AT PAESTUM
The English artist had finished his work, and the dirty little inn at
Paestum would to-day lose its solitary guest.
This morning he rose much later than usual, and strolled out idly into
the spring sunshine, a rug thrown over his shoulder. Often plucking a
flower or a leaf, and seeming to examine it with close thoughtfulness,
he made a long circuit by the old walls; now and then he paused to take
a view of the temples, always with eye of grave meditation. At one
elevated point, he stood for several minutes looking along the road to
Salerno.
March rains had brought the vegetation into luxurious life; fern,
acanthus, brambles, and all the densely intermingled growths that cover
the ground about the ruins, spread forth their innumerable tints of
green. Between shore and mountains, the wide plain smiled in its
desolation.
At length he went up into the Temple of Neptune, spread the rug on a
spot where he had been accustomed, each day at noon, to eat his salame
and drink his Calabrian wine, and seated himself against a column. Here
he could enjoy a view from both ends of the ruin. In the one direction
it was only a narrow strip of sea, with the barren coast below, and the
cloudless sky above it; in the other, a purple valley, rising far away
on the flank of the Apennines; both pictures set between Doric pillars.
He lit a cigar, and with a smile of contented thought abandoned himself
to the delicious warmth, the restful silence. Within reach of his hand
was a fern that had shot up between the massive stones; he gently
caressed its fronds, as though it were a sentient creature. Or his eyes
dwelt upon the huge column just in front of him--now scanning its
superb proportions, now enjoying the hue of the sunny-golden
travertine, now observing the myriad crevices of its time-eaten
surface, the petrified forms of vegetable growth, the little pink
snails that housed within its chinks.
It was not an artistic impulse only that had brought Mallard to Italy,
after three years of work under northern skies. He wished to convince
himself that his freedom was proof against memories revived on the very
ground where he had suffered so intensely. He had put aside repeated
invitations from the Spences, because of the doubt whether he could
trust himself within sight of the Mediterranean. Liberty from
oppressive thought he had long recovered; the old zeal for labour was
so strong in him that he found it difficult to imagine the mood in
which he had bidden good-bye to his life's purposes. But there was
always the danger lest that witch of the south should again overcome
his will and lull him into impotence of vain regret. For such a long
time he had believed that Italy was for ever closed against him, that
the old delights were henceforth converted into a pain which memory
must avoid. At length he resolved to answer his friends' summons, and
meet them on their return from Sicily. They had wished to have him with
them in Greece, but always his departure was postponed; habits of
solitude and characteristic diffidence kept him aloof as long as
possible.
Evidently, his health was sound enough. He had loitered about the
familiar places in Naples; he took the road by Pompeii to Sorrento, and
over the hills to Amalfi; and at each step he could smile with
contemptuous pity for the self which he had outlived. More than that.
When he came hither three years ago, it was with the intention of doing
certain definite work; this purpose he now at last fulfilled, thus
completing his revenge upon the by-gone obstacles, and reinstating
himself in his own good opinion, as a man who did that which he set
himself to do. At Amalfi he had made a number of studies which would be
useful; at Paestum he had worked towards a picture, such a one as had
from the first been in his mind. Yes, he was a sound man once more.
Tempestuous love is for boys, who have still to know themselves, and
for poets, who can turn their suffering into song. But to him it meant
only hindrance. Because he had been a prey to frantic desires, did he
look upon earth's beauty with a clearer eye, or was his hand endowed
with subtler craft? He saw no reason to suppose it. The misery of those
first months of northern exile--his battling with fierce winds on sea
and moorland and mountain, his grim vigils under stormy stars--had it
given him new strength? Of body perhaps; otherwise, he might have spent
the time with decidedly more of satisfaction and profit.
Let it be accepted as one of the unavoidable ills of
humanity--something that has to be gone through, like measles. But it
had come disagreeably late. No doubt he had to thank the monastic
habits of his life that it assailed him with such violence. That he had
endured it, therein lay the happy assurance that it would not again
trouble him.
If it be true that love ever has it in its power to make or mar a man,
this love that he had experienced was assuredly not of such quality.
From the first his reason had opposed it, and now that it was all over
he tried to rejoice at the circumstances which had made his desire
vain. Herein he went a little beyond sincerity; yet there were
arguments which, at all events, fortified his wish to see that
everything was well. It was not mere perversity that in the beginning
had warned him against thinking of Cecily as a possible wife for him.
Had she betrayed the least inclination to love him, such considerations
would have gone to the winds; he would have called the gods to witness
that the one perfect woman on the earth was his. But the fact of her
passionate self-surrender to Reuben Elgar, did it not prove that the
possibilities of her nature were quite other than those which could
have assured _his_ happiness? To be sure, so young a girl is liable to
wretched errors--but of that he would take no account; against that he
resolutely closed his mind. From Edward Spence he heard that she was
delighting herself and others in a London season. Precisely; this
justified his forethought; for this she was adapted. But as his wife
nothing of the kind would have been within her scope. He knew him self
too well. His notion of married life was inconsistent with that kind of
pleasure. As his wife, perhaps she would have had no desire save to fit
herself to him. Possibly; but that again was a reflection not to be
admitted. He had only to deal with facts. Sufficient that he could
think of her without a pang, that he could even hope to meet her again
before long. And, best of all, no ungenerous feeling ever tempted him
to wish her anything but wholly happy.
Stretched lazily in the Temple of Neptune, he once or twice looked at
his watch, as though the hour in some way concerned him. How it did was
at length shown. He heard voices approaching, and had just time to rise
to his feet before there appeared figures, rising between the columns
of the entrance against the background of hills. He moved forward, a
bright smile on his face. The arrivals were Edward Spence, with his
wife and Mrs. Baske.
All undemonstrative people, they shook hands much as if they had parted
only a week ago.
"Done your work?" asked Spence, laying his palm on one of the pillars,
with affectionate greeting.
"All I can do here."
"Can we see it?" Eleanor inquired.
"I've packed it for travelling."
Mallard took the first opportunity of looking with scrutiny at Mrs.
Baske. Alone of the three, she was changed noticeably. Her health had
so much improved that, if anything, she looked younger; certainly her
face had more distinct beauty. Reserve and conscious dignity were still
its characteristics--these were inseparable from the mould of feature;
but her eyes no longer had the somewhat sullen gleam which had been
wont to harm her aspect, and when she smiled it was without the hint of
disdainful reticence. Yet the smile was not frequent; her lips had an
habitual melancholy, and very often she knitted her brows in an
expression of troubled thought. Whilst the others were talking with
Mallard, she kept slightly in the rear, and seemed to be occupied in
examining the different parts of the temple.
In attire she was transformed. No suggestion now of the lady from
provincial England. She was very well, because most fittingly, dressed;
neither too youthfully, nor with undue disregard of the fact that she
was still young; a travelling-costume apt to the season and the country.
"They speak much of Signor Mal-lard at the osteria," said Spence. "Your
departure afflicts them, naturally, no doubt. Do you know whether any
other Englishman ever braved that accommodation?"
A country lad appeared, carrying a small hamper, wherein the party had
brought their midday meal from Salerno.
"Why did you trouble?" said Mallard. "We have cheese and salame in
abundance."
"So I supposed," Spence replied, drily. "I recall the quality of both.
Also the _vino di Calabria_, which is villanously sweet. Show us what
point of view you chose."
For an hour they walked and talked. Miriam alone was almost silent, but
she paid constant attention to the ruins. Mallard heard her say
something to Eleanor about the difference between the columns of the
middle temple and those of the so-called Basilica; three years ago,
such a remark would have been impossible on her lips, and when he
glanced at her with curiosity, she seemed conscious of his look.
They at length opened the hamper, and seated themselves near the spot
where Mallard had been reclining.
"There's a smack of profanity in this," said Spence. "The least we can
do is to pour a libation to Poseidon, before we begin the meal."
And he did so, filling a tumbler with wine arid solemnly emptying half
of it on to the floor of the _cella_. Mallard watched the effect on
Mrs. Baske; she met his look for an instant and smiled, then relapsed
into thoughtfulness.
The only other visitors to-day were a couple of Germans, who looked
like artists and went about in enthusiastic talk; one kept dealing the
other severe blows on the chest, which occasionally made the recipient
stagger--all in pure joy and friendship. They measured some of the
columns, and in one place, for a special piece of observation, the
smaller man mounted on his companion's shoulders. Miriam happened to
see them whilst they were thus posed, and the spectacle struck her with
such ludicrous effect that she turned away to disguise sudden laughter.
In doing so, she by chance faced Mallard, and he too began to laugh.
For the first time since they had been acquainted, they looked into
each other's eyes with frank, hearty merriment. Miriam speedily
controlled herself, and there came a flush to her cheeks.
"You may laugh," said Spence, observing them, "but when did you see two
Englishmen abroad who did themselves so much honour?"
"True enough," replied Mallard. "One supposes that Englishmen with
brains are occasionally to be found in Italy, but I don't know where
they hide themselves."
"You will meet one in Rome in a few days," remarked Eleanor, "if you go
on with us--as I hope you intend to?"
"Yes, I shall go with you to Rome. Who is the man?"
"Mr. Seaborne--your most reverent admirer."
"Ah, I should like to know the fellow."
Miriam looked at him and smiled.
"You know Mr. Seaborne?" he inquired of her, abruptly.
"He was with us a fortnight in Athens."
As they were idling about, after their lunch, Mallard kept near to
Miriam, but without speaking. He saw her stoop to pick up a piece of
stone; presently another. She glanced at him.
"Bits of Paestum," he said, smiling; "perhaps of Poseidonia. Look at
the field over there, where the oxen are; they have walled it in with
fragments dug up out of the earth,--the remnants of a city."
She just bent her head, in sign of sympathy. A minute or two after, she
held out to him the two stones she had taken up.
"How cold one is, and how warm the other!"
One was marble, one travertine. Mallard held them for a moment, and
smiled assent; then gave them back to her. She threw them away.
When it was time to think of departure, they went to the inn; Mallard's
baggage was brought out and put into the carriage. They drove across
the silent plain towards Salerno. In a pause of his conversation with
Spence, Mallard drew Miriam's attention to the unfamiliar shape of
Capri, as seen from this side of the Sorrento promontory. She looked,
and murmured an affirmative.
"You have been to Amalfi?" he asked.
"Yes; we went last year."
"I hope you hadn't such a day as your brother and I spent
there--incessant pouring rain."
"No; we had perfect weather."
At Salerno they caught a train which enabled them to reach Naples late
in the evening. Mallard accompanied his friends to their hotel, and
dined with them. As he and Spence were smoking together afterwards, the
latter communicated some news which he had reserved for privacy.
"By-the-bye, we hear that Cecily and her aunt are at Florence, and are
coming to Rome next week."
"Elgar with them?" Mallard asked, with nothing more than friendly
interest.
"No. They say he is so hard at work that he couldn't leave London."
"What work?"
"The same I told you of last year."
Mallard regarded him with curious inquiry.
"His wife travels for her health?"
"She seems to be all right again, but Mrs. Lessingham judged that a
change was necessary. Won't you use the opportunity of meeting her?"
"As it comes naturally, there's no reason why I shouldn't. In fact, I
shall be glad to see her. But I should have preferred to meet them both
together. What faith do you put in this same work of Elgar's?"
"That he _is_ working, I take it there can be no doubt, and I await the
results with no little curiosity. Mrs. Lessingham writes vaguely,
which, by-the-bye, is not her habit. Whether she is a believer or not,
we can't determine."
"Did the child's death affect him much?"
"I know nothing about it."
They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Then Mallard observed,
without taking the cigar from his lips:
"How much better Mrs. Baske looks!"
"Naturally the change is more noticeable to you than to us. It has come
very slowly. I dare say you see other changes as well?"
Spence's eye twinkled as he spoke.
"I was prepared for them. That she should stay abroad with you all this
time is in itself significant. Where does she propose to live when you
are back in England?"
"Why, there hasn't been a word said on the subject. Eleanor is waiting;
doesn't like to ask questions. We shall have our house in Chelsea
again, and she is very welcome to share it with us if she likes. I
think it is certain she won't go back to Lancashire; and the notion of
her living with the Elgars is improbable."
"How far does the change go?" inquired Mallard, with hesitancy.
"I can't tell you, for we are neither of us in her confidence. But she
is no longer a precisian. She has read a great deal; most of it reading
of a very substantial kind. Not at all connected with religion; it
would be a mistake to suppose that she has been going in for a course
of modern criticism, and that kind of thing. The Greek and Latin
authors she knows very fairly, in English or French translations. What
would our friend Bradshaw say? She has grappled with whole libraries of
solid historians. She knows the Italian poets Really, no common case of
a woman educating herself at that age."
"Would you mind telling me what her age is?"
"Twenty-seven, last February. To-day she has been mute; generally, when
we are in interesting places, she rather likes to show her
knowledge--of course we encourage her to do so. A blessed form of
vanity, compared with certain things one remembers!"
"She looks as if she had by no means conquered peace of mind," observed
Mallard, after another silence.
"I don't suppose she has. I don't even know whether she's on the way to
it."
"How about the chapel at Bartles?"
Spence shook his head and laughed, and the dialogue came to an end.
The next morning all started for Rome.