to himself, by way of palliation, that he had

come to think it true. "It was not my fault that I couldn't when that

visit was over. It happened that I saw Miss Doran alone--sat talking

with her till her aunt returned."

Mrs. Lessingham had made no mention of this little matter. Hearing of

it, Mallard ejaculated mentally, "Idiot!"

"It was all over with me. I broke faith with you--as I should have done

with any man; as I should have done if the lives of a hundred people

had depended on my coming. I didn't write, because I preferred not to

write lies, and if I had told the truth, I knew you would come at once.

To be sure, silence might have had the same result, but I had to risk

something, and I risked that."

"I marvel at your disinclination to lie."

"What do you mean by saying that?" broke out Elgar, with natural warmth.

"I mean simply what I say. Go on."

"After all, Mallard, I don't quite know why you should take this tone

with me. If a man falls in love, he thinks of nothing but how to gain

his end; I should think even you can take that for granted. My broken

promise is a trifle in view of what caused it."

"Again, in _your_ view. In mine it is by no means a trifle. It

distinguishes you from honourable men, that's all; a point of some

moment, I should think, when your character is expressly under

discussion."

"You mean, of course, that I am not worthy of Cecily. I can't grant any

such conclusion."

"Let us leave that aside for the present," said Mallard. "Will you tell

me how it came to pass that you met Miss Doran and her companions at

Pompeii?"

Elgar hesitated; whereupon the other added quickly:

"If it was with Miss Doran's anticipation, I want no details."

"No, it wasn't."

Their looks met.

"By chance, then, of course?" said Mallard, sourly.

Elgar spoke on an impulse, leaning forward.

"Look, I won't lie to you. Miriam told me they were going. I met her

that morning, when I was slinking about, and I compelled her to give me

her help--sorely against her will. Don't think ill of her for it,

Mallard. I frightened her by my violent manner. I haven't seen her

since; she can't know what the result has been. None of them at Pompeii

suspected--only a moment of privacy; there's no need to say any more

about it."

Mallard mused over this revelation. He felt inclined to scorn Elgar for

making it. It affected him curiously, and at once took a place among

his imaginings of Miriam.

"You shall promise me that you won't betray your knowledge of this,"

added Reuben. "At all events, not now. Promise me that. Your word is to

be trusted, I know."

"It's very unlikely that I should think of touching on the matter to

your sister. I shall make no promise."

"Have you seen Cecily herself?" Elgar asked, leaving the point aside in

his eagerness to come to what concerned him more deeply.

"No."

"I have waited for your permission to visit her. Do you mean to refuse

it?"

"No. If you call to-morrow morning, you will be admitted. Mrs.

Lessingham is willing that you should see her niece in private."

"Hearty thanks for that, Mallard! We haven't shaken hands yet, you

remember. Forgive me for treating you so ill."

He held out his band cordially, and Mallard could not refuse it, though

he would rather have thrust his fingers among red coals than feel that

hot pressure.

"I believe I can be grateful," pursued Elgar, in a voice that quivered

with transport. "I will do my best to prove it."

"Let us speak of things more to the point. What result do you foresee

of this meeting to-morrow!"

The other hesitated.

"I shall ask Cecily when she will marry me."

"You may do so, of course, but the answer cannot depend upon herself

alone."

"What delay do you think necessary?"

"Until she is of age, and her own mistress," replied Mallard, with

quiet decision.

"Impossible! What need is there to wait all that time?"

"Why, there is this need, Elgar," returned the other, more vigorously

than he had yet spoken. "There is need that you should prove to those

who desire Miss Doran's welfare that you are something more than a

young fellow fresh from a life of waste and idleness and everything

that demonstrates or tends to untrustworthiness. It seems to me that a

couple of years or so is not an over-long time for this, all things

considered."

Elgar kept silent.

"You would have seen nothing objectionable in immediate marriage?" said

Mallard.

"It is useless to pretend that I should."

"Not even from the point of view of Mrs. Lessingham and myself?"

"You yourself have never spoken plainly about such things in my

hearing; but I find you in most things a man of your time. And it

doesn't seem to me that Mrs. Lessingham is exactly conventional in her

views."

"You imagine yourself worthy of such a wife at present?"

"Plainly, I do. It would be the merest hypocrisy if I said anything

else. If Cecily loves me, my love for her is at least as strong. If we

are equal in that, what else matters? I am not going to cry _Peccavi_

about the past. I have lived, and you know what that means in my

language. In what am I inferior as a man to Cecily as a woman? Would

you have me snivel, and talk about my impurity and her angelic

qualities? You know that you would despise me if I did--or any other

man who used the same empty old phrases."

"I grant you that," replied Mallard, deliberately. "I believe I am no

more superstitious with regard to these questions than you are, and I

want to hear no cant. Let us take it on more open ground. Were Cecily

Doran my daughter, I would resist her marrying you to the utmost of my

power--not simply because you have lived laxly, but because of my

conviction that the part of your life is to be a pattern of the whole.

I have no faith in you--no faith in your sense of honour, in your

stability, not even in your mercy. Your wife will be, sooner or later,

one of the unhappiest of women. Thinking of you in this way, and being

in the place of a parent to Cecily, am I doing my duty or not in

insisting that she shall not marry you hastily, that even in her own

despite she shall have time to study you and herself, that she shall

only take the irrevocable step when she clearly knows that it is done

on her own responsibility? You may urge what you like; I am not so

foolish as to suppose you capable of consideration for others in your

present state of mind. I, however, shall defend myself from the girl's

reproaches in after-years. There will be no marriage until she is

twenty-one."

A silence of some duration followed. Elgar sat with bent head, twisting

his moustaches. At length:

"I believe you are right, Mallard. Not in your judgment of me, but in

your practical resolve."

Mallard examined him from under his eyebrows.

"You are prepared to wait?" he asked, in an uncertain voice.

"Prepared, no. But I grant the force of your arguments. I will try to

bring myself to patience."

Mallard sat unmoving. His legs were crossed, and he held his soft felt

hat crushed together in both his hands. Elgar glanced at him once or

twice, expecting him to speak, but the other was mute.

"Your judgment of me," Elgar resumed, "is harsh and unfounded. I don't

know how you have formed it. You know nothing of what it means to me to

love such a girl as Cecily. Here I have found my rest. It supplies me

with no new qualities, but it strengthens those I have. You picture me

being unfaithful to Cecily--deserting her, becoming brutal to her?

There must be a strange prejudice in your mind to excite such images."

He examined Mallard's face. "Some day I will remind you of your

prophecies."

Mallard regarded him, and spoke at length, in a strangely jarring,

discordant voice.

"I said that hastily. I make no prophecies. I wished to say that those

seemed to me the probabilities."

"Thank you for the small mercy, at all events," said Elgar, with a

laugh.

"What do you intend to do?" Mallard proceeded to ask, changing his

position.

"I can make no plans yet. I have pretended to only too often. You have

no objection to my remaining here?"

"You must take your own course--with the understanding to which we have

come."

"I wish I could make you look more cheerful, Mallard. I owe it to you,

for you have given me more gladness than I can utter."

"You can do it."

"How?"

"See her to-morrow morning, and then go back to England, and make

yourself some kind of reputable existence."

"Not yet. That is asking too much. Not so soon."

"As you please. We understand each other on the main point."

"Yes. Are you going back to Amalfi?"

"I don't know."

They talked for a few minutes more, in short sentences of this kind,

but did not advance beyond the stage of mutual forbearance. Mallard

lingered, as though not sure that he had fulfilled his mission. In the

end he went away abruptly.

CHAPTER XII

ON THE HEIGHTS

In vain, at each meal, did Clifford Marsh await Cecily's appearance. A

trifling indisposition kept her to her room, was Mrs. Lessingham's

reply to sympathetic inquiries. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, who were

seriously making their preparations for journeying northward, held

private talk concerning the young lady, and felt they would like to

stay a week longer, just to see if their suspicions would be confirmed.

Mrs. Denyer found it difficult to assume the becoming air when she put

civil questions to Mrs. Lessingham, for she was now assured that to

Miss Doran was attributable the alarming state of things between

Clifford and Madeline; Marsh would never have been so intractable but

for this new element in the situation. Madeline herself on the other

hand, was a model of magnanimity; in Clifford's very hearing, she spoke

of Cecily with tender concern, and then walked past her recreant

admirer with her fair head in a pose of conscious grace.

Even Mr. Musselwhite, at the close of the second day, grew aware that

the table lacked one of its ornaments. It was his habit now--a new

habit came as a blessing of Providence to Mr. Musselwhite--on passing

into the drawing-room after dinner, to glance towards a certain corner,

and, after slow, undecided "tackings," to settle in that direction.

There sat Barbara Denyer. Her study at present was one of the

less-known works of Silvio Pellico, and as Mr. Musselwhite approached,

she looked up with an air of absorption. He was wont to begin

conversation with the remark, flatteringly toned, "Reading Italian as

usual, Miss Denyer?" but this evening a new subject had been suggested

to him.

"I hope Miss Doran is not seriously unwell, Miss Denyer?"

"Oh, I think not."

Mr. Musselwhite reflected, stroking his whiskers in a gentlemanly way.

"One misses her," was his next remark.

"Yes, so much. She is so charming--don't you think, Mr. Musselwhite?"

"Very." He now plucked at the whiskers uneasily. "Oh yes, very."

Barbara smiled and turned her attention to the book, as though she

could spare no more time. Mr. Musselwhite, dimly feeling that this

topic demanded no further treatment, racked his brains for something

else to say. He was far towards Lincolnshire when a rustle of the pages

under Barbara's finger gave him a happy inspiration.

"I don't know whether you would care to see English papers now and

then, Miss Denyer? I always have quite a number. The _Field_, for

instance, and--"

"You are very kind, I don't read much English, but I shall be glad to

see anything you like to bring me."

Mrs. Denyer was not wholly without consolation in her troubles about

Clifford Marsh.

On the following morning, as she and her daughters were going out, they

came face to face with a gentleman who was announcing to the servant

his wish to see Miss Doran. Naturally they all glanced at him. Would he

be admitted? With much presence of mind, Madeline exclaimed,--

"Oh dear, mamma! I have forgotten that letter. Please wait for me; I

won't be a minute."

And she disappeared, the others moving out on to the staircase. When

Madeline rejoined them, it was with the intelligence that the visitor

_had_ been admitted.

"Who can he be?"

"Rather a strange-looking person."

"Miss Doran cannot be ill. She has no brother. What an odd thing!"

They walked on, close serried, murmuring to each other discreetly....

For several minutes there had been perfect stillness in the room, a

hush after the music of low, impassioned voices. It was broken, yet

scarcely broken, by the sound of lips touching lips--touching to part

sweetly, touching again to part more slowly, more sweetly still.

"They will not influence you against me?"

"Never! never!"

"They will try, Cecily. You will hear endless things to my

disadvantage--things that I cannot contradict if you ask me."

"I care for nothing, Reuben. I am yours for ever and ever, hear what I

may, happen what may!"

"Don't call me by my hateful name, dearest. We will find some other, if

I must have a name for you."

"Why, that is like Romeo!"

"So it is; I wish I had no worse than Romeo's reason. I had rather have

had the vulgarest Anglo-Saxon name than this Jewish one. Happily, I

need have no fear in telling you that; _you_ are no Puritan."

"As little as a girl could be." She laughed in her happiness. "Have you

the same dislike for your sister's name?"

"Just the same. I believe it partly explains her life."

"She will not be against us, though?"

"Neither for nor against, I am afraid. Yet I have to thank her for the

meeting with you at Pompeii. Why haven't you asked me how I came there?"

"I never thought to ask. It seemed so natural. I longed for you, and

you stood before me. I could almost believe that my longing had power

to bring you, so strong it was. But tell me."

He did so, and again they lost themselves in rapturous dreamland.

"Do you think Mr. Mallard will wish to see me?" she asked timidly.

"I can't be sure. I half think not."

"Yet I half wish he would. I should find it strange and a little

difficult, but he couldn't be harsh with me. I think it might do good

if he came to see me--in a day or two."

"On what terms have you always been with him? How does he behave to

you?"

"Oh, you know him. He still looks upon me rather too much as a child,

and he seems to have a pleasure in saying odd, half-rude things; but we

are excellent friends--or have been. Such a delightful day as we had at

Baiae! I have always liked him."

"At Baiae? You didn't go alone with him?"

"No; Miriam was there and Mr. Spence. We found him dreaming at

Pozzuoli, and carried him off in the boat with us."

"He never thought much of me, and now he hates me."

"No; that is impossible."

"If you had heard him speaking to me last night, you would think

differently. He makes it a crime that I should love you."

"I don't understand it."

"What's more, he has feared this ever since I came; I feel sure of it.

When I was coming back from Pompeii, he took me with him to Amalfi all

but by force. He dreaded my returning and seeing you."

"But why should he think of such a thing?"

"Why?"

Elgar led her a few paces, until they stood before a mirror.

"Don't look at me. The other face, which is a little paler than it

should be."

She hid it against him.

"But you don't love me for my face only? You will see others who have

more beauty."

"Perhaps so. Mallard hopes so, in the long time we shall have to wait."

She fixed startled eyes on him.

"He cannot wish me so ill--he cannot! That would be unlike him."

"He wishes _you_ no ill, be sure of it."

"Oh, you haven't spoken to him as you should! You haven't made him

understand you. Let me speak to him for you."

"Cecily."

"Dearest?"

"Suppose he doesn't wish to understand me. Have you never thought, when

he has pretended to treat you as a child, that there might be some

reason for it? Did it never occur to you that, if he spoke too roughly,

it might be because he was afraid of being too gentle?"

"Never! That thought has never approached my mind. You don't speak in

earnest?"

Why could he not command his tongue? Why have suggested this to her

imagination? He did not wholly mean to say it, even to the last moment;

but unwisdom, as so often, overcame him. It was a way of defending

himself; he wished to imply that Mallard had a powerful reason for

assailing his character. He had been convinced since last night that

Mallard was embittered by jealousy, and he half credited the fear lest

jealousy might urge to the use of any weapons against him; he was

tempted by the satisfaction of putting Cecily on her guard against

interested motives. But he should not have troubled her soul with such

suspicions. He read on her face how she was pained, and her next word

proved his folly.

"If you are right, I can never speak to him as I might have done. It

alters everything; it makes everything harder. You are mistaken."

"I may be. Let us hope I am."

"How I wish I had never seen that possibility! I cannot believe it; yet

it will prevent me from looking honestly in his face, as I always have

done."

"Forget it. Let us speak only of ourselves."

But she was troubled, and Elgar, angry with himself, spoke impatiently.

"In pity for him, you would love me less. I see that."

"You are not yet satisfied? You find new ways of forcing me to say that

I love you. Seem to distrust me, that I may say it over and over; make

me believe you really doubt if I can be constant, just that I may hear

what my heart says in its distress, and repeat it all to you. Be a

little unkind to me, that I may show how your unkindness would wound

me, and may entreat you back into your own true self. You can do

nothing, say nothing, but I will make it afford new proofs of hew I

love you."

"I had rather you made yourself less dear to me. The time will be so

long. How can I live through it?"

"Will it not help you a little to help me? To know that you are unhappy

would make it so much longer to me, my love."

"It will be hell to live away from you! I cannot make myself another

man. If you knew what I have suffered only in these two days!"

"There was uncertainty."

"Uncertainty? Then what certainty could I ever have? Every hour spent

at a distance from you will be full of hideous misgivings. Remember

that every one will be doing the utmost to part us."

"Let them do the utmost twice over! You must have faith in me. Look

into my eyes. Is there no assurance, no strength for you? Do they look

too happy? That is because you are still here; time enough for sadness

when you are gone. Oh, you think too humbly of yourself! Having loved

you, and known your love, what else can the world offer me to live for?"

"Wherever you are, I must come often."

"Indeed you must, or for me too the burden will be heavier than I can

bear."

As the Denyers were coming home, it surprised them to pass, at a little

distance from the house, Clifford Marsh in conversation with the

gentleman who had called upon Miss Doran. Madeline, exercising her new

privilege of perfect _sang-froid_, took an opportunity not long after

to speak to Clifford in the drawing-room.

"Who was the gentleman we saw you with?"

"I met him at Pompeii, but didn't know his name till today. He's asked

me to dine with him."

"He is a friend of Miss Doran's, I believe?"

"I believe so."

"You accepted his invitation?"

"Yes; I am always willing to make a new acquaintance."

"A liberal frame of mind. Did he give you news of Miss Doran's health?"

"No."

He smiled mysteriously, only to appear at his ease; and Madeline,

smiling also, turned away.

Cecily reappeared this evening at the dinner-table. She was changed;

Mrs. Gluck and her guests were not again to behold the vision to which

their eyes had become accustomed; that supremacy of simple charm which

some of them had recognized as English girlhood at its best, had given

place to something less intelligible, less instant in its

attractiveness. Perhaps the climate of Naples was proving not well

suited to her.

After dinner, she and Mrs. Lessingham at once went to their private

room. Cecily sat down to write a letter. When she moved, as if the

letter were finished, her aunt looked up from a newspaper.

"I've been thinking, Cecily. Suppose we go over to Capri for a change?"

"I am quite willing, aunt."

"I think Mr. Elgar has not been there yet. He might accompany us."

Unprepared for this, Cecily murmured an assent.

"Do you know how much longer he thinks of staying in Italy?"

"We haven't spoken of it."

"Has he given up his literary projects?"

"I'm afraid we didn't speak of that either."

"Shall you be satisfied if he continues to live quite without

occupation?"

"I don't for a moment think he purposes that."

"And yet it will certainly be the ease as long as he remains here--or

wherever else we happen to be living."

Mrs. Lessingham allowed her to ponder this for a few minutes. Then she

resumed the train of thought.

"Have you had leisure yet to ask yourself, my dear, what use you will

make of the great influence you have acquired over Mr. Elgar's mind?"

"That is not quite the form my thoughts would naturally take, aunt,"

Cecily replied, with gentleness.

"Yet may it not be the form they should? You are accustomed to think

for yourself to a greater extent than girls whose education has been

more ordinary; you cannot take it ill if I remind you now of certain

remarks I have made on Mr. Elgar lately, and remind you also that I am

not alone in my view of him. Don't fear that I shall say anything

unkind; but if you feel equal to a woman's responsibilities, you must

surely exercise a woman's good sense. Let us say nothing more than that

Mr. Elgar has fallen into habits of excessive indolence; doesn't it

seem to you that you might help him out of them?"

"I think he may not need help as you understand it, now."

"My dear, he needs it perhaps five hundred times more than he did

before. If you decline to believe me, I shall be only too much

justified by your experience hereafter."

"What would you have me do?"

"What must very soon occur to your own excellent wits, Cecily--for I

won't give up all my pride in you. Mr. Elgar should, of course, go back

to England, and do something that becomes him; he must decide what. Let

him have a few days with us in Capri; then go, and so far recommend

himself in our eyes. No one can make him see that this is what his

dignity--if nothing else--demands, except yourself. Think of it, dear."

Cecily did think of it, long and anxiously. Thanks to Elgar, her

meditations had a dark background such as her own fancy would never

have supplied.

He knew not how sadly the image of him had been blurred in Cecily's

mind, the man who lay that night in his room overlooking the port.

Whether such ignorance were for his aid or his disadvantage, who shall

venture to say?

To a certain point, we may follow with philosophic curiosity, step by

step, the progress of mental anguish, but when that point is passed,

analysis loses its interest; the vocabulary of pain has exhausted

itself, the phenomena already noted do but repeat themselves with more

rapidity, with more intensity--detail is lost in the mere sense of

throes. Perchance the mind is capable of suffering worse than the

fiercest pangs of hopeless love combined with jealousy; one would not

pretend to put a limit to the possibilities of human woe; but for

Mallard, at all events this night did the black flood of misery reach

high-water mark.

What joy in the world that does not represent a counter-balance of

sorrow? What blessedness poured upon one head but some other must

therefore lie down under malediction? We know that with the uttermost

of happiness there is wont to come a sudden blending of troublous

humour. May it not be that the soul has conceived a subtle sympathy

with that hapless one but for whose sacrifice its own elation were

impossible?

CHAPTER XIII

ECHO AND PRELUDE

At Villa Sannazaro, the posture of affairs was already understood. When

Eleanor Spence, casually calling at the _pension_, found that Cecily

was unable to receive visitors, she at the same time learnt from Mrs.

Lessingham to what this seclusion was due. The ladies had a singular

little conversation, for Eleanor was inwardly so amused at this speedy

practical comment on Mrs. Lessingham's utterances of the other day,

that with difficulty she kept her countenance; while Mrs. Lessingham

herself, impelled to make the admission without delay, that she might

exhibit a philosophic acceptance of fact, had much ado to hide her

chagrin beneath the show of half-cynical frankness that became a woman

of the world. Eleanor--passably roguish within the limits of becoming

mirth--acted the scene to her husband, who laughed shamelessly. Then

came explanations between Eleanor and Miriam.

The following day passed without news, but on the morning after, Miriam

had a letter from Cecily; not a long letter, nor very effusive, but

telling all that was to be told. And it ended with a promise that

Cecily would come to the villa that afternoon. This was communicated to

Eleanor.

"Where's Mallard, I wonder?" said Spence, when his wife came to talk to

him. "Not, I suspect, at the old quarters, It would be like him to go

off somewhere without a word. Confound that fellow Elgar!"

"I'm half disposed to think that it serves Mr. Mallard right," was

Eleanor's remark.

"Well, for heartlessness commend me to a comfortable woman."

"And for folly commend me to a strong-minded man."

"Pooh! He'll growl and mutter a little, and then get on with his

painting."

"If I thought so, my liking for him would diminish. I hope he is

tearing his hair."

"I shall go seek him."

"Do; and give my best love to him, poor fellow."

Cecily came alone. She was closeted with Miriam for a long time, then

saw Eleanor. Spence purposely kept away from home.

Dante lay unread, as well as the other books which Eleanor placed

insidiously in her cousin's room. Letters lay unanswered--among them

several relating to the proposed new chapel at Bartles. How did Miriam

employ herself during the hours that she spent alone?

Not seldom, in looking back upon her childhood and maidenhood.

Imagine a very ugly cubical brick house of two stories, in a suburb of

Manchester. It stands a few yards back from the road. On one side, it

is parted by a row of poplars from several mean cottages; on the other,

by a narrow field from a house somewhat larger and possibly a little

uglier than itself. Its outlook, over the highway, is on to a tract of

country just being broken up by builders, beyond which a conglomerate

of factories, with chimneys ever belching heavy fumes, closes the view;

its rear windows regard a scrubby meadow, grazed generally by

broken-down horses, with again a limitary prospect of vast mills.

Imagine a Sunday in this house. Half an hour later than on profane

days, Mrs. Elgar descends the stairs. She is a lady of middle age,

slight, not ungraceful, handsome; the look of pain about her forehead

is partly habitual, but the consciousness of Sunday intensifies it. She

moves without a sound. Entering the breakfast-room, she finds there two

children, a girl and a boy, both attired in new-seeming garments which

are obviously stiff and uncomfortable. The little girl sits on an

uneasy chair, her white-stockinged legs dangling, on her lap a large

copy of "Pilgrim's Progress;" the boy is half reclined on a shiny sofa,

his hands in his pockets, on his face an expression of discontent. The

table is very white, very cold, very uninviting.

Ten minutes later appears the master of the house, shaven, also in

garments that appear new and uncomfortable, glancing hither and thither

with preoccupied eyes. There is some talk in a low voice between the

little girl and her mother; then the family seat themselves at table

silently. Mr. Elgar turns a displeased look on the boy, and says

something in a harsh voice which causes the youngster to straighten

himself, curl his lip precociously, and thereafter preserve a

countenance of rebellion subdued by fear. His father eats very little,

speaks scarcely at all, but thinks, thinks-and most assuredly not of

sacred subjects.

Breakfast over, there follows an hour of indescribable dreariness,

until the neighbourhood begins to sound with the clanging of religious

bells. Mr. Elgar has withdrawn to a little room of his own, where

perhaps, he gives himself up to meditation on the duties of a Christian

parent, though his incredulous son has ere now had a glimpse at the

door, and observed him in the attitude of letter-writing. Mrs. Elgar

moves about silently, the pain on her brow deepening as chapel-time

approaches. At length the boy and girl go upstairs to be "got ready,"

which means that they indue other garments yet more uncomfortable than

those they already wear. This process over, they descend again to the

breakfast-room, and again sit there, waiting for the dread moment of

departure. The boy is more rebellious than usual; he presently drums

with his feet, and even begins to whistle, very low, a popular air. His

sister looks at him, first with astonished reproach, then in dread.

_Satis superque_. Again and again Miriam revived these images of the

past. And the more she thought of herself as a child, the less was she

pleased with what her memory presented. How many instances came back to

her of hypocrisy before her father or mother, hypocrisy which,

strangely enough, she at the time believed a merit, though perfectly

aware of her own insincerity! How many a time had she suffered from the

restraints imposed upon her, and then secretly allowed herself

indulgences, and then again persuaded herself that by severe attention

to formalities she blotted out her sin!

But the worst was when Cecily Doran came to live in the house. Cecily

was careless in religion, had been subjected to no proper severity, had

not been taught to probe her con science. At once Miriam assumed an

attitude of spiritual pride--the beginning of an evil which was to

strengthen its hold upon her through years. She would be an example to

the poor little heathen; she talked with her unctuously; she excited

herself, began to find a pleasure in asceticism, and drew the

susceptible girl into the same way. They would privately appoint

periods of fasting, and at several successive meals irritate their

hunger by taking only one or two morsels; when faintness came upon

them, they gloried in the misery.

And from that stage of youth survived memories far more painful than

those of childhood. Miriam shut her mind against them.

Her marriage came about in the simplest way; nothing easier to

understand, granted these circumstances. The friends of the family were

few, and all people of the same religious sect, of the same commercial

sphere. Miriam had never spoken with a young man whom she did not in

her heart despise; the one or two who might possibly have been tempted

to think of her as a desirable wife were repelled by her austerity. She

had now a character to support; she had made herself known for severe

devotion to the things of the spirit. In her poor little world she

could not submit to be less than pre-eminent, and only by the way of

religion was pre-eminence to be assured. When the wealthy and pious

manufacturer sought her hand, she doubted for a while, but was in the

end induced to consent by the reflection that not only would she be

freer, but at the same time enjoy a greatly extended credit and

influence. Her pride silenced every other voice.

Religious hypocrisy is in our day a very rare thing; so little is to be

gained by it. To be sure, the vast majority of English people are

constantly guilty of hypocritical practices, but that, as a rule, is

mere testimony to the rootedness of their orthodox faith. Mr. Elgar.

shutting himself up between breakfast and chapel to write business

letters--which he pre- or post-dated--was ignoble enough, but not

therefore a hypocrite. Had a fatal accident happened to one of his

family whilst he was thus employed, he would not have succeeded in

persuading his conscience that the sin and the calamity were

unconnected. His wife had never admitted a doubt of its being required

by the immutable law of God that she should be sad and severe on

Sunday, that Reuben should be sternly punished for whistling on that

day, that little Miriam should be rewarded when she went through the

long services with unnatural stillness and demureness. Nor was Miriam

herself a hypocrite when, mistress of Redbeck House, she began to

establish her reputation and authority throughout dissenting Bartles.

Her instruction had been rigidly sectarian. Whatever she studied was

represented to her from the point of view of its relation to

Christianity as her teachers understood it. The Christian faith was

alone of absolute significance; all else that the mind of man could

contain was of more or less importance as more or less connected with

that single interest. To the time of her marriage, her outlook upon the

world was incredibly restricted. She had never read a book that would

not pass her mother's censorship; she had never seen a work of art; she

had never heard any but "sacred" music; she had never perused a

journal; she had never been to an entertainment--unless the name could

be given to a magic-lantern exhibition of views in Palestine, or the

like. Those with whom she associated had gone through a similar

training, and knew as little of life.

She had heard of "infidelity;" yes. Live as long as she might, she

would never forget one dreadful day when, in a quarrel with his mother,

Reuben uttered words which signified hatred and rejection of all he had

been taught to hold divine Mrs. Elgar's pallid, speechless horror; the

severe chastisement inflicted on the lad by his father;--she could

never look back on it all without sickness of heart. Thenceforth, her

brother and his wild ways embodied for her that awful thing,

infidelity. At the age which Cecily Doran had now attained, Miriam

believed that there were only a few men living so unspeakably wicked as

to repudiate Christianity; one or two of these, she had learnt from the

pulpit, were "men of science," a term which to this day fell on her

ears with sinister sound.

Thus prepared for the duties of wife, mother, and leader in society,

she shone forth upon Bartles. Her husband, essentially a coarse man,

did his utmost, though unconsciously, to stimulate her pride and supply

her with incentives to unworthy ambition. He was rich, and boasted of

it vulgarly; he was ignorant, and vaunted the fact, thanking Heaven

that for him the purity of religious conviction had never been

endangered by the learning that leads astray; he was proud of

possessing a young and handsome wife, and for the first time evoked in

her a personal vanity. Day by day was it--most needlessly--impressed

upon Miriam that she must regard herself as the chief lady in Bartles,

and omit no duty appertaining to such a position. She had an example to

set; she was chosen as a support of religion.

Most happily, the man died. Had he remained her consort for ten years,

the story of Miriam's life would have been one of those that will

scarcely bear dwelling upon, too repulsive, too heart-breaking; a few

words of bitterness, of ruth, and there were an end of it. His death

was like the removal of a foul burden that polluted her and gradually

dragged her down. Nor was it long before she herself understood it in

this way, though dimly and uncertainly. She found herself looking on

things with eyes which somehow had a changed power of vision. With

remarkable abruptness, certain of her habits fell from her, and she

remembered them only with distaste, even with disgust. And one day she

said to herself passionately that never would she wed again--never,

never! She was experiencing for the first time in her life a form of

liberty.

Not that her faith had received any shock. To her undeveloped mind

every tenet in which she had been instructed was still valid. This is

the point to note. Her creed was a habit of the intellect; she held it

as she did the knowledge of the motions of the earth. She had never

reflected upon it, for in everything she heard or read this

intellectual basis was presupposed. With doctrinal differences her

reasoning faculty was familiar, and with her to think of religion was

to think of the points at issue between one church and another--always,

moreover, with pre-judgment in favour of her own.

But the external results of her liberty began to be of importance. She

came into frequent connection with her cousin Eleanor; she saw more

than hitherto of the Bradshaws' family life; she had business

transactions; she read newspapers; she progressed slowly towards some

practical acquaintance with the world.

Miriam knew the very moment when the thought of making great sacrifices

to build a new chapel for Bartles had first entered her mind. One of

her girl friends had just married, and was come to live in the

neighbourhood. The husband, Welland by name, was wealthier and of more

social importance than Mr. Baske had been; it soon became evident that

Mrs. Welland, who also aspired to prominence in religious life, would

be a formidable rival to the lady of Redbeck House. On the occasion of

some local meeting, Miriam felt this danger keenly; she went home in

dark mood, and the outcome of her brooding was the resolve in question.

She had not inherited all her husband's possessions; indeed, there fell

to her something less than half his personal estate. For a time, this

had not concerned her; now she was beginning to think of it

occasionally with discontent, followed by reproach of conscience. Like

reproach did she suffer for the jealousy and envy excited in her by

Mrs. Welland's arrival. A general uneasiness of mind was gradually

induced, and the chapel-building project, with singular confusion of

motives, represented to her at once a worldly ambition and a discipline

for the soul. It was a long time before she spoke of it, and in the

interval she suffered more and more from a vague mental unrest.

Letters were coming to her from Cecily. Less by what they contained

than by what they omitted, she knew that Cecily was undergoing a great

change. Miriam put at length certain definite questions, and the

answers she received were unsatisfactory, alarming. The correspondence

became a distinct source of trouble. Not merely on Cecily's account;

she was led by it to think of the world beyond her horizon, and to

conceive dissatisfactions such as had never taken form to her.

Her physical health began to fall off; she had seasons of depression,

during which there settled upon her superstitious fears. Ascetic

impulses returned, and by yielding to them she established a new cause

of bodily weakness. And the more she suffered, the more intolerable to

her grew the thought of resigning her local importance. Her pride,

whenever irritated, showed itself in ways which exposed her to the

ridicule of envious acquaintances. At length Bartles was surprised with

an announcement of what had so long been in her mind; a newspaper

paragraph made known, as if with authority, the great and noble work

Mrs. Baske was about to undertake. For a day or two Miriam enjoyed the

excitement this produced--the inquiries, the felicitations, the reports

of gossip. She held her head more firmly than ever; she seemed of a

sudden to be quite re-established in health.

Another day or two, and she was lying seriously ill--so ill that her

doctor summoned aid from Manchester.

What a distance between those memories, even the latest of them, and

this room in Villa Sannazaro! Its foreign aspect, its brightness, its

comfort, the view from the windows, had from the first worked upon her

with subtle influences of which she was unconscious. By reason of her

inexperience of life, it was impossible for Miriam to analyze her own

being, and note intelligently the modifications it underwent.

Introspection meant to her nothing but debates held with conscience--a

technical conscience, made of religious precepts. Original reflection,

independent of these precepts, was to her very simply a form of sin, a

species of temptation for which she had been taught to prepare herself.

With anxiety, she found herself slipping away from that firm ground

whence she was wont to judge all within and about her; more and more

difficult was it to keep in view that sole criterion in estimating the

novel impressions she received. To review the criterion itself was

still beyond her power. She suffered from the conviction that trials

foreseen were proving too strong for her. Whenever her youth yielded to

the allurement of natural joys, there followed misery of penitence. Not

that Miriam did in truth deem it a sin to enjoy the sunshine and the

breath of the sea and the beauty of mountains (though such delights

might become excessive, like any other, and so veil temptation), but

she felt that for one in her position of peril there could not be too

strict a watch kept upon the pleasures that were admitted. Hence she

could never forget herself in pleasure; her attitude must always be

that of one on guard.

The name of Italy signified perilous enticement, and she was beginning

to feel it. The people amid whom she lived were all but avowed scorners

of her belief, and yet she was beginning to like their society. Every

letter she wrote to Bartles seemed to her despatched on a longer

journey than the one before; her paramount interests were fading,

fading; she could not exert herself to think of a thousand matters

which used to have the power to keep her active all day long. The

chapel-plans were hidden away; she durst not go to the place where they

would have met her eye.

She suffered in her pride. On landing at Naples, she had imagined that

her position among the Spences and their friends would not be greatly

different from that she had held at Bartles. They were not "religious"

people; all the more must they respect her, feeling rebuked in her

presence. The chapel project would enhance her importance. How far

otherwise had it proved! They pitied her, compassionated her lack of

knowledge, of opportunities. With the perception of this, there came

upon her another disillusion In classing the Spences with people who

were not "religious," she had understood them as lax in the observance

of duties which at all events they recognized as such. By degrees she

learnt that they were very far from holding the same views as herself

concerning religious obligation; they were anything but

conscience-smitten in the face of her example. Was it, then, possible

that persons who lived in a seemly manner could be sceptics, perhaps

"infidels"? What of Cecily Doran? She had not dared to ask Cecily face

to face how far her disbelief went; the girl seemed to have no creed

but that of worldly delight. How had she killed her conscience in so

short a time? Obviously, her views were those of Mrs. Lessingham;

probably those of Mr. Mallard. Were these people strange and dreadful

exceptions, or did they represent a whole world of which she had not

suspected the existence?

Yes, she was beginning to feel the allurement of Italy. Instead of

sitting turned away from her windows when musing, she often passed an

hour with her eyes on the picture they framed, content to be idle,

satisfied with form and colour, not thinking at all. Habits of personal

idleness crept upon her; she seldom cared to walk, but found pleasure

in the motion of a carriage, and lay back on the cushions, instead of

sitting quite upright as at first. She began to wish for music; the

sound of Eleanor's piano would tempt her to make an excuse for going

into the room, and then she would remain, listening. The abundant

fruits of the season became a temptation to her palate; she liked to

see shops and stalls overflowing with the vineyard's delicious growth.

She knew for the first time the seduction of books. From what

unutterable weariness had she been saved when she assented to Eleanor's

proposal and began to learn Italian! First there was the fear lest she

should prove slow at acquiring, suffer yet another fall from her

dignity; but this apprehension was soon removed. She had a brain, and

could use it; Eleanor's praise fell upon her ears delightfully. Then

there was that little volume of English verse which Eleanor left on the

table; its name, "The Golden Treasury," made her imagine it of a

religious tone; she was undeceived in glancing through it. Poetry had

hitherto made no appeal to her; she did not care much for the little

book. But one day Cecily caught it up in delight, and read to her for

half an hour; she affected indifference, but had in reality learnt

something, and thereafter read for herself.

The two large mirrors in her room had, oddly enough, no unimportant

part among the agencies working for her development. It was almost

inevitable that, in moving about, she should frequently regard her own

figure. From being something of an annoyance, this necessity at length

won attractiveness, till she gazed at herself far oftener than she need

have done. As for her face she believed it passable, perhaps rather

more than that; but the attire that had possessed distinction at

Bartles looked very plain, to say the least, in the light of her new

experience. One day she saw herself standing side by side with Cecily,

and her eyes quickly turned away.

To what was she sinking!

But Dante lay unopened, together with the English books. Miriam had

spent a day or two of alternate languor and irritableness, unable to

attend to anything serious. Just now she had in her hand Cecily's

letter, the letter which told of what had happened. There was no reason

for referring to it again; this afternoon Cecily herself had been here.

But Miriam read over the pages, and dwelt upon them.

At dinner, no remark was made on the subject that occupied the minds of

all three. Afterwards they sat together, as usual, and Eleanor played.

In one of the silences, Miriam turned to Spence and asked him if he had

seen Mr. Mallard.

"Yes; I found him after a good deal of going about," replied the other,

glad to have done with artificial disregard of the subject.

"Does he know that they are going to Capri!"

"He evidently hadn't heard of it. I suppose he'll have a note from Mrs.

Lessingham this evening or to-morrow."

Miriam waited a little, then asked:

"What is his own wish? What does he think ought to be arranged?"

"Just what Cecily told you," interposed Eleanor, before her husband

could reply.

"I thought he might have spoken more freely to Edward."

"Well," answered Spence, "he is strongly of opinion that Reuben ought

to go to England very soon. But I suppose Cecily told you that as well?"

"She seemed to be willing. But why doesn't Mr. Mallard speak to her

himself?"

"Mallard isn't exactly the man for this delicate business," said

Spence, smiling.

Miriam glanced from him to Eleanor. She would have said no more, had it

been in her power to keep silence; but an involuntary persistence, the

same in kind as that often manifested by questioning children--an

impulsive feeling that the next query must elicit something which would

satisfy a vague desire, obliged her to speak again.

"Is it his intention not to see Cecily at all?"

"I think very likely it is, Miriam," answered Eleanor, when her husband

showed that he left her to do so.

"I understand."

To which remark Eleanor, when Miriam was gone, attached the

interrogative, "I wonder whether she does?" The Spences did not feel it

incumbent upon them to direct her in the matter; it were just as well

if she followed a mistaken clue.

Two days later, Mrs. Lessingham and her niece, accompanied by Reuben

Elgar, departed for Capri. The day after that, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw in

very deed said good-bye to Naples and travelled northwards. They

purposed spending Christmas in Rome, and thence by quicker stages they

would return to the land of civilization. Spence went to the station to

see them off, and at lunch, after speaking of this and other things, he

said to Miriam:

"Mallard wishes to see you. I told him I thought five o'clock this

afternoon would be a convenient time."

Miriam assented, but not without betraying surprise and uneasiness.

Subsequently she just mentioned to Eleanor that she would receive the

visitor in her own sitting-room. There, as five o'clock drew near, she

waited in painful agitation. What it was Mallard's purpose to say to

her she could not with any degree of certainty conjecture. Had Reuben

told him of the part she had played in connection with that eventful

day at Pompeii? What would be his tone? Did he come to ask for

particulars concerning her brother? Intend what he might, she dreaded

the interview. And yet--fact of which she made no secret to

herself--she had rather he came than not. When it was a few minutes

past five, and no foot had yet sounded in the corridor, all other

feeling was lost in the misgiving that he might have changed his mind.

Perhaps he had decided to write instead, and her heart sank at the

thought. She felt an overpowering curiosity as to the way in which this

event had affected the strange man. Reports were no satisfaction to

her; she desired to see him and hear him speak.

The footsteps at last! She trembled, went hot and cold, had a parched

throat. Mallard entered, and she did not offer him her hand; perhaps he

might reject it. In consequence there was an absurdly formal bow on

both sides.

"Please sit down, Mr. Mallard."

She saw that he was looking at the "St. Cecilia," but with what

countenance her eyes could not determine. To her astonishment, he spoke

of the picture, and in an unembarrassed tone.

"An odd thing that this should be in your room."

"Yes. We spoke of it the first time Cecily came."

Her accents were not firm. At once he fixed his gaze on her, and did

not remove it until her temples throbbed and she cast down her eyes in

helpless abashment.

"I have had a long letter from your brother, Mrs. Baske. It seems he

posted it just before they left for Capri. I can only reply to it in

one way, and it gives me so much pain to do so that I am driven to ask

your help. He writes begging me to take another view of this matter,

and permit them to be married before very long. The letter is

powerfully written; few men could plead their cause with such eloquence

and force. But it cannot alter my determination. I must reply briefly

and brutally. What I wish to ask you is, whether with sincerity you can

urge my arguments upon your brother, and give me this assistance in the

most obvious duty?"

"I have no influence with him, Mr. Mallard."

Again he looked at her persistently, and said with deliberation:

"I think you must have some. And this is one of the cases in which a

number of voices may possibly prevail, though one or two are

ineffectual. But--if you will forgive me my direct words--your voice

is, of course, useless if you cannot speak in earnest."

She was able now to return his look, for her pride was being aroused.

The face she examined bore such plain marks of suffering that with

difficulty she removed her eyes from it. Nor could she make reply to

him, so intensely were her thoughts occupied with what she saw.

"Perhaps," he said, "you had rather not undertake anything at once."

Then, his voice changing slightly, "I have no wish to seem a suppliant,

Mrs. Baske. My reasons for saying that this marriage shall not, if I

can prevent it, take place till Miss Doran is of age, are surely simple

and convincing enough; I can't suppose that it is necessary to insist

upon them to you. But I feel I had no right to leave any means unused.

By speaking to you, I might cause you to act more earnestly than you

otherwise would. That was all."

"I am very willing to help you," she replied, with carefully courteous

voice.

"After all, I had rather we didn't put it in that way," Mallard

resumed, with a curious doggedness, as if her tone were distasteful to

him. "My own part in the business is accidental. Please tell me: is it,

or not, your own belief that a delay is desirable?"

The reply was forced from her.

"I certainly think it is."

"May I ask you if you have reasoned with your brother about it?"

"I haven't had any communication with him since--since we knew of

this." She paused; but, before Mallard had shown an intention to speak,

added abruptly, "I should have thought that Miss Doran might have been

trusted to understand and respect your wishes."

"Miss Doran knows my wishes," he answered drily, "but I haven't

insisted upon them to her, and am not disposed to do so."

"Would it not be very simple and natural if you did?"

The look he gave her was stern all but to anger.

"It wouldn't be a very pleasant task to me, Mrs. Baske, to lay before

her my strongest arguments against her marrying Mr. Elgar. And if I

don't do that, it seems to me that it is better to let her know my

wishes through Mrs. Lessingham. As you say, it is to be hoped she will

understand and respect them."

He rose from his chair. For some reason, Miriam could not utter the

words that one part of her prompted. She wished to assure him that she

would do her best with Reuben, but at the same time she resented his

mode of addressing her, and the conflict made her tongue-tied.

"I won't occupy more of your time, Mrs. Baske."

She would have begged him to resume his seat. The conversation had been

so short; she wanted to hear him speak more freely. But her request,

she knew, would be disregarded With an effort, she succeeded in holding

out her hand Mallard held it lightly for an instant.

"I will write to him," fell from her lips, when already he had turned

to the door. "If necessary, I will go and see him."

"Thank you," he replied with civility, and left her.

CHAPTER XIV

ON THE WINGS OF THE MORNING

"I cannot answer your long letter; to such correspondence there is no

end. Come and spend a day here with us; I promise to listen patiently,

and you shall hear how things are beginning to shape themselves in my

mind, now I have had leisure to reflect. Cecily sends a line. Do come.

Take the early boat on Monday; Spence will give you all particulars,

and see you off at Santa Lucia. We really have some very sober plans,

not unapproved by Mrs. Lessingham. Will meet you at the Marina."

Miriam received this on Sunday morning, and went to her own room to

read it. The few lines of Cecily's writing which were enclosed, she

glanced over with careless eye; yet not with mere carelessness either,

but as if something of aversion disinclined her to peruse them

attentively. That sheet she at once laid aside; Reuben's note she still

held in her hand, and kept re-reading it.

She went to the window and looked over towards Capri. A slight mist

softened its outlines this morning; it seemed very far away, on the dim

borders of sea and sky. For a long time she had felt the luring charm

of that island, always before her eyes, yet never more than a blue

mountainous shape. Lately she had been reading of it, and her fancy,

new to such picturings, was possessed by the mysterious dread of its

history in old time, the grandeur of its cliffs, the loveliness of its

green hollows, and the wonder of its sea-caves. Her childhood had known

nothing of fairyland, and now, in this tardy awakening of the

imaginative part of her nature, she thought sometimes of Capri much as

a child is wont to think of the enchanted countries, nameless,

regionless, in books of fable.

What thoughts for Sunday! But Miriam was far on the way of those who

recognize themselves as overmastered by temptation, and grow almost

reckless in the sins they cannot resist. So long it was since she had

been able to attend the accustomed public worship, and now its

substitute in the privacy of her room had become irksome. She blushed

to be practising hypocrisy; the Spences were careful to refrain from

interfering with her to-day, and here, withdrawn from their sight, she

passed the hours in wearisome idleness--in worse than that.

She could not look again at Cecily's letter. More; she could not let

her eyes turn to Raphael's picture. But before the mirrors she paused

often and long, losing herself in self regard.

Early on the morrow, she drove down with Spence to Santa Lucia, and

went on board the Capri boat. There were few passengers, a handful of

Germans and an English family--father, mother, two daughters, and two

sons Sitting apart, Miriam cast many glances at her country people, and

not without envy. They were comely folk, in the best English health,

refined in bearing, full of enjoyment. Now and then a few words of

their talk fell upon her ears, and it was merry, kindly, intimate talk,

the fruit of a lifetime of domestic happiness. It made her think again

of what her own home-life had been. Such companionship of parents and

children was inconceivable in her experience. The girls observed her,

and, she believed, spoke of her. Must she not look strange in their

eyes? Probably they felt sorry for her, as an invalid whose countenance

was darkened by recent pain.

The boat made first of all for Sorrento, where a few more persons came

on board. Miriam was by this time enjoying the view of the coast. From

this point she kept her gaze fixed on Capri. One more delay on the

voyage; the steamer stopped near the Blue Grotto, that such of the

passengers as wished might visit it before landing. Miriam kept her

place, and for the present was content to watch the little boats, as

they rocked for a few moments at the foot of the huge cliff and then

suddenly disappeared through the entrance to the cavern. When the

English family returned, she listened to their eager, wondering

conversation. A few minutes more, and she was landing at the Marina,

where Reuben awaited her.

He had a carriage ready for the drive up the serpent road to the hotel

where Mrs. Lessingham and her niece were staying. His own quarters were

elsewhere--at the Pagano, dear to artists.

"Well, have you enjoyed the voyage? What did you think of Sorrento? We

watched the steamer across from there; we were up on the road to

Anacapri, yonder. You don't look so well as when I saw you

last--nothing like."

He waited for no reply to his questions, and talked with nervous

brokenness. Seated in the carriage, he could not keep still from one

moment to the next. His eyes had the unquiet of long-continued

agitation, the look that results from intense excitement when it has

become the habit of day after day.

"Mallard has been talking to you," he said suddenly.

"Why do you say that?"

"I know he has, from your letter.--Look at the views!"

"What plans did you speak of?"

"Oh, we'll talk about it afterwards. But Mallard _has_ been talking you

over?"

Miriam had no resolve by which to guide herself. She knew not

distinctly why she had come to Capri. Her familiar self-reliance and

cold disregard of anything but a few plain rules in regulating her

conduct, were things of the past. She felt herself idly swayed by

conflicting influences, unable even to debate what course she should

take; the one emotion of which she was clearly conscious was of so

strange and disturbing a kind that, so far from impelling her to act,

it seemed merely to destroy all her customary motives and leave her

subject to the will of others. It was the return of weakness such as

had possessed her mind when she lay ill, when she was ceaselessly

troubled with a desire for she knew not what, and, unable to utter it

had no choice but to admit the suggestions and biddings of those who

cared for her. She could not even resent this language of Reuben's, to

which formerly she would have opposed her unyielding pride; his

proximity infected her with nervousness, but at the same time made her

flaccid before his energy.

"He came and spoke to me about you," she admitted. "But he left me to

do as I saw fit."

"After putting the case against me as strongly as it could be put. I

know; you needn't tell me anything about the conversation. Let us leave

it till afterwards.--You see how this road winds, so that the incline

may be gentle enough for carriages. There are stony little paths, just

like the beds of mountain streams, going straight down to the Marina. I

lost myself again and again yesterday among the gardens and vineyards.

Look back over the bay to Naples!"

But in a minute or two the other subject was resumed, again with a

suddenness that told of inability to keep from speaking his thoughts.

"You understand, I dare say, why Mallard is making such a fuss?"

"How could I help understanding?"

"But _do_ you understand?"

"What do you mean?" she asked irritably.

"Does he speak like a man who is disinterested?"

"It is not my business to discuss Mr. Mallard's motives."

"It certainly is mine--and yours too, if you care anything for me."

They reached the hotel without further debate of this subject. It was

not much after one o'clock; all lunched together in private, talking

only of Capri. Later they walked to the villa of Tiberius. Elgar kept

up an appearance of light-hearted enjoyment; Cecily was less able to

disguise her preoccupation. Mrs. Lessingham seemed to have accepted the

inevitable. Her first annoyance having passed, she was submitting to

that personal charm in Elgar which all women sooner or later confessed;

her behaviour to him was indulgent, and marked only with a very gentle

reserve when he talked too much paradox.

Elgar went to his hotel for dinner, and left the others to themselves

through the evening. The next day was given to wandering about the

island. On the return at sunset, Miriam and Reuben had a long talk

together, in which it was made manifest that the "plans" were just as

vague as ever. Reuben had revived the mention of literary work, that

was all, and proposed to make his head-quarters in Paris, in order that

he might not be too far from Cecily, who would, it was presumed, remain

on the Continent. This evening he dined with the ladies. Afterwards

Cecily played. When Miriam and Mrs. Lessingham chanced to be conversing

together, Elgar stepped up to the piano, and murmured:

"Will you come out into the garden for a few minutes? There's a full

moon; it's magnificent."

Cecily let her fingers idle upon the keys, then rose and went to where

her aunt was sitting. There was an exchange of words in a low tone, and

she left the room. Elgar at once approached Mrs. Lessingham to take

leave of her.

"The Grotta Azzurra to-morrow," he said gaily. "Perhaps you won't care

to go again? My grave sister will make a very proper chaperon."

"Let us discuss that when to-morrow comes. Please to limit your

moon-gazing to five minutes."

"At the utmost."

From the hotel garden opened a clear prospect towards Naples, which lay

as a long track of lights beyond the expanse of deep blue. The coast

was distinctly outlined against the far sky glowed intermittently the

fire of Vesuvius. Above the trees of the garden shone white crags,

unsubstantial, unearthly in the divine moonlight. There was no sound,

yet to intense listening the air became full of sea-music. It was the

night of Homer, the island-charm of the Odyssey.

"Answer me quickly, Cecily; we have only a few minutes, and I want to

say a great deal. You have talked with Miriam?"

"Yes."

"You know that she repeats what Mallard has instructed her to say?

Their one object now is to get me at a distance from you. You see how

your aunt has changed--in appearance; her policy is to make me think

that she will be my friend when I am away. I can speak with certainty

after observing her for so long; in reality she is as firm against me

as ever. Don't you notice, too, something strange in Miriam's

behaviour?"

"She is not like herself."

"As unlike as could be. Mallard has influenced her strongly. Who knows

what he told her?"

"Of you?

"Perhaps of himself."

"Dear, he could not speak to her in that way!"

"A man in love--and in love with Cecily Doran--can do anything. The

Spences are his close friends; they too have been working on Miriam."

"But why, why do you return to this? We have spoken of the worst they

can do. To fear anything from their' persuasions is to distrust me."

"Cecily, I don't distrust you, but I can't live away from you. I might

have gone straight from Naples, but I can't go now; every hour with you

has helped to make it impossible. In talking to your aunt and to

Miriam, I have been consciously false. Come further this way, into the

shadow. Who is over there?"

"Some one we don't know."

Her voice had sunk to a whisper. Elgar led her by the hand into a

further recess of the garden; the hand was almost crushed between his

own as he continued:

"You must come with me, Cecily. We will go away together, and be

married at once."

She panted rather than breathed.

"You must! I can't leave you! I had rather throw myself from these

Capri rocks than go away with more than two years of solitude before

me."

Cecily made no answer.

"If you think, you will see this is best in every way. It will be

kindest to poor Mallard, putting an end at once to any hopes he may

have."

"We can't be married without his consent," Cecily whispered.

"Oh yes; I can manage that. I have already thought of everything. Be up

early to-morrow morning, and leave the hotel at half-past seven, as if

you were going for a walk. Neither your aunt nor Miriam will be

stirring by then. Go down the road as far as beyond the next turning,

and I will be there with a carriage. At the Marina I will have a boat

ready to take us over to Sorrento; we will drive to Castellamare, and

there take train direct for Caserta and onwards, so missing Naples

altogether. You shall travel as my sister. We will go to London, and be

married there. Of course you can't bring luggage, but what does that

matter? We can stop anywhere and buy what things you need. I have quite

enough money for the present."

"But think of the shock to them all!" she pleaded, trembling through

her frame. "How ill I should seem to repay their long kindness! I can't

do this, my dearest; oh, I can't do this! I will see Mr. Mallard, as I

wished--"

"You shall not see him!" he interrupted violently. "I couldn't bear it.

How do I know--"

"How cruel to speak like that to me!"

"Of your own cruelty you never think. You have made me mad with love of

you, and have no right to refuse to marry me when I show you the way.

If I didn't love you so much, I could bear well enough to let you speak

with any one. Your love is very different from mine, or you couldn't

hesitate a moment."

"Let me think! I can't answer you to-night."

"To-night, or never!--Oh yes, I understand well enough, all your

reasons for hesitating. It would mean relinquishing the wedding-dress

and the carriages and all the rest of the show that delights women. You

are afraid of Mrs. Grundy crying shame when it is known that you have

travelled across Europe with me. You feel it will be difficult to

resume your friendships afterwards. I grant all these things, but I

didn't think they would have meant so much to Cecily."

"You know well that none of these reasons have any weight with me. It

is only in joking that you can speak of them. But the unkindness to

them all, dear! Think of it!"

"Why say 'to them all'? Wouldn't it be simpler to say 'the unkindness

to Mallard'?"

She looked up into his face.

"Why does love make a man speak so bitterly and untruthfully? Nothing

could make me do _you_ such a wrong."

"Because you are so pure of heart and mind that nothing but truth can

be upon your lips. If I were not very near madness, I could never speak

so to you. My own dear love, think only of what I suffer day after day!

And what folly is it that would keep us apart! Suppose they had none

but conscientious motives; in that case, these people take upon

themselves to say what is good for us, what we may be allowed and what

not; they treat us as children. Of course, it is all for _your_

protection. I am not fit to be your husband, my beautiful girl! Tell

me--who knows me better, Mallard or yourself?"

"No one knows you as I do, dearest, nor ever will."

"And do you think me too vile a creature to call you my wife?"

"I need not answer that. You are as much nobler than I am as your

strength is greater than mine."

"But they would remind you that you are an heiress. I have not made so

good a use of my own money as I might have done, and the likelihood is

that I shall squander yours, bring you to beggary. Do you believe that?"

"I know it is not true."

"Then what else can they oppose to our wish? Here are all the

objections, and all seem to be worthless. Yet there might be one more.

You are very young--how I rejoice in knowing it, sweet flower!--perhaps

your love of me is a mere illusion. It ought to be tested by time; very

likely it may die away, and give place to something truer."

"If so let me die myself sooner than survive such happiness!"

"Why, then what have they to say for themselves? Their opposition is

mistake, stubborn error. And are we to sacrifice two whole years, the

best time of our lives, to such obstinacy? Either of us may die,

Cecily. Suppose it to be my lot, what would be your thoughts then?"

His head bent to hers, and their faces touched.

"Dare you risk that, my love?"

"I dare not."

Her answer trembled upon his hearing as though it came upon the night

air from the sea.

"You will come with me to-morrow?"

"I will."

He sought her offered lips, and for a few instants their whispering in

the shadow ceased. Then he repeated rapidly the directions he had

already given her.

"Put on your warmest cloak; it will be cold on the water. Now I can say

good-night. Kiss me once more, and once more promise."

She pressed her arms about him.

"I am giving you my life. If I had more, I would give it. Be faithful

to me!"

"Then, you do doubt me?"

"Never! But say it to-night, to give me strength."

"I will be faithful to you whilst I have life."

She issued from shadows into broad moonlight, looked once round, once

at the gleaming crags, and passed again into gloom.

"I think it very unlikely," Mrs. Lessingham was saying to Miriam, in

her pleasantest voice of confidence, "that Mr. Mallard will insist on

the whole term."

"No doubt that will much depend on the next year," Miriam replied,

trying to seem impartial.

"No doubt whatever. I am glad we came here. They are both much quieter

and more sensible. In a few days I think your brother will have made up

his mind."

"I hope so."

"Cecily lost her head a little at first, but I see that her influence

is now in the sober direction, as one would have anticipated. When Mr.

Elgar has left us, no doubt Mr. Mallard will come over, and we shall

have quiet talk, What an odd man he is! How distinctly I could have

foreseen his action in these circumstances! And I know just how it will

be, as soon as things have got into a regular course again. Mr. Mallard

hates disturbance and agitation. Of course he has avoided seeing Cecily

as yet; imagine his exasperated face if he became involved in a

'scene'!"

And Mrs. Lessingham laughed urbanely.

A short and troubled sleep at night's heaviest; then long waiting for

the first glimmer of dawn. How unreal the world seemed to her! She

tried to link this present morning with the former days, but her life

had lost its continuity; the past was past in a sense she had never

known; and as for the future, it was like gazing into darkness that

throbbed and flashed. It meant nothing to her to say that this was

Capri--that the blue waves and the wind of morning would presently bear

her to Sorrento; the familiar had no longer a significance; her

consciousness was but a point in space and eternity. She had no regret

of her undertaking, no fear of what lay before her, but a profound

sadness, as though the burden of all mortal sorrows were laid upon her

soul.

At seven o'clock she was ready. A very few things that could be easily

carried she would take with her; her cloak would hide them. Now she

must wait for the appointed moment. It seemed to be very cold; she

shivered.

A minute or two before the half-hour, she left her room silently. On

the stairs a servant passed her, and looked surprised in giving the

"Buon giorno." She walked quickly through the garden, and was on the

firm road. At the place indicated stood Elgar beside the carriage, and

without exchanging a word they took their seats.

At the Marina, they had but to step from the carriage to the boat.

Elgar's luggage was thrown on board, and the men pushed off from the

quay.

Bitterly cold, but what a glorious sunrise! Against the flushed sky,

those limestone heights of Capri caught the golden radiance and shone

wondrously. The green water, gently swelling but unbroken, was like

some rarer element, too limpid for this world's shores. With laughter

and merry talk between themselves, the boatmen hoisted their sail.

And the gods sent a fair breeze from the west, and it smote upon the

sail, and the prow cleft its track of foam, and on they sped over the

back of the barren sea.

CHAPTER XV

"WOLF!"

It was a case of between two stools, and Clifford Marsh did not like

the bump. From that dinner with Elgar he came home hilariously

dismayed; when his hilarity had evaporated with the wine that was its

cause, dismay possessed him wholly. Miss Doran was not for him, and in

the meantime he had offended Madeline beyond forgiveness. With what

countenance could he now turn to her again? Her mother would welcome

his surrender--and it was drawing on towards the day when submission

even to his stepfather could no longer be postponed--but he suspected

that Madeline's resolve to have done with him was strengthened by

resentment of her mother's importunities. To be sure, it was some sort

of consolation to know that if indeed he went his way for good,

bitterness and regrets would be the result to the Denyer family, who

had no great facility in making alliances of this kind; in a few years

time, Madeline would be wishing that she had not let her pride

interfere with a chance of marriage. But, on the other hand, there was

the awkward certainty that he too would lament making a fool of

himself. He by no means liked the thought of relinquishing Madeline; he

had not done so, even when heating his brain with contemplation of

Cecily Doran. In what manner could he bring about between her and

himself a drama which might result in tears and mutual pardon?

But whilst he pondered this, fate was at work on his behalf. On the day

which saw the departure of the Bradshaws, there landed at Naples, from

Alexandria, a certain lean, wiry man, with shoulders that stooped

slightly, with grizzled head and parchment visage; a man who glanced

about him in a keen, anxious way, and had other nervous habits. Having

passed the custom-house, he hired a porter to take his luggage--two

leather bags and a heavy chest, all much the worse for wear--to that

same hotel at which Mallard was just now staying. There he refreshed

himself, and, it being early in the afternoon, went forth again, as if

on business; for decidedly he was no tourist. When he had occasion to

speak, his Italian was fluent and to the point; he conducted himself as

one to whom travel and intercourse with every variety of men were

life-long habits.

His business conducted him to the Mergellina, to the house of Mrs.

Gluck, where he inquired for Mrs. Denyer. He was led upstairs, and into

the room where sat Mrs. Denyer and her daughters. The sight of him

caused commotion. Barbara, Madeline, and Zillah pressed around him,

with cries of "Papa!" Their mother rose and looked at him with concern.

When the greetings were over, Mr. Denyer seated himself and wiped his

forehead with a silk handkerchief. He was ominously grave. His eyes

avoided the faces before him, as if in shame. He looked at his boots,

which had just been blacked, but were shabby, and then glanced at the

elegant skirts of his wife and daughters; he looked at his shirt-cuffs,

which were clean but frayed, and then gathered courage to lift his eyes

as far as the dainty hands folded upon laps in show of patience.

"Madeline," he began, in a voice which was naturally harsh, but could

express much tenderness, as now, "what news of Clifford?"

"He's still here, papa," was the answer, in a very low voice.

"I am glad of that. Girls, I've got something to tell you. I wish it

was something pleasant."

His parchment cheek showed a distinct flush. The attempt to keep his

eyes on the girls was a failure; he seemed to be about to confess a

crime.

"I've brought you bad news, the worst I ever brought you yet. My dears,

I can hold out no longer; I'm at the end of my means. If I could have

kept this from you, Heaven knows I would have done, but it is better to

tell you all plainly."

Mrs. Denyer's brows were knitted; her lips were compressed in angry

obstinacy; she would not look up from the floor. The girls glanced at

her, then at one another. Barbara tried to put on a sceptical

expression, but failed; Madeline was sunk in trouble; Zillah showed

signs of tearfulness.

"I can only hope," Mr. Denyer continued, "that you don't owe very much

here. I thought, after my last letter"--he seemed more abashed than

ever--"you might have looked round for something a little--" He glanced

at the ornaments of the room, but at the same time chanced to catch his

wife's eye, and did not finish the sentence. "But never mind that; time

enough now that the necessity has come. You know me well enough,

Barbara, and you Maddy, and you, Zillah, my child, to be sure that I

wouldn't deny you anything it was in my power to give. But fortune's

gone against me this long time. I shall have to make a new start, new

efforts. I'm going out to Vera Cruz again."

He once more wiped his forehead, and took the opportunity to look

askance at Mrs. Denyer, dubiously, half reproachfully.

"And what are _we_ to do?" asked his wife, with resentful helplessness.

"I am afraid you must go to England," Mr. Denyer replied

apologetically, turning his look to the girls again. "After settling

here, and paying the expenses of the journey, I shall have a little

left, very little indeed. But I'm going to Vera Cruz on a distinct

engagement, and I shall soon be able to send you something. I'm afraid

you had better go to Aunt Dora's again; I've heard from her lately, and

she has the usual spare rooms."

The girls exchanged looks of dismay. The terrible silence was broken by

Zillah, who spoke in quavering accents.

"Papa dear, I have made up my mind to get a place as a nursery

governess. I shall very soon be able to do so."

"And I shall do the same, papa--or something of the kind," came

abruptly from Madeline.

"You, Maddy?" exclaimed her father, who had received the youngest

girl's announcement with a look of sorrowful resignation, but was

shocked at the other's words.

"I am no longer engaged to Mr. Marsh," Madeline proceeded, casting down

her eyes. "Please don't say anything, mamma. I have made up my mind. I

shall look for employment."

Her father shook his head in distress. He had never enjoyed the control

or direction of his daughters, and his long absences during late years

had put him almost on terms of ceremony with them. In time gone by,

their mother had been to him an object of veneration; it was his

privilege to toil that she might live in luxury; but his illusions

regarding her had received painful shocks, and it was to the girls that

he now sacrificed himself. Their intellect, their attainments, at once

filled him with pride and made him humble in their presence. But for

his reluctance to impose restraints upon their mode of life, he might

have avoided this present catastrophe; he had cried "Wolf!" indeed, in

his mild way, but took no energetic measures when he found his cry

disregarded--all the worse for him now that he could postpone the evil

day no longer.

"You are the best judge of your own affairs, Madeline," he replied

despondently. "I'm very sorry, my girl."

"All I can say is," exclaimed Mrs. Denyer, as if with dignified

reticence, "that I think we should have had longer warning of this!"

"My dear, I have warned you repeatedly for nearly a year."

"I mean _serious_ warning. Who was to imagine that things would come to

such a pass as this?"

"You never told us there was danger of absolute beggary, papa,"

remarked Barbara, in a tone not unlike her mother's.

"I ought to have spoken more plainly," was her father's meek answer.

"You are quite right, Barbara. I feel that I am to blame."

"I don't think you are at all," said Madeline, with decision. "Your

letters were plain enough, if we had chosen to pay any attention to

them."

Her father looked up apprehensively, deprecating defence of himself at

the cost of family discord. But he was powerless to prevent the

gathering storm. Mrs. Denyer gazed sternly at her recalcitrant

daughter, and at length discharged upon the girl's head all the wrath

with which this situation inspired her. Barbara took her mother's side.

Zillah wept and sobbed words of reconciliation. The unhappy cause of

the tumult took refuge at the window, sunk in gloom.

However, there was no doubt about it this time; trunks must be packed,

bills must be paid, indignities must be swallowed. The Aunt Dora of

whom Mr. Denyer had spoken was his own sister, the wife of a

hotel-keeper at Southampton. Some seven years ago, in a crisis of the

Denyers' fate, she had hospitably housed them for several months, and

was now willing to do as much again, notwithstanding the arrogance with

which Mrs. Denyer had repaid her. To the girls it had formerly mattered

little where they lived; at their present age, it was far otherwise.

The hotel was of a very modest description; society would become out of

the question in such a retreat. Madeline and Zillah might choose, as

the less of two evils, the lot for which they declared themselves

ready; but Barbara had no notion of turning governess. She shortly went

to her bedroom, and spent a very black hour indeed.

They were to start to-morrow morning. With rage Barbara saw the

interdiction of hopes which were just becoming serious. Another month

of those after-dinner colloquies in the drawing-room, and who could say

what point of intimacy Mr. Musselwhite might have reached. He was

growing noticeably more articulate; he was less absentminded. Oh, for a

month more!

This evening she took her usual place, and at length had the tormenting

gratification of seeing Mr. Musselwhite approach in the usual way.

Though sitting next to him at dinner, she had said nothing of what

would happen on the morrow; the present was a better opportunity.

"You have no book this evening, Miss Denyer!"

"No."

"No headache, I hope?"

"Yes, I have a little headache."

He looked at her with gentlemanly sympathy.

"I have had to see to a lot of things in a hurry. Unexpectedly, we have

to leave Naples to-morrow; we are going to England."

"Indeed? You don't say so! Really, I'm very sorry to hear that, Miss

Denyer."

"I am sorry too--to have to leave Italy for such a climate at this time

of the year." She shuddered. "But my father has just arrived from

Alexandria, and--for family reasons--wishes us to travel on with him."

Mr. Musselwhite seemed to reflect anxiously. He curled his moustaches,

he plucked his whiskers, he looked about the room with wide eyes.

"How lonely it will be at the dinner-table!" he said at length. "So

many have gone of late. But I hoped there was no danger of your going,

Miss Denyer."

"We had no idea of it ourselves till to-day."

A long silence, during which Mr. Musselwhite's reflections grew intense.

"You are going to London?" he asked mechanically.

"Not at first. I hardly know. I think we shall be for some time with

friends at Southampton."

"Indeed? How odd! I also have friends at Southampton. A son of Sir

Edward Mull; he married a niece of mine."

Barbara could have cried with mortification. She muttered she knew not

what. Then again came a blank in the dialogue.

"I trust we may meet again," was Mr. Musselwhite's next sentence. It

cost him an effort; he reddened a little, and moved his feet about.

"There is no foreseeing. I--we--I am sorry to say my father has brought

us rather unpleasant news."

She knew not whether it was a stroke of policy, or grossly imprudent,

to make this confession. But it came to her lips, and she uttered it

half in recklessness. It affected Mr. Musselwhite strangely. His

countenance fell, and a twinge seemed to catch one of his legs; at the

same time it made him fluent.

"I grieve to hear that, Miss Denyer; I grieve indeed. Your departure

would have been bad enough, but I really grieve to think you should

have cause of distress."

"Thank you for your sympathy, Mr. Musselwhite."

"But perhaps we may meet again in England, for all that? Will you

permit me to give you my London address--a--a little club that I belong

to, and where my friends often send letters? I mean that I should be so

very glad if it were ever possible for me to serve you in any trifle.

As you know, I don't keep any--any establishment in England at present;

but possibly--as you say, there is no anticipating the future. I should

be very happy indeed if we chanced to meet, there or abroad."

"You are very kind, Mr. Musselwhite."

"If I might ask you for your own probable address?"

"It is so uncertain. But I am sure mamma would have pleasure in sending

it, when we arc settled."

"Thank you so very much." He looked up after long meditation. "I really

do _not_ know what I shall do when you are gone, Miss Denyer."

And then, without warning, he said good-night and walked away. Barbara,

who had thought that the conversation was just about to become

interesting, felt her heart sink into unfathomable depths. She went

back to her bedroom and cried wretchedly for a long time.

In consequence of private talk with his wife, when the family conclave

had broken up, Mr. Denyer went in search of Clifford Marsh. They had

met only once hitherto, six months ago, when Mr. Denyer paid a flying

visit to London, and had just time to make the acquaintance of his

prospective son-in-law. This afternoon they walked together for an hour

about the Chiaia, with the result that an understanding of some kind

seemed to be arrived at between them.

Mr. Denyer returned to the _pension_, and, when dinnertime approached,

surprised Madeline with the proposal that she should come out and dine

with him at a restaurant.

"The fact is," he whispered to her, with a laugh, "my appearance is not

quite up to the standard of your dinner-table. I'm rather too careless

about these things; it's doubtful whether I possess a decent suit. Let

us go and find a quiet corner somewhere--if a fashionable young lady

will do me so much honour."

Through Madeline's mind there passed a suspicion, but a

restaurant-dinner hit her taste, and she accepted the invitation

readily. Before long, they drove into the town. Perhaps in recognition

of her having taken his part against idle reproaches, her father began,

as soon as they were alone, to talk in a grave, earnest way about his

affairs; and Madeline, who liked above all things to be respectfully

treated, entered into the subject with dutiful consideration. He showed

her exactly how his misfortunes had accumulated, how this and that

project had been a failure, what unadvised steps he had taken in fear

of impending calamity Snugly seated at the little marble table, they

grew very confidential indeed. Mr. Denyer avowed his hope--the hope

ever-retreating, though sometimes it had seemed within reach--of being

able some day to find rest for the sole of his foot, to settle down

with his family and enjoy a quiet close of life. Possibly this

undertaking at Vera Cruz would be his last exile; he explained it in

detail, and dwelt on its promising aspects. Madeline felt compassionate

and remorseful.

Of her own intimate concerns no word was said, but it happened

strangely enough, just as they had finished dinner, that Clifford Marsh

came strolling into the restaurant. He saw them, and with expressions

of surprise explained that he had just turned in for a cup of coffee.

Mr. Denyer invited him to sit down with them, and they had coffee

together. Clifford kept up a flow of characteristic talk, never

directly addressing Madeline, nor encountering her look. He referred

casually to his meeting with Mr. Denyer that afternoon.

"I shall be going back myself very shortly. It is probable that there

will be something of a change in my circumstances; I may decide to give

up a few hours each day to commercial pursuits. It all depends on--on

uncertain things."

"You won't come out with me to Vera Cruz?" said Mr. Denyer, jocosely.

"No; I am a man of the old world. I must live in the atmosphere of art,

or I don't care to live at all."

Madeline's slight suspicion was confirmed. When they were about to

leave the restaurant, Mr. Denyer said that he must go to the

railway-station, to make a few inquiries. There was no use in

Madeline's going such a distance; would Clifford be so good as to see

her safely home? Madeline made a few objections--she would really

prefer to accompany her father; she would not trouble Mr. Marsh--but in

the end she found herself seated by Clifford in a carriage, passing

rapidly through the streets.

Now was Clifford's opportunity; he had prepared for it.

"Madeline--you must let me call you by that name again, even if it is

for the last time--I have heard what has happened."

"Happily it does not affect you, Mr. Marsh."

"Indeed it does. It affects me so far, that it alters the whole course

of my life. In spite of everything that has seemed to come between us,

I have never allowed myself to think of our engagement as at an end.

The parcel you sent me the other day is unopened; if you do not open it

yourself no one ever shall. Whatever _you_ may do, I cannot break

faith. You ought to know me better than to misinterpret a few foolish

and hasty words, and appearances that had a meaning you should have

understood. The time has come now for putting an end to those

misconceptions."

"They no longer concern me. Please to speak of something else."

"You must, at all events, understand my position before we part. This

morning I was as firmly resolved as ever to risk everything, to

renounce the aid of my relatives if it must be and face poverty for the

sake of art. Now all is changed. I shall accept my step-father's offer,

and all its results becoming, if it can't be helped, a mere man of

business. I do this because of my sacred duties to _you_. As an artist,

there's no telling how long it might be before I could ask you again to

be my wife; as a man of business, I may soon be in a position to do so.

Don't interrupt me, I entreat! It is no matter to me if you repulse me

now, in your anger. I consider the engagement as still existing between

us, and, such being the ease, it is plainly my duty to take such steps

as will enable me to offer you a home. By remaining an artist, I should

satisfy one part of my conscience, but at the expense of all my better

feelings; it might even be supposed--though, I trust, not by you--that

I made my helplessness an excuse for forgetting you when most you

needed kindness. I shall go back to England, and devote myself with

energy to the new task, however repulsive it may prove. Whether you

think of me or not, I do it for your sake; you cannot rob me of that

satisfaction. Some day I shall again stand before you, and ask you for

what you once promised. If then you refuse--well, I must bear the loss

of all my hopes."

"You may direct your life as you choose," Madeline replied scornfully,

"but you will please to understand that I give you no encouragement to

hope anything from me. I almost believe you capable of saying, some

day, that you took this step because I urged you to it. I have no

interest whatever in your future; our paths are separate. Let this be

the end of it."

But it was very far from the end of it. When the carriage stopped at

Mrs. Gluck's, mutual reproaches were at their height.

"You shall not leave me yet, Madeline," said Clifford, as he alighted.

"Come to the other side of the road, and let us walk along for a few

minutes. You shall not go in, if I have to hold you by force."

Madeline yielded, and in the light of the moon they walked side by

side, continuing their dialogue.

"You are heartless! You have played with me from the first."

"If so, I only treated you as you thought to treat me."

"That you can attribute such baseness to me proves how incapable you

are of distinguishing between truth and falsehood. How wretchedly I

have been deceived in you!"

From upbraiding, he fell to lamentation. His life was wrecked; he had

lost his ideals; and all through her unworthiness. Then, as Madeline

was still unrelenting, he began to humble himself. He confessed his

levity; he had not considered the risk he ran of losing her respect;

all he had done was in pique at her treatment of him. And in the end he

implored her forgiveness, besought her to restore him to life by

accepting his unqualified submission. To part from her on such terms as

these meant despair; the consequences would be tragic. And when he

could go no further in amorous supplication, when she felt that her

injured pride had exacted the uttermost from his penitence, Madeline at

length relented.

"Still," she said, after his outburst of gratitude, "don't think that I

ask you to become a man of business. You shall never charge me with

that. It is your nature to reproach other people when anything goes

wrong with you; I know you only too well. You must decide for yourself;

I will take no responsibility."

Yes, he accepted that; it was purely his own choice. Rather than lose

her, he would toil at any most ignoble pursuit, amply repaid by the

hope she granted him.

They had walked some distance, and were out of sight of the Mergellina,

on the ascending road of Posillipo, all the moonlit glory of the bay

before them.

"It will be long before we see it again," said Madeline, sadly.

"We will spend our honeymoon here," was Clifford's hopeful reply.

CHAPTER XVI

LETTERS

On the thirteenth day after the flight from Capri, Edward Spence,

leaving the villa for his afternoon walk, encountered the postman and

received from him three letters. One was addressed to Ross Mallard,

Esq., care of Edward Spence, Esq.; another, to Mrs. Spence; the third,

to Mrs. Baske. As he reascended the stairs, somewhat more quickly than

his wont, Spence gave narrow attention to the handwriting on the

envelopes. He found Eleanor where he had left her a few minutes before,

at the piano, busy with a difficult passage of Brahms. She looked round

in surprise, and on seeing the letters started up eagerly.

"Do you know Elgar's hand?" Spence asked. "These two from London are

his, I should imagine. This for you is from Mrs. Lessingham, isn't it?"

"Yes; I think this is the news, at last," said Eleanor, inspecting Mrs.

Baske's letter, not without feminine emotion. "I'll take it to her.

Shall you go over with the other?"

"He'll be here after dinner; the likelihood is that I shouldn't find

him."

"Occasionally--very occasionally--you lack tact, my husband. He would

hardly care to open this and read it in our presence."

"More than occasionally, my dear girl, you remind me of the woman whose

price is above rubies. I'll go over and leave it for him at once. Just

to show the male superiority, however, I shall be careful to make my

walk a few minutes longer than usual--a thing of which you would be

quite incapable whilst the contents of Miriam's letter were unknown to

you."

Alone again, Eleanor sent the letter to Miriam's room by a servant, and

with uncertain fingers broke the envelope of that addressed to herself.

Already she had heard once from Mrs. Lessingham, who ten days ago left

Naples to join certain friends in Rome; the first hurried glance over

the present missive showed that it contained no intelligence. She had

scarcely begun to read it attentively, when the door opened and Miriam

came in.

Her face was pale with agitation, and her eyes had the strangest light

in them; to one who knew nothing of the circumstances, she would have

appeared exultant. Eleanor could not but gaze at her intently.

"From Reuben!"

"Yes." Miriam suppressed her voice, and held out the sheet of

note-paper, which fluttered. "Read it."

The body of the letter was as follows:--

"I hope we have caused you no anxiety; from the first moment when our

departure was known, you must have understood that we had resolved to

put an end to useless delay. We travelled to London as brother and

sister, and to-day have become man and wife. The above will be our

address for a short time; we have not yet decided where we shall

ultimately live.

"By this same post I write to Mallard, addressed to him at the villa. I

hope he has had the good sense to wait quietly for news.

"Cecily sends her love to you--though she half fears that you will

reject it. I cannot see why you should. We have done the only sensible

thing, and of course in a month or two it will be just the same, to

everybody concerned, as if we had been married in the most foolish way

that respectability can contrive. Let us hear from you very soon, dear

sister. We talk much of you, and hope to have many a bright day with

you yet--more genuinely happy than that we spent in tracking out old

Tiberius."

Eleanor looked up, and again was struck with the singular light in her

cousin's eyes.

"Well, it only tells us what we anticipated. Of course he made false

declarations. If Mr. Mallard were really as grim as he sometimes looks,

the result to both of them might be unpleasant."

"But the marriage could not be undone?" Miriam asked quickly.

"Oh no. Scarcely desirable that it should be."

Miriam took the letter, and in a few minutes went back again to her

room.

At nine o'clock in the evening, the Spences, who sat alone, received

the foreseen visit from Mallard. They welcomed him silently. As he sat

down, he had a smile on his face; he drew a letter deliberately from

his pocket, and, without preface, began to read it aloud, still in a

deliberate manner.

"Let me first of all make a formal announcement. We have this morning

been married by registrar's licence. We intend to live for a few weeks

at this present address, where we have taken some furnished rooms until

better arrangements can be made. I lose no time in writing to you, for

of course there is business between us that you will desire to transact

as soon as may be.

"In obtaining the licence, I naturally gave false information regarding

Cecily's age; this was an inevitable consequence of the step we had

taken. You know my opinions on laws and customs: for the multitude they

are necessary, and an infraction of them by the average man is,

logically enough, called a sin against society; for Cecily and myself,

in relation to such a matter as our becoming man and wife, the law is

idle form. Personally, I could have wished to dispense with the

absurdity altogether, but, as things are, this involves an injustice to

a woman. I told my falsehoods placidly, for they were meaningless in my

eyes. I have the satisfaction of knowing that you cannot, without

inconsistency, find fault with me.

"And now I speak as one who would gladly be on terms of kindness with

you. You know me, Mallard; you must be aware how impossible it was for

me to wait two years. As for Cecily, her one word, again and again

repeated on the journey, was, 'How unkind I shall seem to them!' and I

know that it was the seeming disrespect to you which most of all

distressed her. For her sake, I make it my petition that you will let

the past be past. She cannot yet write to you, but is sad in the

thought of having incurred your displeasure. Whatever you say to me,

let it be said privately; do not hurt Cecily. I mentioned 'business;

the word and the thing are equally hateful to me. I most sincerely wish

Cecily had nothing, that the vile question of money might never arise.

Herein, at all events, you will do me justice; I am no fortune-hunter.

"If you come to London, send a line and appoint a place of meeting. But

could not everything be done through lawyers? You must judge; but,

again I ask it, do not give Cecily more pain."

The listeners were smiling gravely. After a silence, the letter was

discussed, especially its second paragraph. Mallard was informed of the

note which Miriam had received.

"I shall go to-morrow," he said, "and 'transact my business.' On the

whole, it might as well be done through lawyers, but I had better be in

London."

"And then?" asked Eleanor.

"I shall perhaps go and spend a week with the people at Sowerby Bridge.

But you shall hear from me."

"Will you speak to Mrs. Baske?"

"I don't think it is necessary. She has expressed no wish that I

should?"

"No; but she might like to be assured that her brother won't be

prosecuted for perjury."

"Oh, set her mind at ease!"

"Show Mallard the letter from Mrs. Lessingham," said Spence, with a

twinkle of the eyes.

"I will read it to him."

She did so. And the letter ran thus:

"Still no news? I am uneasy, though there can be no rational doubt as

to what form the news will take when it comes. The material interests

in question are enough to relieve us from anxiety. But I wish they

would be quick and communicate with us.

"One reconciles one's self to the inevitable, and, for my own part, the

result of my own reflections is that I am something more than

acquiescent. After all, granted that these two must make choice of each

other, was it not in the fitness of things that they should act as they

have done? For us comfortable folk, life is too humdrum; ought we not

to be grateful to those who supply us with a strong emotion, and who

remind us that there is yet poetry in the world? I should apologize for

addressing such thoughts to _you_, dear Eleanor, for you have still the

blessing of a young heart, and certainly do not lack poetry. I speak

for myself, and after all I am much disposed to praise these young

people for their unconventional behaviour.

"What if our darkest anticipations were fulfilled? Beyond all doubt

they are now sincerely devoted to each other, and will remain so for at

least twelve months. Those twelve months will be worth a life-time of

level satisfaction. We shall be poor creatures in comparison when we

utter our 'Didn't I tell you so?'

"Whilst in a confessing mood, I will admit that I had formed rather a

different idea of Cecily; I was disposed to think of her as the modern

woman who has put unreasoning passion under her feet, and therefore

this revelation was at first a little annoying to me. But I see now

that my view of her failed by incompleteness. The modern woman need by

no means be a mere embodied intellect; she will choose to enjoy as well

as to understand, and to enjoy greatly she will sacrifice all sorts of

things that women have regarded as supremely important. Indeed, I

cannot say that I am disappointed in Cecily; rightly seen, she has

justified the system on which I educated her. My object was to teach

her to think for herself, to be self-reliant. The _jeune fille_,

according to society's pattern, is my abhorrence: an ignorant,

deceitful, vain, immoral creature. Cecily is as unlike that as

possible; she has behaved independently and with sincerity. I really

admire her very much, and hope that her life may not fall below its

beginning.

"Let me hear as soon as a word reaches you. I am with charming people,

and yet I think longingly of the delightful evenings at Villa

Sannazaro, your music and your talk. You and your husband have a great

place in my heart; you are of the salt of the earth. Spare me a little

affection, for I am again a lonely woman."

This letter also was discussed, and its philosophy appreciated. Mallard

spoke little; he had clasped his hands behind his head, and listened

musingly.

There was no effusion in the leave-taking, though it might be for a

long time. Warm clasping of hands, but little said.

"A good-bye for me to Mrs. Baske," was Mallard's last word.

And his haggard but composed face turned from Villa Sannazaro.

PART II.

CHAPTER I

A CORNER OF SOCIETY

In a London drawing-room, where the murmur of urbane colloquy rose and

fell, broken occasionally by the voice of the nomenclator announcing

new arrivals, two ladies, seated in a recess, were exchanging

confidences. One was a novelist of more ability than repute; the other

was a weekly authority on musical performances.

"Her head is getting turned, poor girl. I feel sorry for her."

"Such ridiculous flattery! And really it is difficult to understand.

She is pretty, and speaks French; neither the one thing nor the other

is uncommon, I believe. Do you see anything remarkable in her?"

"Well, she is rather more than pretty; and there's a certain cleverness

in her talk. But at her age this kind of thing is ruinous. I blame Mrs.

Lessingham. She should bid her stay at home and mind her baby."

"By-the-bye, what truth is there in that story? The Naples affair, you

know?"

"_N'en sais rien_. But I hear odd things about her husband. Mr.

Bickerdike knew him a few years ago. He ran through a fortune, and fell

into most disreputable ways of life. Somebody was saying that he got

his living as 'bus-conductor, or something of the kind."

"I could imagine that, from the look of him."

It was Mrs. Lessingham's Wednesday evening. The house at Craven Hill

opened its doors at ten o'clock, and until midnight there was no lack

of company. Singular people, more or less; distinguished from society

proper by the fact that all had a modicum of brains. Some came from

luxurious homes, some from garrets. Visitors from Paris were frequent;

their presence made a characteristic of the salon. This evening, for

instance, honour was paid by the hostess to M. _Amedeee_ Silvenoire,

whose experiment in unromantic drama had not long ago gloriously failed

at the Odeon; and Madame Jacquelin, the violinist, was looked for.

Mrs. Lessingham had not passed a season in London for several years.

When, at the end of April, she took this house, there came to live with

her the widow and daughter of a man of letters who had died in poverty.

She had known the Delphs in Paris, in the days when Cecily was with her

and in the winter just past she had come upon Irene Delph copying at

the Louvre; the girl showed a good deal of talent but was hard beset by

the difficulty of living whilst she worked. In the spirit of her

generous brother, Mrs. Lessingham persuaded the two to come and live

with her through the season; a room in the house was a studio for

Irene, who took to portraits. Mrs. Delph, a timid woman whose nerves

had failed under her misfortunes, did not appear on formal occasions

like the present, but Irene was becoming an ornament of the

drawing-room. To be sure, but for her good looks and her artistic

aptitude, she would not have been here-no reason, perhaps, for stinted

praise of her friend's generosity.

An enjoyable thing to see Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with one of

her French guests. She threw off full fifteen years, and looked thirty

at most. Her handsome features had a vivid play of expression in

harmony with the language she was speaking; her eyes were radiant as

she phrased a thought which in English would have required many words

for the--blunting of its point. M. Silvenoire, who--with the slight

disadvantage of knowing no tongue but his own--was making a study of

English social life, found himself at ease this evening for the first

time since he had been in London. Encouraged to talk his best, he

frankly and amusingly told Mrs. Lessingham of the ideas he had formed

regarding conversation in the drawing-rooms of English ladies.

"Civilization is spreading among us," she replied, with a laugh. "Once

or twice it has been my privilege to introduce young Frenchmen, who

were studying our language, to English families abroad, and in those

cases I privately recommended to them a careful study of Anthony

Trollope's novels, that they might learn what is permissible in

conversation and what is not. But here and there in London you will

find it possible to discuss things that interest reasonable beings."

At the door sounded the name of "Mr. Biekerdike," and there advanced

towards the hostess a tall, ugly young man, known by repute to all the

English people present. He was the author of a novel called "A Crown of

Lilies," which was much talked of just now, and excited no less

ridicule than admiration, On the one hand, it was lauded for delicate

purity and idealism; on the other, it was scoffed at for artificiality

and affected refinement. Mrs. Lessingham had met him for the first time

a week ago. Her invitation was not due to approval of his book, but to

personal interest which the author moved in her; she was curious to

discover how far the idealism of "A Crown of Lilies" was a genuine

fruit of the man's nature. Mr. Bickerdike's countenance did not promise

clarity of soul; his features were distinctly coarse, and the glance he

threw round the room on entering made large demands.

Irene Delph was talking with a young married lady named Mrs. Travis;

they both regarded Mr. Bickerdike with close scrutiny.

"Who could have imagined such an author for the book!" murmured the

girl, in wonder.

"I could perfectly well," murmured back Mrs. Travis, with a smile which

revealed knowledge of humanity.

"I pictured a very youthful man, with a face of effeminate

beauty--probably a hectic colour in his cheeks."

"Such men don't write 'the novel of the season.' This gentleman is very

shrewd; he gauges the public. Some day, if he sees fit, he will write a

brutal book, and it will have merit."

Mr. Bickerdike unfortunately did not speak French, so M. Silvenoire was

unable to exchange ideas with him. The Parisian, having learnt what

this gentleman's claims were, regarded him through his _pince-nez_ with

a subtle smile. But in a few moments he had something more interesting

to observe.

"Mrs. Elgar," cried the voice at the door.

Cecily was met half-way by her aunt, "You are alone?"

"Reuben has a headache. Perhaps he will come to fetch me, but more

likely not."

All the eyes in the room had one direction. Alike those who ingenuously

admired and those who wished to seem indifferent paid the homage of

observation to Mrs. Elgar, as she stood exchanging greetings with the

friends who came forward. Yes, there was something more than attractive

features and a pleasant facility of speech. In Cecily were blended a

fresh loveliness and a grace as of maidenhood with the perfect charm of

wedded youth. The air about her was charged with something finer than

the delicate fragrance which caressed the senses. One had but to hear

her speak, were it only the most ordinary phrase of courtesy, and that

wonderful voice more than justified profound interest. Strangers took

her for a few years older than she was, not judging so much by her face

as the finished ease of her manners; when she conversed, it was hard to

think of her as only one-and-twenty.

"She is a little pale this evening," said Irene to Mrs. Travis.

The other assented; then asked:

"Why don't you paint her portrait?"

"Heaven forbid! I have quite enough discouragement in my attempts at

painting, as it is."

M. Silvenoire was bowing low, as Mrs. Lessingham presented him. To his

delight, he heard his own language fluently, idiomatically spoken; he

remarked, too, that Mrs. Elgar had a distinct pleasure in speaking it.

She seated herself, and flattered him into ecstasies by the respect

with which she received his every word. She had seen it mentioned in

the _Figaro_ that a new play of his was in preparation; when was it

likely to be put on the stage? The theatre in London--of course, he

understood that no one took it _au serieux_?

The Parisian could do nothing but gaze about the room, following her

movements, when their dialogue was at an end. Mon Dieu! And who, then,

was Mr. Elgar? Might not one hope for an invitation to madame's

assemblies? A wonderful people, these English, after all.

Mr. Bickerdike secured, after much impatience, the desired

introduction. For reasons of his own, he made no mention of his earlier

acquaintance with Elgar. Did she know of it? In any case she appeared

not to, but spoke of things which did not interest Mr. Bickerdike in

the least. At length he was driven to bring forward the one subject on

which he desired her views.

"Have you, by chance, read my book, Mrs. Elgar?"

M. Silvenoire would have understood her smile; the Englishman thought

it merely amiable, and prepared for the accustomed compliment.

"Yes, I have read it, Mr. Bickerdike. It seemed to me a charmingly

written romance."

The novelist, seated upon too low a chair, leaning forward so that his

knees and chin almost touched, was not in himself a very graceful

object; the contrast with his neighbour made him worse than grotesque.

His visage was disagree ably animal as it smiled with condescension.

"You mean something by that," he remarked, with awkward attempt at

light fencing.

There was barely a perceptible movement of Cecily's brows.

"I try to mean something as often as I speak," she said, in an amused

tone.

"In this ease it is a censure. You take the side of those who find

fault with my idealism."

"Not so; I simply form my own judgment."

Mr. Bickerdike was nervous at all times in the society of a refined

woman; Mrs. Elgar's quiet rebuke brought the perspiration to his

forehead, and made him rub his hands together. Like many a better man,

he could not do justice to the parts he really possessed, save when

sitting in solitude with a sheet of paper before him. Though he had a

confused perception that Mrs. Elgar was punishing him for forcing her

to speak of his book, he was unable to change the topic and so win her

approval for his tact. In the endeavour to seem at ease, he became

blunt.

"And what has your judgment to say on the subject?"

"I think I have already told you, Mr. Bickerdike."

"You mean by a romance a work that is not soiled with the common

realism of to-day."

"I am willing to mean that."

"But you will admit, Mrs. Elgar, that my mode of fiction has as much to

say for itself as that which you prefer?"

"In asking for one admission you take for granted another. That is a

little confusing."

It was made sufficiently so to Mr. Bickerdike. He thrust out his long

legs, and exclaimed:

"I should be grateful to you if you would tell me what your view of the

question really is--I mean, of the question at issue between the two

schools of fiction."

"But will you first make clear to me the characteristics of the school

you represent?"

"It would take a long time to do that satisfactorily. I proceed on the

assumption that fiction is poetry, and that poetry deals only with the

noble and the pure."

"Yes," said Cecily, as he paused for a moment, "I see that it would

take too long. You must deal with so many prejudices--such, for

example, as that which supposes 'King Lear' and 'Othello' to be poems."

Mr. Bickerdike began a reply, but it was too late; Mrs. Lessingham had

approached with some one else who wished to be presented to Mrs. Elgar,

and the novelist could only bite his lips as he moved away to find a

more reverent listener.

It was not often that Cecily trifled in this way. As a rule, her manner

of speech was direct and earnest. She had a very uncommon habit of

telling the truth whenever it was possible; rather than utter smooth

falsehoods, she would keep silence, and sometimes when to do so was to

run much danger of giving offence. Beautiful women have very different

ways of using the privilege their charm assures them; Cecily chose to

make it a protection of her integrity. She was much criticized by

acquaintances of her own sex. Some held her presumptuous, conceited,

spoilt by adulation; some accused her of bad taste and

blue-stockingism; some declared that she had no object but to win men's

admiration and outshine women. Without a thought of such comments, she

behaved as was natural to her. Where she felt her superiority, she made

no pretence of appearing femininely humble. Yet persons like Mrs.

Delph, who kept themselves in shadow and spoke only with simple

kindness, knew well how unassuming Cecily was, and with what deference

she spoke when good feeling dictated it. Or again, there was her manner

with the people who, by the very respect with which they inspired her,

gave her encouragement to speak without false restraint; such as Mr.

Bird, the art critic, a grizzle-headed man with whom she sat for a

quarter of an hour this evening, looking her very brightest and talking

in her happiest vein, yet showing all the time her gratitude for what

she learnt from his conversation.

It was nearly twelve o'clock when Mrs. Travis, who had made one or two

careless efforts to draw near to Cecily, succeeded in speaking a word

aside with her.

"I hope you didn't go to see me yesterday? I left home in the morning,

and am staying with friends at Hampstead, not far from you."

"For long?"

"I don't know. I should like to talk to you, if I could. Shall you be

driving back alone?"

"Yes. Will you come with me?"

"Thank you. Please let me know when you are going."

And Mrs. Travis turned away. In a few minutes Cecily went to take leave

of her aunt.

"How is Clarence?" asked Mrs. Lessingham.

"Still better, I believe. I left him to-night without uneasiness."

"Oh, I had a letter this morning from Mrs. Spence. No talk of England

yet. In the autumn they are going to Greece, then for the winter to

Sicily."

"Miriam with them?"

"As though it were a matter of course."

They both smiled. Then Cecily took leave of two or three other people,

and quitted the room. Mrs. Travis followed her, and in a few minutes

they were seated in the brougham.

Mrs. Travis had a face one could not regard without curiosity. It was

not beautiful in any ordinary sense, but strange and striking and rich

in suggestiveness. In the chance, flickering light that entered the

carriage, she looked haggard, and at all times her thinness and pallor

give her the appearance of suffering both in body and mind. Her

complexion was dark, her hair of a rich brown; she had very large eyes,

which generally wandered in an absent, restless, discontented way. If

she smiled, it was with a touch of bitterness, and her talk was wont to

be caustic. Cecily had only known her for a few weeks, and did not feel

much drawn to her, but she compassionated her for sorrows known and

suspected. Though only six and twenty, Mrs. Travis had been married

seven years, and had had two children; the first died at birth, the

second was carried off by diphtheria. Her husband Cecily had never

seen, but she heard disagreeable things of him, and Mrs. Travis herself

had dropped hints which signified domestic unhappiness.

After a minute or two of silence, Cecily was beginning to speak on some

indifferent subject, when her companion interrupted her.

"Will you let me tell you something about myself?"

"Whatever you wish, Mrs. Travis," Cecily answered, with sympathy.

"I've left my husband. Perhaps you thought of that?"

"No."

The sudden disclosure gave her a shock. She had the sensation of

standing for the first time face to face with one of the sterner

miseries of life.

"I did it once before," pursued the other, "two years ago. Then I was

foolish enough to be wheedled back again. That shan't happen this time."

"Have you really no choice but to do this?" Cecily asked, with much

earnestness.

"Oh, I could have stayed if I had chosen. He doesn't beat me. I have as

much of my own way as I could expect. Perhaps you'll think me

unreasonable. A Turkish woman would."

Cecily sat mute. She could not but resent the harsh tone in which she

was addressed, in spite of her pity.

"It's only that I suffer in my self-respect--a little," Mrs. Travis

continued. "Of course, this is no reason for taking such a step, except

to those who have suffered in the same way. Perhaps you would like to

stop the carriage and let me leave you?"

"Your suffering makes you unjust to me," replied Cecily, much

embarrassed by this strange impulsiveness. "Indeed I sympathize with

you. I think it quite possible that you are behaving most rightly."

"You don't maintain, then, that it is a wife's duty to bear every

indignity from her husband?"

"Surely not. On the contrary, I think there are some indignities which

no wife _ought_ to bear."

"I'm glad to hear that. I had a feeling that you would think in this

way, and that's why I wanted to talk to you. Of course you have only

the evidence of my word for believing me."

"I can see that you are very unhappy, and the cause you name is quite

sufficient."

"In one respect, I am very lucky. I have a little money of my own, and

that enables me to go and live by myself. Most women haven't this

resource: many are compelled to live in degradation only for want of

it. I should like to see how many homes would be broken up, if all

women were suddenly made independent in the same way that I am. How I

should enjoy that! I hate the very word 'marriage'!"

Cecily averted her face, and said nothing. After a pause, her companion

continued in a calm voice:

"You can't sympathize with that, I know. And you are comparing my

position with your own."

No answer was possible, for Mrs. Travis had spoken the truth.

"In the first year of my marriage, I used to do the same whenever I

heard of any woman who was miserable with her husband."

"Is there no possibility of winning back your husband?" Cecily asked,

in a veiled voice.

"Winning him back? Oh, he is affectionate enough. But you mean winning

him back to faithfulness. My husband happens to be the average man, and

the average man isn't a pleasant person to talk about, in this respect."

"Are you not too general in your condemnation, Mrs. Travis?"

"I am content you should think so. You are very young still, and

there's no good in making the world ugly for you as long as it can seem

rosy."

"Please don't use that word," said Cecily, with emphasis. It annoyed

her to be treated as immature in mind. "I am the last person to take

rosy views of life. But there is something between the distrust to

which you are driven by misery and the optimism of foolish people."

"We won't argue about it. Every woman must take life as she finds it.

To me it is a hateful weariness. I hope I mayn't have much of it still

before me; what there is, I will live in independence. You know Mrs.

Calder?"

"Yes."

"Her position is the same as mine has been, but she has more

philosophy; she lets things take their course, just turning her eyes

away."

"That is ignoble, hateful!" exclaimed Cecily.

"So I think, but women as a rule don't. At all events, they are content

to whine a little, and do nothing. Poor wretches, what _can_ they do,

as I said?"

"They can go away, and, if need be, starve."

"They have children."

Cecily became mute.

"Will you let me come and see you now and then?" Mrs. Travis asked

presently.

"Come whenever you feel you would like to," Cecily answered, rousing

herself from reverie.

The house in which Mrs. Travis now lived was a quarter of an hour's

drive beyond that of the Elgars; she would have alighted and walked,

making nothing of it, but of course Cecily could not allow this. The

coachman was directed to make the circuit. When Cecily reached home, it

was after one o'clock.