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 anEnglish lady, engaged in letter-writing. She was only in herfour-and-twentieth year, but her attire of subdued mourning indicatedwidowhood already at the stage when it is permitted to make quietsuggestion of freedom rather than distressful reference to loss; thedress, however, was severely plain, and its grey coldness, which wouldwell have harmonized with an English sky in this month of November, looked alien in the southern sunlight. There was no mistaking hernationality; the absorption, the troubled earnestness with which shebent over her writing, were peculiar to a cast of features such as canbe found only in our familiar island; a physiognomy not quite pure inoutline, vigorous in general effect and in detail delicate; a proudyoung face, full of character and capacity, beautiful in chastecontrol. Sorrowful it was not, but its paleness and thinness expressedsomething more than imperfect health of body; the blue-grey eyes, whenthey wandered for a moment in an effort of recollection, had a look ofweariness, even of ennui; the lips moved as if in nervous impatienceuntil she had found the phrase or the thought for which her pen waited. Save for these intervals, she wrote with quick decision, in a largeclear hand, never underlining, but frequently supplying the emphasis ofheavy stroke in her penning of a word. At the end of her letters came asignature excellent in individuality: "Miriam Baske. "

The furniture of her room was modern, and of the kind demanded bywealthy _forestieri_ in the lodgings they condescend to occupy. On thevariegated tiles of the floor were strewn rugs and carpets; the draperywas bright, without much reference to taste in the ordering of hues; ahandsome stove served at present to support leafy plants, a row ofwhich also stood on the balcony before the window. Round the ceilingran a painted border of foliage and flowers. The chief ornament of thewalls was a large and indifferent copy of Raphael's "St. Cecilia;"there were, too, several _gouache_ drawings of local scenery: a fierynight-view of Vesuvius, a panorama of the Bay, and a very blue BlueGrotto. The whole was blithe, sunny, Neapolitan; sufficiently unlike asitting-room in Redheck House, Bartles, Lancashire, which Mrs. Baskehad in her mind as she wrote. 

A few English books lay here and there, volumes of unattractivebinding, and presenting titles little suggestive of a holiday inCampania; works which it would be misleading to call theological; thefeeblest modern echoes of fierce old Puritans, half shame-facedmodifications of logic which, at all events, was wont to conceal noconsequence of its savage premises. More noticeable were somearchitectural plans unrolled upon a settee; the uppermost representedthe elevation of a building designed for religious purposes, painfullyrecognizable by all who know the conventicles of sectarian England. Onthe blank space beneath the drawing were a few comments, lightlypencilled. 

Having finished and addressed some half a dozen brief letters, Mrs. Baske brooded for several minutes before she began to write on the nextsheet of paper. It was intended for her sister-in-law, a lady of middleage, who shared in the occupancy of Redheck House. At length she pennedthe introductory formula, but again became absent, and sat gazing atthe branches of a pine-tree which stood in strong relief againstcloudless blue. A sigh, an impatient gesture, and she went on with hertask. 

"It is very kind of you to be so active in attending to the thingswhich you know I have at heart. You say I shall find everything as Icould wish it on my return, but you cannot think what a stranger toBartles I already feel. It will soon be six months Since I lived myreal 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 feelit as exile, bitterly. To be sure Naples is beautiful, but it does notinterest me. You need not envy me the bright sky, for it gives me nopleasure. There is so much to pain and sadden; so much that makes meangry. On Sunday I was miserable. The Spences are as kind as any onecould 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 herdaughter? It is shameful, after all they have received from me. Willyou tell them that I am gravely displeased to hear of their absentingthemselves from chapel. I have a very good mind to write to Mr. Higginson and beg him to suspend the girl from his employment until shebecomes regular in her attendance at worship. Perhaps that would seemmalicious, 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 promisedhim work in the greenhouse. He is irreclaimable; the worst characterthat 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 thinkof his wife suffering, but it is the attribute of sins such as his thatthey involve the innocent with the guilty; and then she has shownherself so wretchedly weak. Try, however, to help her secretly if herdistress becomes too acute. 

"It was impertinent in Mrs. Walker to make such reference to me inpublic. This is the result of my absence and helplessness. I shallwrite to her--two lines. "

A flush had risen to her cheek, and in adding the last two words sheall but pierced through the thin note-paper. Then her hand trembled somuch that she was obliged to pause. At the same moment there sounded atap at the door, and, on Mrs. Baske's giving permission, a ladyentered. This was Mrs. Spence, a cousin of the young widow; she and herhusband had an apartment here in the Villa Sannazaro, and were able todevote certain rooms to the convenience of their relative during herstay at Naples. Her age was about thirty; she had a graceful figure, amanner 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, "Ishould think you must have a certain curiosity to see each other, afterso long an acquaintance at secondhand. "

"I will come in a moment. "

Mrs. Spence left the room. For a minute Miriam sat reflecting, thenrose. In moving towards the door she chanced to see her image in amirror--two of a large size adorned the room--and it checked her step;she regarded herself gravely, and passed a smoothing hand over the darkhair above her temples. 

By a corridor she reached her friends' sitting-room, where Mrs. Spencesat in the company of two gentlemen. The elder of these was EdwardSpence. His bearded face, studious of cast and small-featured, spoke aplacid, self-commanding character; a lingering smile, and the pleasantwrinkles about his brow, told of a mind familiar with many by-ways offancy and reflection. His companion, a man of five-and-thirty, had afar more striking countenance. His complexion was of the kind whichused to be called adust--burnt up with inner fires; his visage was longand somewhat harshly designed, very apt, it would seem, to theexpression of hitter ironies or stern resentments, but at presentbright with friendly pleasure. He had a heavy moustache, but no beard;his hair tumbled in disorder. To matters of costume he evidently gavelittle thought, for his clothes, though of the kind a gentleman wouldwear in travelling, had seen their best days, and the waistcoat evenlacked one of its buttons; his black necktie was knotted into anindescribable shape, and the ends hung loose. 

Him Mrs. Spence at once presented to her cousin as "Mr. Mallard. " Hebowed ungracefully; then, with a manner naturally frank but constrainedby obvious shyness, took the hand Miriam held to him. 

"We are scarcely strangers, Mr. Mallard, " she said in a self-possessedtone, 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 samegrave note, the same decision. 

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

"Miss Doran seems scarcely so at all; but Mrs. Lessingham is ratherover-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 MissDoran was distracted between desire to get to Naples and misery at notbeing able to see the towns we passed. At last she buried herself inthe 'Revue des Deux Mondes, ' and refused even to look out of thewindow. "

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

"My express instructions are, " replied Mallard, "that you are on noaccount to go. They will come here quite early. Miss Doran begged hardto 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 hischair, "I don't undertake to lay down rules for the young lady ofeighteen as I could for the child of twelve. But my age and sobriety ofcharacter still ensure me respect. "

He glanced at Mrs. Baske, and their eyes met. Miriam smiled rathercoldly, but continued to observe him after he had looked away again. 

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

"Yes. I came by sea from London, and had a couple of days to wait fortheir 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, VicoBrancaccio. 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 togo back to Vico Brancaccio. I am sure Mrs. Baske will excuse you thetorture of uniform. "

With a sort of grumble, the invitation was accepted. A little whileafter, Spence proposed to his friend a walk before sunset. 

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

They left the villa, and Mallard grew less restrained in hisconversation. 

"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 beexpected of a man. I happened to encounter him one morning at VictoriaStation, and he seemed to have just slept off a great deal of heavydrinking. Told me he was going down to Brighton to see about selling ahouseful of furniture there--his own property. I didn't inquire how orwhy he came possessed of it. He is beyond help, I imagine. When hecomes to his last penny, he'll probably blow his brains out; just thefellow to do that kind of thing. "

"I suppose he hasn't done it already? His sister has heard nothing ofhim for two years at least, and this account of yours is the latest Ihave received. "

"I should think he still lives, He would be sure to make a _coup detheatre_ 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 somekind of order. Yes, I liked him much. And as for brains, why, I havescarcely 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 hissister 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 ofimpatience: "There's no getting her mind away from that pestilentBartles. What do you think she is projecting now? It appears that theDissenters of Bartles are troubled concerning their chapel; it isn'tlarge enough. So Miriam proposes to pull down her own house, and buildthem a chapel on the site, of course at her own expense. The groundbeing her freehold, she can unfortunately do what she likes with it;the same with her personal property. The thing has gone so far that aManchester firm of architects have prepared plans; they are lying aboutin her room here. "

Mallard regarded the speaker with humorous wonder. 

"And the fact is, " pursued Spence, "that such an undertaking as thiswill impoverish her. She is not so wealthy as to be able to lay outthousands 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 easilysounded. But no doubt she has the puritanical spirit in a rather raredegree. I daily thank the fates that my wife grew up apart from thatbranch 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 dayshe has shown herself bent on resisting every influence of the place. She won't admit that the climate benefits her; she won't allow anexpression of interest in anything Italian to escape her. I doubtwhether we shall ever get her even to Pompeii. One afternoon Ipersuaded her to walk up here with me, and tried to make her confessthat this view was beautiful. She grudged making any such admission. Itis 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 angrywith her. The Bradshaws are at Mrs. Gluck's. You know them by name, Ithink I There again, an interesting study, in a very different way. Twice in the day she shut herself up with them in their rooms, and theyheld a dissident service. The hours she spent here were passed in thesolitude of her own room, lest she should witness our profane enjoymentof the fine weather. Eleanor refrained from touching the piano, and atmeals kept the gravest countenance, in mere kindness. I doubt whetherthat is right. It isn't as though we were dealing with a woman whosemind is hopelessly--immatured; she is only a girl still, and I know shehas 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 apoint where it is parted only by a low wall from the westwarddeclivity, they paused and looked towards the setting sun. 

"What a noise from Fuorigrotta!" murmured Spence, when he had leanedfor a moment on the wall. "It always amuses me. Only in this part ofthe world could so small a place make such a clamour. "

They were looking away from Naples. At the foot of the vine-coveredhillside lay the noisy village, or suburb, named from its position atthe outer end of the tunnel which the Romans pierced to make a shorterway between Naples and Puteoli; thence stretched an extensive plain, set in a deep amphitheatre of hills, and bounded by the sea. Vineyardsand maizefields, pine-trees and poplars, diversify its surface, andthrough the midst of it runs a long, straight road, dwindling till itreaches the shore at the hamlet of Bagnoli. Follow the enclosing ridgeto 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 theopposite quarter of the plain. First rises the cliff of Camaldoli, where from their oak-shadowed lawn the monks look forth upon as fair aprospect as is beheld by man. Lower hills succeed, hiding Pozzuoli andthe inner curve of its bay; behind them, too, is the nook whichshelters Lake Avernus; and at a little distance, by the further shore, are the ruins of Cumae, first home of the Greeks upon Italian soil. Along promontory curves round the gulf; the dark crag at the end of itis Cape Misenum, and a little on the hither side, obscured inremoteness, lies what once was Baiae. Beyond the promontory gleamsagain a blue line of sea. The low length of Procida is its limit, andbehind that, crowning the view, stands the mountain-height of Ischia. 

Over all, the hues of an autumn evening in Campania. From behind a bulkof cloud, here and there tossed by high wind currents into fantasticshapes, sprang rays of fire, burning to the zenith. Between thesea-beach at Bagnoli and the summit of Ischia, tract followed upontract of colour that each moment underwent a subtle change, darkeninghere, there fading into exquisite transparencies of distance, till bydegrees the islands lost projection and became mere films against thedeclining day. The plain was ruddy with dead vine-leaves, and goldenwith the decaying foliage of the poplars; Camaldoli and its neighbourheights stood gorgeously enrobed. In itself, a picture so beautifulthat the eye wearied with delight; in its memories, a source of solemnjoy, inexhaustible for ever. 

"I suppose, " said Mallard, in the undertone of reflection, "the paganassociations of Naples are a great obstacle to Mrs. Baske's enjoymentof the scenery. "

"She admits that. "

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

"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 spokenmore intimately with her than you yourself have. Naturally, since shehas ceased to be a child, I have kept my distance. In fact, I shall beheartily glad when the next three years are over, and we can shakehands with a definite good-bye. "

"What irritates you?" inquired Spence, with a smile which recognized aphase of his friend's character. 

"The fact of my position. A nice thing for a fellow like me to havecharge of a fortune! It oppresses me--the sense of responsibility; Iwant to get the weight off my shoulders. What the deuce did her fathermean by burdening me in this way?"

"He foresaw nothing of the kind, " said Spence, amused. "Only theunlikely event of Trench's death left you sole trustee. If Doranpurposed anything at all--why, who knows what it may have been?"

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

"All the same, the event was possible, and he should have chosenanother man of business. It's worse than being rich on my own account. I have dreams of a national repudiation of debt; I imaginedock-companies failing and banks stopping payment. It disturbs my work;I am tired of it. Why can't I transfer the affair to some trustworthyand competent person; yourself, for instance? Why didn't Doran selectyou, to begin with--the natural man to associate with Trench?"

"Who never opened a book save his ledger; who was the model of areputable 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 theother, after a pause, during which he smiled his own interpretation ofMallard's humour. 

"A very superior young person, I assure you, " was the reply, gravelyspoken. "Miss Doran is a young woman of her time; she ranks with theemancipated; she is as far above the Girton girl as that interestingcreature is above the product of an establishment for young ladies. Miss Doran has no prejudices, and, in the vulgar sense of the word, noprinciples. She is familiar with the Latin classics and with theParisian feuilletons; she knows all about the newest religion, and cantell you Sarcey's opinion of the newest play. Miss Doran will discusswith you the merits of Sarah Bernhardt in 'La Dame aux Camelias, ' orthe literary theories of the brothers Goncourt. I am not sure that sheknows much about Shakespeare, but her appreciation of Baudelaire isexquisite. I don't think she is naturally very cruel, but she can pleadconvincingly 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 ofsteward to one so advanced. What have I to do with heiresses andfashionable ladies? I have my work to get on with, and it shall notsuffer from the intrusion of idlers. "

"I see you direct your diatribe half against Mrs. Lessingham. How hasshe annoyed you?"

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

"On what account?"

"For being so absurd as to question sometimes whether my responsibilitydoesn't extend beyond stock and share. I ask myself whether Doran--whoso befriended me, and put such trust in me, and paid me so well inadvance for the duties I was to undertake--didn't take it for grantedthat I should exercise some influence in the matter of his daughter'seducation? Is she growing up what he would have wished her to be? Andif--"

"Why, it's no easy thing to say what views he had on this subject. Thelax man, we know, is often enough severe with his own womankind. But asyou have given me no description of what Cecily really is, I can offerno judgment. Wait till I have seen her. Doubtless she fulfils herpromise of being beautiful?"

"Yes; there is no denying her beauty. "

"As for her _modonite_, why, Mr. Ross Mallard is a singular person totake exception on that score. "

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

"When had you ever a good word for the system which makes of woman adummy and a kill-joy?"

"That has nothing to do with the question, " replied Mallard, preservinga 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'scare to that of Mrs. Lessingham, was I doing right?"

"Mallard, you are a curious instance of the Puritan consciencesurviving in a man whose intellect is liberated. The note of yourcharacter, including your artistic character, is thisconscientiousness. Without it, you would have had worldly success longago. Without it, you wouldn't talk nonsense of Cecily Doran. Had yourather she were co=operating with Mrs. Baske in a scheme to rebuild allthe chapels in Lancashire?"

"There is a medium. "

"Why, yes. A neither this nor that, an insipid refinement, a taste forculture moderated by reverence for Mrs. Grundy. "

"Perhaps you are right. It's only occasionally that I am troubled inthis way. But I heartily wish the three years remaining were over. "

"And the 'definite good-bye' spoken. A good phrase, that of yours. Whatpossessed you to come here just now, if it disturbs you to be kept inmind of these responsibilities?"

"I should find it hard to tell you. The very sense of responsibility, Isuppose. 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 oneof the sentry-boxes which here along the ridge mark the limits ofNeapolitan excise; a boy-soldier, musket in hand, cast curious glancesat them. After walking in silence for a few minutes, they began todescend the eastern face of the hill, and before them lay that portionof the great gulf which pictures have made so familiar. The landscapewas still visible in all its main details, still softly suffused withwarm colours from the west. About the cone of Vesuvius a darkly purplecloud was gathering; the twin height of Somma stood clear and of a richbrown. Naples, the many-coloured, was seen in profile, climbing fromthe 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. Farwithdrawn, the craggy promontory of Sorrento darkened to profoundestblue; and Capri veiled itself in mist. 

CHAPTER II

CECILY DORAN

Villa Sannazaro had no architectural beauty; it was a building ofconsiderable size, irregular, in need of external repair. Through themiddle of it ran a great archway, guarded by copies of the twoMolossian hounds which stand before the Hall of Animals in the Vatican;beneath the arch, on the right-hand side, was the main entrance to thehouse. If you passed straight through, you came out upon a terrace, where grew a magnificent stone-pine and some robust agaves. The viewhence was uninterrupted, embracing the line of the bay from Posillipoto Cape Minerva. From the parapet bordering the platform you lookedover a descent of twenty feet, into a downward sloping vineyard. Formerly the residence of an old Neapolitan family, the villa had gonethe way of many such ancestral abodes, and was now let out amongseveral tenants. 

The Spences were established here for the winter. On the occasion ofhis marriage, three years ago, Edward Spence relinquished hisconnection 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 toItaly, where they had since remained. He was not wealthy, but had meanssufficient to his demands and prospects. Thinking for himself in mostmatters, he chose to abandon money-making at the juncture when most mendeem it incumbent upon them to press their efforts in that direction;business was repugnant to him, and he saw no reason why he shouldsacrifice his own existence to put a possible family in more than easycircumstances, He had the inclinations of a student, but was untroubledby any desire to distinguish himself, freedom from the demands of theoffice meant to him the possibility of living where he chose, anddevoting to his books the best part of the day instead of itsfragmentary leisure. His choice in marriage was most happy. EleanorSpence had passed her maiden life in Manchester, but with parents ofhealthy mind and of more literature than generally falls to the lot ofa commercial family. Pursuing a natural development, she allied herselfwith her husband's freedom of intellect, and found her nature'sopportunities in the life which was to him most suitable. By a rarechance, she was the broader-minded of the two, the more trulyimpartial. Her emancipation from dogma had been so gradual, sounconfused by external pressure, that from her present standpoint shecould look back with calmness and justice on all the stages she hadleft behind. With her cousin Miriam she could sympathize in a wayimpossible to Spence, who, by-the-bye, somewhat misrepresented his wifein the account he gave to Mallard of their Sunday experiences. Puritanism was familiar to her by more than speculation; in thecompassion with which she regarded Miriam there was no mixture ofcontempt, as in her husband's case. On the other hand, she did notpretend to read completely her con sin's heart and mind; she knew thatthere was no simple key to Miriam's character, and the quiet study ofits phases from day to day deeply interested her. 

Cecily Doran had been known to Spence from childhood; her father washis intimate friend. But Eleanor had only made the girl's acquaintancein London, just after her marriage, when Cecily was spending a seasonthere with her aunt, Mrs. Lessingham. Mallard's ward was then littlemore than fifteen; after several years of weak health, she had enteredupon a vigorous maidenhood, and gave such promise of free, joyous, aspiring life as could not but strongly affect the sympathies of awoman like Eleanor. Three years prior to that, at the time of herfather's death, Cecily was living with Mrs. Elgar, a widow, and herdaughter Miriam, the latter on the point of marrying (at eighteen) oneMr. Baske, a pietistic mill-owner, aged fifty. It then seemed verydoubtful whether Cecily would live to mature years; she had beenmotherless from infancy, and the difficulty with those who brought herup was to repress an activity of mind which seemed to be one cause ofher bodily feebleness. In those days there was a strong affectionbetween her and Miriam Elgar, and it showed no sign of diminution ineither when, on Mrs. Elgar's death, a year and a half after Miriam'smarriage, Cecily passed into the care of her father's sister, a lady ofmoderate fortune, of parts and attainments, and with a great love ofcosmopolitan life. A few months more and Mrs. Baske was to be a widow, childless, left in possession of some eight hundred a year, her houseat 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 havebeen her companion; but the young girl was in Paris, or Berlin, or St. Petersburg, and, as Miriam was soon to learn, the material distancebetween them meant little in comparison with the spiritual remotenesswhich resulted from Cecily's education under Mrs. Lessingham. Theycorresponded, however, and at first frequently; but letters grewshorter on both sides, and arrived less often. The two were now to meetfor the first time since Cecily was a child of fourteen. 

The ladies arrived at the villa about eleven o'clock. Miriam had shownherself indisposed to speak of them, both last evening, when Mallardwas present, and again this morning when alone with her relatives; atbreakfast she was even more taciturn than usual, and kept her room foran 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-mindedwoman. At forty-seven she preserved much natural grace of bearing, agood complexion, pleasantly mobile features. Her dress was in excellenttaste, tending to elaboration, such as becomes a lady who makes somefigure in the world of ease. Little wrinkles at the outer corners ofher eyes assisted her look of placid thought fulness; when she spoke, these were wont to disappear, and the expression of her face became ananimated intelligence, an eager curiosity, or a vivacious good-humour, Her lips gave a hint of sarcasm, but this was reserved for specialoccasions; as a rule her habit of speech was suave, much observant ofamenities. One might have imagined that she had enjoyed a calm life, but this was far from being the case. The daughter of a countrysolicitor, she married early--for love, and the issue was disastrous. Above her right temple, just at the roots of the hair, a scar wasdiscoverable; it was the memento of an occasion on which her husbandaimed a blow at her with a mantelpiece ornament, and came within an aceof murder. Intimates of the household said that the provocation wasgreat--that Mrs. Lessingham's gift of sarcasm had that morningdisplayed itself much too brilliantly. Still, the missile was anextreme retort, and on the whole it could not be wondered at thathusband and wife resolved to live apart in future. Mr. Lessingham was, in fact, an aristocratic boor, and his wife never puzzled so much overany intellectual difficulty as she did over the question how, as agirl, 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 wereover, 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 thesight of Cecily's. "

Cecily was sitting by Miriam, whose hand she had only justrelinquished. Her anxious and affectionate inquiries moved Miriam to asmile which seemed rather of indulgence than warm kindness. 

"How little we thought where our next meeting would be!" Cecily wassaying, when the eyes of the others turned upon her at her aunt'sremark. 

Noble beauty can scarcely be dissociated from harmony of utterance;voice and visage are the correspondent means whereby spirit addressesitself to the ear and eye. One who had heard Cecily Doran speakingwhere he could not see her, must have turned in that direction, havelistened eagerly for the sounds to repeat themselves, and then havemoved forward to discover the speaker. The divinest singer may leaveone unaffected by the tone of her speech. Cecily could not sing, buther voice declared her of those who think in song, whose minds aremodulated to the poetry, not to the prose, of life. 

Her enunciation had the peculiar finish which is acquired inintercourse with the best cosmopolitan society, the best in a worthysense. Four years ago, when she left Lancashire, she had a touch ofprovincial accent, --Miriam, though she spoke well, was not wholly freefrom it, --but now it was impossible to discover by listening to herfrom what part of England she came. Mrs. Lessingham, whose admirabletact and adaptability rendered her unimpeachable in such details, haddevoted herself with artistic zeal to her niece's training for theworld; the pupil's natural aptitude ensured perfection in the result. Cecily's manner accorded with her utterance; it had every charmderivable from youth, yet nothing of immaturity. She was as completelyat her ease as Mrs. Lessingham, and as much more graceful in herself-control as the advantages of nature made inevitable. 

Miriam looked very cold, very severe, very English, by the side of thisbrilliant girl. The thinness and pallor of her features became morenoticeable; the provincial faults of her dress were painfully obvious. Cecily was not robust, but her form lacked no development appropriateto her years, and its beauty was displayed by Parisian handiwork. Inthis respect, too, she had changed remarkably since Miriam last sawher, when she was such a frail child. Her hair of dark gold showeditself beneath a hat which Eleanor Spence kept regarding with frankadmiration, so novel it was in style, and so perfectly suitable to itswearer. Her gloves, her shoes, were no less perfect; from head to footnothing was to be found that did not become her, that was not faultlessin its kind. 

At the same time, nothing that suggested idle expense or vanity. Todwell at all upon the subject would be a disproportion, but for thenote of contrast that was struck. In an assembly of well-dressedpeople, no one would have remarked Cecily's attire, unless to praiseits quiet distinction. In the Spences' sitting-room it became anothermatter; it gave emphasis to differences of character; it distinguishedthe 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 Ifirst was here. In each town I _tuned_ my thoughts by it, to use aphrase 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; anode of Horace, which I look at with fretfulness, yields her itsmeaning. Last night, when I was tired and willing to be flattered, shetried 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 hadbecome an illness with him. I know so well what that means. Cecily willnever know; the happiness has come before longing for it had ceased tobe a pleasure. "

It was not so much affection as pride that her voice expressed when shereferred to her niece; the same in her look, which was less tender thangratified and admiring. Cecily smiled in return, but was not whollyattentive; her eyes constantly turned to Miriam, endeavouring, thoughvainly, 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, yetto ignore her presence was impossible. 

"Do you think of seeing Rome and the northern cities when your healthis established?" she inquired, in a voice which skilfully avoided anypresumption of the reply. "Or shall you return by sea?"

"I am not a very good sailor, " answered Miriam, with sufficientsuavity, "and I shall probably go back by land. But I don't think Ishall stop anywhere. "

"It will be wiser, no doubt, " said Mrs. Lessingham, "to leave the restof Italy for another visit. To see Naples first, and then go north, isvery much like taking dessert before one's substantial dinner. I'm alittle sorry that Cecily begins here; but it was better to come andenjoy Naples with her friends this winter. I hope we shall spend mostof our time in Italy for a year or two. "

Conversation took its natural course, and presently turned to thesubject--inexhaustible at Naples--of the relative advantages of thisand that situation for an abode. Mrs. Lessingham, turning to thewindow, expressed her admiration of the view it afforded. 

"I think it is still better from Mrs. Baske's sitting-room, " saidEleanor, who had been watching Cecily, and thought that she might beglad of an opportunity of private talk with Miriam. And Cecily at onceavailed herself of the suggestion. 

"Would you let me see it, Miriam?" she asked. "If it is nottroublesome--"

Miriam rose, and they went out together. In silence they passed alongthe corridor, and when they had entered her room Miriam walked at onceto the window. Then she half turned, and her eyes fell before Cecily'searnest gaze. 

"I did so wish to be with you in your illness!" said the girl, withaffectionate warmth. "Indeed, I would have come if I could have been ofany use. After all the trouble you used to have with my wretchedheadaches and ailments--"

"You never have anything of the kind now, " said Miriam, with herindulgent smile. 

"Never. I am in what Mr. Mallard calls aggressive health. But it shocksme to see how pale you still are Miriam. I thought the voyage and theseten days at Naples--And you have such a careworn look. Cannot you throwoff 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 thismorning, and it was impossible to lie still I dressed and stood at theopen window. I couldn't see the sun itself as it rose, but I watchedthe first beams strike on Capri and the sea; and I tried to make adrawing of the island as it then looked, --a poor little daub, but itwill be precious in bringing back to my mind all I felt when I was busywith it. Such feeling I have never known; as if every nerve in me hadreceived an exquisite new sense. I keep saying to myself, 'Is thisreally Naples?' Let us go on to the balcony. Oh, you _must_ be gladwith me!"

Freed from the constraint of formal colloquy, and overcoming the slightembarrassment caused by what she knew of Miriam's thoughts, Cecilyrevealed her nature as it lay beneath the graces with which educationhad endowed her. This enthusiasm was no new discovery to Miriam, but inthe early days it had attached itself to far other things. Cecilyseemed to have forgotten that she was ever in sympathy with the moodwhich imposed silence on her friend. Her eyes drank light from thelandscape; her beauty was transfigured by passionate reception of allthe influences this scene could exercise upon heart and mind. Sheleaned on the railing of the balcony, and gazed until tears of ecstasymade 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 inItaly; it is a happy fate, and gives me all kinds of hope. We will beoften alone together in glorious places. We will talk it over; that isbetter than writing. You shall understand me, Miriam. You shall get aswell and strong as I am, and know what I mean when I speak of the joyof 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. Shewished 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 angrywith 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 evercared for me. "

There was a pause. They came back into the room, and Cecily, with alook of hesitation, asked quietly, --

"Have you heard of late from Reuben?"

Miriam, with averted eyes, answered simply, "No. " Again there wassilence, 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 isthe 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 andperfectly natural tone, smiling thoughtfully. "But he is a veryinteresting man, and I wish he would be more friendly with me. I triedhard to win his confidence on the journey from Genoa, but I didn't seemto have much success. I fancy"--she laughed--"that he is still in thehabit of regarding me as a little girl, who wouldn't quite understandhim if he spoke of serious things. When I wished to talk of hispainting, he would only joke. That annoyed me a little, and I tried tolet him see that it did, with the result that he refused to speak ofanything for a long time. "

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

"Landscape, " was the reply, given with veiled surprise. "Did you neversee 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 atit very inattentively, for it has never re-entered my mind from thatday to this. But I was ill at the time. "

"His pictures are neglected, " said Cecily, "but people who understandthem say they have great value. If he has anything accepted by theAcademy, it is sure to be hung out of sight. I think he is wrong toexhibit there at all. Academies are foolish things, and always givemost encouragement to the men who are worth least. When there is talkof 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 whobuys 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 thefrankest eyes. 

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

"Oh yes! Aunt, of course, knows far more about art than I do, and shethinks 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 justbeen writing about English landscape--and he mentioned Mr. Mallard withgreat respect. That was splendid, wasn't it?"

She spoke with joyous spiritedness. However modern, Cecily, it wasclear, had caught nothing of the disease of pococurantism. Intowhatever pleased her or enlisted her sympathies, she threw all the gladenergies 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 pieceof championship in a friend's cause. The respect with which shementioned 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 notime. He is going to Amalfi in a few days, to work. I begged him atleast to go to Pompeii with us, but he frowned--as he so oftendoes--and seemed unwilling to be persuaded; so I said no more. Thereagain, I feel sure he was afraid of being annoyed by trifling talk insuch places. But one mustn't judge an artist like other men. To besure, anything I could say or think would be trivial compared with whatis 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; hemust defend his time and his sensibilities. The common terms of societyhave 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 verystrange. "

Cecily laughed. 

"This is one of a thousand things we will talk about. Art is thegrandest thing in the world; it means everything that is strong andbeautiful--statues, pictures, poetry, music. How could one live withoutart? The artist is born a prince among men. What has he to do with therules by which common people must direct their lives? Before long, youwill 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 whichcontrasted curiously with that exultant cry. 

"Yes; it is time. "

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

"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 fromSant' Elmo. They had promised to come and dine in a day or two. Aftertheir departure, Miriam showed as little disposition to make commentsas she had to indulge in expectation before their arrival. Eleanor andher husband put less restraint upon themselves. 

"Heavens!" cried Spence, when they were alone; "what astoundingcapacity of growth was in that child!"

"She is a swift and beautiful creature!" said Eleanor, in a warmundertone 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 apsychological artist. I should have stolen to the keyhole and committedeavesdropping 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 tothe villa alone, and only just in time to dress for dinner. Guests wereexpected, Mr. And Mrs. Bradshaw of Manchester, old acquaintances of theSpences and of Miriam. When it had become known that Mrs. Baske, advised to pass the winter in a mild climate, was about to accept aninvitation from her cousin and go by sea to Naples, the Bradshaws, tothe astonishment of all their friends, offered to accompany her. It wasthe first time that either of them had left England, and they seemedmost unlikely people to be suddenly affected with a zeal for foreigntravel. Miriam gladly welcomed their proposal, and it was put intoexecution. 

When Spence entered the room his friends had already arrived. Mr. Bradshaw stood in the attitude familiar to him when on his ownhearthrug, his back turned to that part of the wall where in Englandwould have been a fireplace, and one hand thrust into the pocket of hisevening coat. 

"I tell you what it is, Spence!" he exclaimed, "I'm very much afraid Ishall be committing an assault. Certainly I shall if I don't soon learnsome good racy Italian. I must make out a little list of sentences, andget you or Mrs. Spence to translate them. Such as 'Do you take me for afool?' or 'Be off, you scoundrel!' or 'I'll break every bone in yourbody!' 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 fellowskept up with me this afternoon for a couple of miles or so. Now, whatmakes me so mad is the assumption of these blackguards that I don'tknow my own mind. I go out for a stroll, and the first cabby I passwants 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 goingto any such place. What the deuce! does the fellow suppose he canpersuade me or badger me into doing what I've no mind to do? Does hetake me for an ass? It's the insult of the thing that riles me! Thesame if I look in at a shop window; out rushes a gabbling swindler, andwants 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 thingthat I shall never spend a halfpenny with a scoundrel who attacks melike that?"

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

"You should take these things as compliments, " remarked Spence. "Theysee an Englishman coming along, and as a matter of course they considerhim a person of wealth and leisure, who will be grateful to any one forsuggesting how he can kill time. Having nothing in the world to do butenjoy 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 witha certain satisfaction. 

Threescore years all but two sat lightly on Jacob Bush Bradshaw. Hischeek was ruddy, his eyes had the lustre of health; in the wrinkledforehead you saw activity of brain, and on his lips the stubbornindependence of a Lancashire employer of labour. Prosperity had set itsmark upon him, that peculiarly English prosperity which is sointimately associated with spotless linen, with a good cut of clothes, with scant but valuable jewellery, with the absence of any perfume savethat which suggests the morning tub. He was a manufacturer of silk. Theprovincial accent notwithstanding, his conversation on general subjectssoon declared him a man of logical mind and of much homely information. A sufficient self-esteem allied itself with his force of character, butrobust amiability prevented this from becoming offensive; he had thesense of humour, and enjoyed a laugh at himself as well as at otherpeople. 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 inhis favour, he often gave proof of a liberal curiosity. With regard toart and learning, he had the intelligence to be aware of his owndefects; where he did not enjoy, he at least knew that he ought to havedone so, and he had a suspicion that herein also progress could be madeby stubborn effort, as in the material world. Finding himself abroad, he had set himself to observe and learn, with results now and then nota little amusing. The consciousness of wealth disposed him tointellectual generosity; standing on so firm a pedestal, he did notmind admitting that others might have a wider outlook. Italy was animpecunious country; personally and patriotically he had a pleasure inrecognizing the fact, and this made it easier for him to concede thepoints of superiority which he had heard attributed to her. Jacob wasrigidly sincere; he had no touch of the snobbery which shows itself insham admiration. If he liked a thing he said so, and strongly; if hefelt no liking where his guide-book directed him to be enthusiastic, hekept silence and cudgelled his brains. 

Equally ingenuous was his wife, but with results that argued ashallower nature. Mrs. Bradshaw had the heartiest and frankest contemptfor all things foreign; in Italy she deemed herself among a people soinferior to the English that even to discuss the relative merits of thetwo nations would have been ludicrous. Life "abroad" she could not takeas a serious thing; it amused or disgusted her, as the case mightbe--never occasioned her a grave thought. The proposal of thisexcursion, when first made to her, she received with mockery; when shesaw that her husband meant something more than a joke, she took time toconsider, and at length accepted the notion as a freak which possiblywould be entertaining, and might at all events be indulged after alifetime of sobriety. Entertainment she found in abundance. Thoughnatural beauty made little if any appeal to her, she interested herselfgreatly in Vesuvius, regarding it as a serio-comic phenomenon whichcould only exist in a country inhabited by childish triflers. Hermemory was storing all manner of Italian absurdities--everything beingan absurdity which differed from English habit and custom--to furnishher with matter for mirthful talk when she got safely back toManchester and civilization. With respect to the things which Jacob wasconstraining himself to study--antiquities, sculptures, paintings, stored in the Naples museum--her attitude was one of jocoseindifference or of half-tolerant contempt. Puritanism diluted withworldliness and a measure of common sense directed her views of art ingeneral. Works such as the Farnese Hercules and the group about theBull she looked upon much as she regarded the wall-scribbling of somedirty-minded urchin; the robust matron is not horrified by suchindecencies, but to be sure will not stand and examine them. "Oh, comealong, Jacob!" she exclaimed to her husband, when, at their first visitto the Museum, he went to work at the antiques with his Murray. "I'veno 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 thatlady and her niece. With Cecily's father Mr. Bradshaw had been wellacquainted, but Cecily herself he had not seen since her childhood, andhis astonishment at meeting her as Miss Doran was great. 

"What kind of society do they live among?" he asked of Spence. "Tip-toppeople, I suppose?"

"Not exactly what we understand by tip-top in England. Mrs. Lessingham's family connections are aristocratic, but she prefers thesociety 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 verymuch as though the reference were to a man busy on the front door. 

"He's never likely to be very popular, " replied Spence, adapting hisremarks to the level of his guests' understanding. "There was somethingof 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 seemuch in it. They complain that the colour's so dull. But then, as Ialways say, what else could you expect on a bit of Yorkshire moor inwinter? Is he going to paint anything here? Now, if he'd do me a bit ofthe bay, with Vesuvius smoking. "

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

When the ladies had left the dining-room, Mr. Bradshaw, over hiscigarette, 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 ofsomething I wanted to talk about. When I was leaving Manchester, I gottogether a few hooks, you know, that were likely to be useful overhere. My friend Lomax, the bookseller, suggested them. 'Got a classicaldictionary?' says he. 'Not I!' As you know, my schooling never wentmuch beyond the three R's, and hanged if I knew what a classicaldictionary was. 'Better take one, ' says Lomax. 'You'll want to look upyour gods and goddesses. ' So I took it, and I've been looking into itthese last few days. "

"Well?"

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

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

"A good deal of it comes in. "

"Then all I can say is, no wonder the colleges turn out such a lot ofyoung blackguards. Why, man, I could scarcely believe my eyes! You meanto say that, if I'd had a son, he'd have been brought up on that kindof literature, and without me knowing anything about it? Why, I'velocked the book up; I was ashamed to let it lay on the table. "

"It's the old Lempriere, I suppose, " said Spence, vastly amused. "Thenew dictionaries are toned down a good deal; they weren't so squeamishin 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 inconsistenciesin English morality. Anything you could find in the dictionary is milkfor babes compared with several Greek plays that have to be read forexaminations. "

"It fair caps me, Spence! Classical education that is, eh? That's whatparsons are bred on? And, by the Lord, you say they're beginning itwith 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, toEleanor's surprise, he broke into uproarious laughter. 

"One of the best jokes I ever heard! A fresh, first-hand judgment onthe morality of the Classics by a plain-minded English man ofbusiness. " He told the story. "And Bradshaw's perfectly right; that'sthe best of it. "

CHAPTER III

THE BOARDING-HOUSE ON THE MERGELLINA

The year was 1878. A tourist searching his Baedeker for a genteel butnot oppressively aristocratic _pension_ in the open parts of Napleswould have found himself directed by an asterisk to the establishmentkept by Mrs. Gluck on the Mergellina;--frequented by English andGermans, and very comfortable. The recommendation was a just one. Mrs. Gluck enjoyed the advantage of having lived as many years in England asshe had in Germany; her predilections leaned, if anything, to theEnglish side, and the arrival of a "nice" English family always put herin excellent spirits. She then exhibited herself as an Anglicizedmatron, perfectly familiar with all the requirements, great and little, of her guests, and, when minutiae were once settled, capable of meetingladies and gentlemen on terms of equality in her drawing-room or at hertable, where she always presided. Indeed, there was much truerefinement in Mrs. Gluck. You had not been long in her house before shefound an opportunity of letting you know that she prided herself onconnection with the family of the great musician, and under her roofthere was generally some one who played or sang well. It was her direthat all who sat at her dinner-table--the English people, at allevents--should be in evening dress. She herself had no little art inadorning herself so as to appear, what she was, a lady, and yet not toconflict with the ladies whose presence honoured her. 

In the drawing-room, a few days after the arrival of Mrs. Lessinghamand her niece, several members of the house hold were assembled inreadiness for the second dinner-bell. There was Frau Wohlgemuth, amiddle-aged lady with severe brows, utilizing spare moments over aGerman work on Greek sculpture. Certain plates in the book had caughtthe eye of Mrs. Bradshaw, with the result that she regarded thisinnocent student as a person of most doubtful character, who, if inignorance admitted to a respectable boardinghouse, should certainlyhave been got rid of as soon as the nature of her reading had beendiscovered. Frau Wohlgemuth had once or twice been astonished at thesevere look fixed upon her by the buxom English lady, but happily wouldnever receive an explanation of this silent animus. Then there wasFraulein Kriel, who had unwillingly incurred even more of Mrs. Bradshaw's displeasure, in that she, an unmarried person, had actuallylooked over the volume together with its possessor, not so much asblushing when she found herself observed by strangers. The remainingpersons were an English family, a mother and three daughters, theirname Denyer. 

Mrs. Denyer was florid, vivacious, and of a certain size. She had seenmuch of the world, and prided herself on cosmopolitanism; the one thingwith which she could not dispense was intellectual society. This wouldbe her second winter at Naples, but she gave her acquaintances tounderstand that Italy was by no means the country of her choice; shepreferred the northern latitudes, because there the intellectualatmosphere was more bracing. But for her daughters' sake she abodehere: "You know, my gills _adore_ Italy. "

Of these young ladies, the two elder--Barbara and Made line were theirseductive names--had good looks. Barbara, perhaps twenty-two years old, was rather colourless, somewhat too slim, altogether a trifle limp; butshe had a commendable taste in dress. Madeline, a couple of yearsyounger, presented a more healthy physique and a less commoncomeliness, but in the matter of costume she lacked her sister'sdiscretion. Her colours were ill-matched, her ornaments awkwardly worn;even her hair sought more freedom than was consistent with grace. Theyoungest girl, Zillah, who was about nineteen, had been less kindlydealt with by nature; like Barbara, she was of very light complexion, and this accentuated her plainness. She aimed at no compensation inattire, unless it were that her sober garments exhibited perfectneatness and complete inoffensiveness. Zillah's was a good face, inspite 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, andemancipated, or perish in the attempt. Every one who spoke with themmust understand that they were no every-day young ladies, imbued withnotions and prejudices recognized as feminine, frittering away theirlives amid the follies of the drawing-room and of the circulatinglibrary. Culture was their pursuit, heterodoxy their pride. If indeedit were true, as Mrs. Bradshaw somewhat acrimoniously declared, thatthey were all desperately bent on capturing husbands, then assuredlythe poor girls went about their enterprise with singular lack ofprudence. 

Each had her _role_. Barbara's was to pose as the adorer of Italy, theenthusiastic 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 murmurrapturously, "Roma capitale d'Italia!"--the watch-word of antipapalvictory. Of English writers she loved, or affected to love, those onlywho had found inspiration south of the Alps. The proud mother repeateda 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 divinelyregenerate. She praised their architecture. 

Madeline--whom her sisters addressed affectionately as "Mad"--professeda wider intellectual scope; less given to the melting mood thanBarbara, less naive in her enthusiasms, she took for her provinceaesthetic criticism in its totality, and shone rather in censure thanin laudation. French she read passably; German she had talked so muchof studying that it was her belief she had acquired it; Greek and Latinwere beyond her scope, but from modern essayists who wrote in theflamboyant style she had gathered enough knowledge of these literaturesto be able to discourse of them with a very fluent inaccuracy. With allschools of painting she was, of course, quite familiar; the greatmasters--vulgarly so known--interested her but moderately, and topraise them was, in her eyes, to incur a suspicion of philistinism. From her preceptors in this sphere, she had learnt certain names, oldand new, which stood for more exquisite virtues, and the frequentmention of them with a happy vagueness made her conversation veryimpressive to the generality of people. The same in music. It goeswithout saying that Madeline was an indifferentist in politics and onsocial questions; at the introduction of such topics, she smiled. 

Zillah's position was one of more difficulty. With nothing of hersisters' superficial cleverness, with a mind that worked slowly, and amemory irretentive, she had a genuine desire to instruct herself, andthat in a solid way. She alone studied with real persistence, and, bythe 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 herzeal to support the credit of the family was always driving her intohurried speech, sure to end in some disastrous pitfall. Conscious ofaesthetic defects, Zillah had chosen for her speciality the study ofthe history of civilization. But for being a Denyer, she might havebeen content to say that she studied history, and in that case her lifemight also have been solaced by the companionship of readable books;but, as modernism would have it, she could not be content to base herhistorical inquiries on anything less than strata of geology andbiological elements, with the result that she toiled day by day atperky little primers and compendia, and only learnt one chapter that itmight be driven out of her head by the next. Equally out of deferenceto her sisters, she smothered her impulses to conventional piety, andmade believe that her spiritual life supported itself on the postulatesof 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 indeedin the bosom of his family. Letters--and remittances--came from himfrom the most surprising quarters of the globe. His profession was thatof speculator at large, and, with small encouragement of any kind, hetoiled unceasingly to support his wife and daughters in their elegantleisure. At one time he was eagerly engaged in a project for makingstarch from potatoes in the south of Ireland. When this failed, heutilized a knowledge of Spanish--casually picked up, like all hisacquirements--and was next heard of at Veer Cruz, where he dealt incochineal, indigo, sarsaparilla, and logwood. Yellow fever interferedwith his activity, and after a brief sojourn with his family in theUnited States, where they had joined him with the idea of making adefinite settlement, he heard of something promising in Egypt, andthither repaired. A spare, vivacious, pathetically sanguine man, alwaysspeaking of the day when he would "settle down" in enjoyment of amoderate 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 wassimple--though with the simplicity not to be commanded by every one whowills--and her demeanour very far from exacting general homage; but herbirthright of distinction could not be laid aside, and the suave Mrs. Gluck was not singular in recognizing that here was such a guest as didnot every day grace her _pension_. Barbara and Madeline Denyer neverlooked at her without secret pangs. In appearance, however, they werevery friendly, and Cecily had met their overtures from the first withthe simple goodwill natural to her. She went and seated herself byMadeline, who had on her lap a little portfolio. 

"These are the drawings of which I spoke, " said Madeline, half openingthe 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 againto-morrow. You can form an idea of their character. "

They were small water-colours, the work--as each declared in fantasticsignature--of one Clifford Marsh, spoken of by the Denyers, and byMadeline in particular, as a personal friend. He was expected to arriveany day in Naples. The subjects, Cecily had been informed, were naturalscenery; the style, impressionist. Impressionism was no novel term toCecily, and in Paris she had had her attention intelligently directedto good work in that kind; she knew, of course, that, like every otherstyle, it must be judged with reference to its success in achieving theend proposed. But the first glance at the first of Mr. Marsh'sproductions perplexed her. A study on the Roman Campagna, saidMadeline. It might just as well, for all Cecily could determine, havebeen a study of cloud-forms, or of a storm at sea, or of anything, orof nothing; nor did there seem to be any cogent reason why it should belooked at one way up rather than the other. Was this genius, orimpudence?

"You don't know the Campagna, yet, " remarked Madeline, finding that theother kept silence. "Of course, you can't appreciate the marvelloustruthfulness of this impression; but it gives you new emotions, doesn'tit?"

Mrs. Lessingham would have permitted herself to reply with a pointedaffirmative. 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 letme just look and think, and tell me your own thoughts about each. "

Madeline was not displeased. Already she had discovered that in mostdirections Miss Doran altogether exceeded her own reach, and that itwas not safe to talk conscious nonsense to her. The tone of modestyseemed unaffected, and, as Madeline had reasons for trying to believein Clifford Marsh, it gratified her to feel that here at length shemight tread firmly and hold her own. The examination of the drawingsproceeded, with the result that Cecily's original misgiving wasstrongly confirmed. What would Ross Mallard say? Mallard's own work wasnot of the impressionist school, and he might suffer prejudice todirect him; but she had a conviction of how his remarks would soundwere 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 pleasantestvoice. 

At table, the ladies were in a majority. Mr. Bradshaw was the only manpast middle life. Next in age to him came Mr. Musselwhite, who lookedabout forty, and whose aquiline nose, high forehead, light bushywhiskers, and air of vacant satisfaction, marked him as the aristocratof the assembly. This gentleman suffered under a truly aristocraticaffliction--the ever-reviving difficulty of passing his day. Mild indemeanour, easy in the discharge of petty social obligations, perfectlyinoffensive, he came and went like a vivified statue of gentlemanly_ennui_. Every morning there arrived for him a consignment of Englishnewspapers; these were taken to his bedroom at nine o'clock, togetherwith a cup of chocolate. They presumably occupied him until he appearedin the drawing-room, just before the hour of luncheon, when, in spiteof the freshness of his morning attire, he seemed already burdened bythe blank of time, always sitting down to the meal with an audible sighof gratitude. Invariably he addressed to his neighbour a remark on thedirection of the smoke from Vesuvius. If the neighbour happened to beuninformed in things Neapolitan, Mr. Musselwhite seized the occasion toexplain at length the meteorologic significance of these varying fumes. Luncheon over, he rose like one who is summoned to a painful duty; infact, the great task of the day was before him--the struggle with timeuntil the hour of dinner. You would meet him sauntering sadly about thegardens of the Villa Nazionale, often looking at his watch, which healways regulated by the cannon of Sant' Elmo: or gazing withlack-lustre eye at a shop-window in the Toledo; or sitting with alittle glass of Marsala before him in one of the fashionable _cafes_, sunk in despondency. But when at length he appeared at thedinner-table, once more fresh from his toilet, then did a gleam ofanimation transform his countenance; for the victory was won; yet againwas old time defeated. Then he would discourse his best. Two topicswere his: the weather, and "my brother the baronet's place inLincolnshire. " The manner of his monologue on this second and morefruitful subject was really touching. When so fortunate as to have anew listener, he began by telling him or her that he was his father'sfourth son, and consequently third brother to Sir GrantMusselwhite--"who goes in so much for model-farming, you know. " At thehereditary "place in Lincolnshire" he had spent the bloom of his life, which he now looked back upon with tender regrets. He did not mentionthe fact that, at the age of five-and-twenty, he had been beguiled fromthat Arcadia by wily persons who took advantage of his innocent youth, who initiated him into the metropolitan mysteries which sadden the souland deplete the pocket, who finally abandoned him upon the shoal of ayoungest brother's allowance when his father passed away from the placein Lincolnshire, and young Sir Grant, reigning in the old baronet'sstead, deemed himself generous in making the family scapegrace anyprovision at all. Yet such were the outlines of Mr. Musselwhite'shistory. Had he been the commonplace spendthrift, one knows pretty wellon what lines his subsequent life would have run; but poor Mr. Musselwhite was at heart a domestic creature. Exiled from his home, hewandered in melancholy, year after year, round a circle of continentalresorts, never seeking relief in dissipation, never discovering arational pursuit, imagining to himself that he atoned for thedisreputable past in keeping far from the track of his distinguishedrelatives. 

Ah, that place in Lincolnshire! To the listener's mind it became one ofthe most imposing of English ancestral abodes. The house was ofindescribable magnitude and splendour. It had a remarkable "turret, "whence, across many miles of plain, Lincoln Cathedral could bediscovered by the naked eye; it had an interminable drive from thelodge to the stately portico; it had gardens of fabulous fertility; ithad stables which would have served a cavalry regiment In what regionwere the kine of Sir Grant Musselwhite unknown to fame? Who had notheard of his dairy-produce? Three stories was Mr. Musselwhite in thehabit or telling, scintillating fragments of his blissful youth; onewas of a fox-cub and a terrier; another of a heifer that went mad; thethird, and the most thrilling, of a dismissed coachman who turnedburglar, and in the dead of night fired shots at old Sir Grant and hissons. In relating these anecdotes, his eye grew moist and his throatswelled. 

Mr. Musselwhite's place at table was next to Barbara Denyer. So long asMiss Denyer was new, or comparatively new, to her neighbour'sreminiscences, all went well between them. Barbara condescended to showinterest in the place in Lincolnshire; she put pertinent questions; shesmiled or looked appropriately serious in listening to the threestories. But this could not go on indefinitely, and for more than aweek now conversation between the two had been a trying matter. For Mr. Musselwhite to sustain a dialogue on such topics as Barbara had madeher own was impossible, and he had no faculty even for the commonestkind of impersonal talk. He devoted himself to his dinner in amiablesilence, enjoying the consciousness that nearly an hour of occupationwas before him, and that bed-time lay at no hopeless distance. 

Moreover, there was a boy--yet it is doubtful whether he should be sodescribed; for, though he numbered rather less than sixteen years, experience had already made him _blase_. He sat beside his mother, aMrs. Strangwich. For Master Strangwich the ordinary sources of youthfulsatisfaction did not exist; he talked with the mature on terms ofsomething more than equality, and always gave them the impression thatthey had still much to learn. This objectionable youth had long sincebeen everywhere and seen everything. The _naivete_ of finding pleasurein novel circumstances moved him to a pitying surprise. Speak of theglories of the Bay of Naples, and he would remark, with hands inpockets and head thrown back, that he thought a good deal more of theGolden Horn. If climate came up for discussion, he gave an impartialvote, based on much personal observation, in favour of SouthernCalifornia. His parents belonged to the race of modern nomads, thosecurious beings who are reviving an early stage of civilization as aningenious expedient for employing money and time which they have notintelligence enough to spend in a settled habitat. It was alreadynoticed in the _pension_ that Master Strangwich paid somewhat markedattentions to Madeline Denyer; there was no knowing what might comeabout if their acquaintance should be prolonged for a few weeks. 

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

And, whilst the guests were still busy with their soup, Mr. CliffordMarsh presented himself. Within the doorway he stood for a momentsurveying the room; with placid eye he selected Mrs. Denyer, andapproached her just to shake hands; her three daughters received fromhim the same attention. Words Mr. Marsh had none, but he smiled assmiles the man conscious of attracting merited observation. Indeed, itwas impossible not to regard Mr. Marsh with curiosity. His attire wasvery conventional in itself, but somehow did not look like the eveninguniform of common men: it sat upon him with an artistic freedom, andseemed the garb of a man superior to his surroundings. The artist wasslight, pale, rather feminine of feature; he had delicate hands, whichhe managed to display to advantage; his auburn hair was not longbehind, as might have been expected, but rolled in a magnificent massupon his brows. Many were the affectations whereby his countenancerendered itself unceasingly interesting. At times he wrinkled hisforehead down the middle, and then smiled at vacancy--a humoroussadness; or his eyes became very wide as he regarded, yet appeared notto see, some particular person; or his lips drew themselves in, asymbol of meaning reticence. All this, moreover, not in such degrees asto make him patently ridiculous; by no means. Mr. And Mrs. Bradshawmight exchange frequent glances, and have a difficulty in preservingdecorum; 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 ofthe commonplace. Cecily did not fail to inspect the new arrival. Shetoo was well aware that hatred of vulgarity constrains many persons whoare anything but fools to emphasize their being in odd ways, and itmight still--in spite of the impressionist water-colours--be provedthat Mr. Marsh had a right to vary from the kindly race of men. Shehoped he was really a person of some account; it delighted her to bewith such. And then she suspected that Madeline Denyer had somethingmore 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 forthe benefit of Frau Wohlgemuth, who murmured, "Ach!" and shook her head. 

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

Cecily was amused; she looked at Madeline and exchanged a friendlyglance with her. At the same time she was becoming aware that Mr. Marsh, who sat opposite, vouchsafed her the homage of his gaze rathertoo 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 gaveheed to the artist's utterances. 

She was going to spend an hour with Miriam this evening, withoutexpress invitation. Mr. Bradshaw would drive up the hill with her, anddoubtless Mr. Spence would see her safely home. Thus she saw no morefor the present of the Denyers' friend. 

Those ladies had a private sitting-room, and thither, in the course ofthe evening, Clifford Marsh repaired. Barbara and Zillah, with theirmother, remained in the drawing room. On opening the door to which hehad been directed, Marsh found Madeline bent over a book. She raisedher 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 headagainst her shoulder. Madeline remained passive, her features stillshowing the resentment his manner had provoked. 

"I've come all this way just to see you, Mad, when I've no right to behere 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 suspensein that way. Why can't you always say at once what you mean? Fatherdoes the same thing constantly in his letters. I'm sure we've quiteenough 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 continuethe usual allowance until my twenty-sixth birthday--eighteenth ofFebruary next, you know--and no longer than that. After then, I mustlook 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 asan artist, if I'm going to make it at all. In his opinion, I am simplywasting my time and his money. No cash results; that is to say, nosuccess. Of course, his view. "

The girl kept silence. Marsh shifted his position slightly, so as toget 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 facewhen the portfolio disclosed its contents; of Miss Doran's silence; ofcertain other person' looks and silence--or worse than silence. Theknitting of her brows became deeper; Marsh felt an uneasy movement inher 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 smileof disillusion. 

"You needn't insult me, " said Madeline, but not with the formerpetulance; "Often enough you have done that, and yet I don't think Ihave 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--andsmiled with increase of bitterness. 

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

"You mean, of course, that I think of nothing--have never thought ofanything--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 itwould have caused your step-father at once to stop his allowance. Andpray 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 inyour power to make or mar. You have chosen to keep me in perpetualanxiety, and now you take a suitable opportunity to overthrow mealtogether; or rather, you try to. We will see how things go when I amfree to pursue my course untroubled. "

"Do so, by all manner of means!" exclaimed Madeline, her voicetrembling. "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, Iconfess it is very unlikely I should have aided you. I haven't theleast belief in projects of that kind. At best, you would have beenforced into some kind of paltry work just to support me--and wherewould be the good of our marriage? You know perfectly well that lots ofmen 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--andI don't blame them. What's the good of saying one moment that you knowyour work can never appeal to the multitude, and the next, affecting tobelieve 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 ourengagement might help you. That didn't seem to me impossible. It is avery different thing from marriage on nothing a year. "

"You have no faith in me; you never had. And how _could_ you believe inwhat you don't understand? I see now what I have been forced tosuspect--that your character is just as practical as that of otherwomen. 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 idiotif 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 ofpounds, shillings and pence? Come to see me when you have had no dinnerto-day, and are feeling very uncertain about breakfast in the morning, and I will say, 'Pooh! your talk about art was after all nothing buttalk; you are a sham!'"

Marsh's leg began to ache. He rose and moved about the room. Madelineat length turned her eyes to him; he was brooding genuinely, and notfor effect. Her glance discerned this. 

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

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

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

"I've asked him to let me have half the money, but he refuses eventhat. His object is, of course, to compel me into the life of aPhilistine. I believe the fellow thinks it's kindness; I know my motherdoes. 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 impatientsound, 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 helpyou once said I could give you. I will try to give it still. Paintsomething that will sell, and go on with the other work at the sametime. "

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

"And an end of your artist life, it seems to me. Unless you have anyother 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 surethat 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 notime for art?"

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

"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 tellBarbara I wish to speak to her?"

"Yes, I will. "

His temper grew worse. In his weakness he really had thought it likelythat Madeline would suggest something hopeful. Men of his stampconstantly entertain unreasonable expectations, and are angry when theunreason is forced upon their consciousness. 

"One word before you go, please, " said Madeline, standing up andspeaking with emphasis. "After what you said just now, this is, ofcourse, our last interview of this kind. When we meet again--and Ithink it would be gentlemanly in you to go and live somewhere else--youare 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 leaveme. "

He made an effort and left the room. When the door had closed, Madelineheaved a deep sigh, and was for some minutes in a brown, if not ablack, study. Then she shivered a little, sighed again, and again tookup the volume she had been reading. It was Daudet's "Les Femmesd'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. "Iam sure he wears me out. This is worse than the last. 'The fact of thematter is, I must warn you very seriously that I can't supply you withas 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 couldkeep your remittances the same by doing on less myself, I would, butthere'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 onit. Things have gone deuced badly, and are likely to go even worse, asfar as I can see. Do think about getting less expensive quarters. Iwish to heaven poor little Mad could get married! Hasn't Marsh anyprospects yet?'"

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

Mrs. Denyer stared. 

"You've broken off?"

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

There was a confused colloquy between all four. Barbara shrugged herfair 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 iswilling to give him a position in business, and he must accept it; thenthe 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, withswelling bosom and reddening face. "You have quarrelled on somesimpleton'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 ourdifficulties 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. Mygirl, 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 andregeneracy. 

"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 anend to this ridiculous state of things. You will _order_ him to takethe position offered. "

"Mother, I can do nothing of the kind. If necessary, I'll go for agoverness as well. "

Thereupon Zillah wept, protesting that such desecration was impossible. The scene prolonged itself to midnight. On the morrow, with theexception of Mrs. Denyer's resolve to subdue Marsh, all was forgotten, and the Denyer family pursued their old course, putting off decidedaction 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 Spencewould have continued to interpret Miriam's cheerless frame of mind as amere result of impatience at being removed from the familiar scenes ofher religious activity, and of disquietude amid uncongenialsurroundings. "A Puritan at Naples"--that was the phrase whichrepresented her to his imagination; his liking for the picturesque andsuggestive led him to regard her solely in that light. No strain ofmodern humanitarianism complicated Miriam's character. One had not totake into account a possible melancholy produced by the contrastbetween her life of ease in the South, and the squalor of laboriousmultitudes under a sky of mill-smoke and English fog. Of the newphilanthropy she spoke, if at all, with angry scorn, holding it to bebased on rationalism, radicalism, positivism, or whatsoever nameembodied the conflict between the children of this world and thechildren of light. Far from Miriam any desire to abolish the miserywhich was among the divinely appointed conditions of this preliminaryexistence. No; she was uncomfortable, and content that others should beso, for discomfort's sake. It fretted her that the Sunday in Naplescould not be as universally dolorous as it was at Bartles. It revoltedher 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 ofanother tremendous outbreak. She regards him in a friendly way; he isthe minister of vengeance. "

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

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

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

"I allow you your joke, but I am right for all that. She has nothing tothink about that profoundly interests her; her books are all but assapless 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 Ihave noted several little signs of it since Cecily came. She poses--andin 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 naturejustifying itself. I'll tell you what I am going to do, I shall proposeto her to begin and read Dante. "

"The 'Inferno. ' Why, yes. "

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

Miriam knew no language but her own, and Eleanor by no means purposedinviting her to a course of grammar and exercise. She herself, with herhusband's assistance, had learned to read Italian in the only rationalway for mature-minded persons--simply taking the text and a closetranslation, 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. Onhearing her cousin's proposition, she at first smiled coldly; but shedid not reject it, and in a day or two they had made a fair beginningof the 'Inferno. ' Such a beginning, indeed, as surprised Eleanor, whowas not yet made aware that Miriam worked at the book in private withfeverish energy--drank at the fountain like one perishing of thirst. Andersen's exquisite story was not so readily accepted, yet this toobefore long showed a book-marker. And Miriam's countenance brightened;she could not conceal this effect. Her step was a little lighter, andher speech became more natural. 

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

Miriam sank as the heavens darkened. The strength of which she hadlately been conscious forsook her; all her body was oppressed withlanguor, her mind miserably void. No book made appeal to her, and thesight of those which she had bought from home was intolerable. She layupon a couch, her limbs torpid, burdensome. Eleanor's company was worsethan useless. 

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

An hour went by, and no one disturbed her mood. Her languor was on theconfines of sleep, when a knock at the door caused her to stirimpatiently 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 facewitnessing 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? Ofcourse 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 wasaccompanied by one much heavier. Miriam kept her eyes turned to thedoor; her look was of pained expectancy and of sternness. She stoodclose 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 tobe seven- or eight-and-twenty, and the cast of his features so stronglyresembled 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 inhim developed so as to lose severity and attain a kind of vigour, whichat first sight promised a rich and generous nature; his excellentforehead and dark imaginative eyes indicated a mind anything but likelyto bear the trammels in which Miriam had grown up. In the attitude withwhich 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 wasone of self-esteem at issue with adversity. He wore the dress of agentleman, but it was disorderly. His light overcoat hung unbuttoned, and in his hand he crushed together a bat of soft felt. 

"Why have you come to see me, Reuben?" Miriam asked at length, speakingwith difficulty and in an offended Lone. 

"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 Ishould, at all events, have written. When I heard you had come toNaples, 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 amwell 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. IfI was hateful to you then, how am I less so now?"

"A man in anger, and especially one of my nature, often says more thanhe means. It was never _you_ that were hateful to me, though yourbeliefs and your circumstances might madden me into saying such athing. "

"My beliefs, as I told you then, are a part of myself--_are_ myself. "

She said it with irritable insistence--an accent which would doubtlesshave 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, andI feel tired. Such weather as this doesn't help to make me cheerful. Iimagined Naples with a rather different sky. "

Miriam motioned towards a chair, and looked drearily from the window atthe dreary sea. Neither spoke again for two or three minutes. ReubenElgar 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 spokeof a third-class journey--I am, at all events, the natural person foryour thoughts to turn to. "

Reuben laughed dispiritedly. 

"No, no, Miriam; I haven't quite got to that. You are the very lastperson I should think of in such a case. "

"Why?"

"Simply because I am not quite so contemptible as you think me. I don'tquarrel with my sister, and come back after some years to make it upjust 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 supposeit's hopeless that you ever will. We are too different. You regard meas a vulgar reprobate, who by some odd freak of nature happens to beakin to you. I can picture so well what your imagination makes of me. All the instances of debauchery and general blackguardism that thecommerce of life has forced upon your knowledge go towards completingthe ideal. It's a pity. I have always felt that you and I might havebeen a great deal to each other if you had had a reasonable education. I remember you as a child rebelling against the idiocies of yourtraining, before your brain and soul had utterly yielded; then you weremy sister, and even then, if it had been possible, I would have draggedyou away and saved you. "

"I thank Heaven, " said Miriam, "that my childhood was in other handsthan yours!"

"Yes; and it is very bitter to me to hear you say so. "

Miriam kept silence, but looked at him less disdain fully. 

"I suppose, " he said, "the people you are staying with have much thesame horror of my name as you have. "

"You speak as loosely as you think. The Spences can scarcely respectyou. "

"You purpose remaining with them all the winter?"

"It is quite uncertain. With what intentions have you come here? Do youwish me to speak of you to the Spences or not?"

He still kept looking about the room. Perhaps upon him too the balefulsouthern wind was exercising its influence, for he sat listlessly whenhe was not speaking, and had a weary look. 

"You may speak of me or not, as you like. I don't see that anything'sto 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 aswell 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 friendssent him to me as a companion likely to 'do me good. '"

"I knew nothing of Mr. Mallard then--nothing personally. But he doesn'tseem 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 ownway, Somehow I've lost sight of him for a long time. He's paintinghere, I suppose? Where can I find him?"

"I don't know his address, but I can at once get it for you. You aresure 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 youattribute to him such judgments as your own?"

His way of speaking was subject to abrupt changes. When, as in thisinstance, he broke forth impulsively, there was a corresponding gleamin his fine eyes and a nervous tension in all his frame. His voice hadan extraordinary power of conveying scornful passion; at such momentshe seemed to reveal a profound and strong nature. 

"I am very slightly acquainted with Mr. Mallard, " Miriam answered, withthe cold austerity which was the counterpart in her of Reuben's fieryimpulsiveness, "but I understand that he is considered trustworthy andhonourable 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 theartist would be flattered to hear this estimate of his personality! Thehonourable 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 hadI still a scrap of trustworthiness and honour left?"

"Tell me that yourself, instead of talking to no purpose in thisfrenzied way. Why do you come here, if you only wish to renew our olddifferences?"

"You were the first to do so. "

"Can I pretend to be friendly with you, Reuben? What word of penitencehave you spoken? In what have you amended yourself? Is not every othersentence you speak a defence of yourself and scorn upon me?"

"And what right have you to judge me? Of course I defend myself, and asscornfully as you like, when I am despised and condemned by one whoknows as little of me as the first stranger I pass on the road. Cannotyou come forward with a face like a sister's, and leave my faults formy own conscience? _You_ judge me! What do you, with your nun'sexperiences, your heart chilled, your paltry view of the world througha chapel window, know of a man whose passions boil in him like the firein yonder mountain? I should subdue my passions. Excellent text for acopy book in a girls' school! I should be another man than I am; Ishould remould myself; I should cool my brain with doctrine. With abullet, if you like; say that, and you will tell the truth. But withthe truth you have nothing to do; too long ago you were taught that youmust never face that. Do you deal as truthfully with yourself as I withmy own heart? I wonder, I wonder. "

Miriam's eyes had fallen. She stood quite motionless, with a face ofsuffering. 

"You want me to confess my sins?" Reuben continued, walking about inuncontrollable excitement. "What is your chapel formula? Find onecomprehensive enough, and let me repeat it after you; only mind that itincludes hypocrisy, for the sake of the confession. I tell you I amconscious of no sins. Of follies, of ignorances, of miseries--as manyas you please. And to what account should they all go? Was I soadmirably guided in childhood and boyhood that my subsequent life isnot 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 anEnglish lad, and one whose temperament was plain enough to eyes ofordinary penetration. My very name! Your name, too! You it has made aJew 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--afailure!"

He threw himself upon the couch and became silent, his strength at anend, even his countenance exhausted of vitality, looking haggard andalmost ignoble. Miriam stirred at length, for the first time, and gazedsteadily 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 mustmake 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 thatimpossible. Only don't throw your scorn at me for believing what youcan't believe. Talk quietly; avoid those subjects; tell me, if you wishto, what you are doing or think of doing. "

"You should have spoken like this earlier, Miriam. It would have sparedmy memory its most wretched burden. "

"How?"

"You know quite well that I valued your affection, and that it had nolittle importance in my life. Instead of still having my sister, I hadonly the memory of her anger and injustice, and of my own cursedtemper. "

"I had no influence for good. "

"Perhaps not in the common sense of the words. I am not going to talkhumbug about a woman's power to make a man angelic; that will do forthird-rate novels and plays. But I shouldn't have thrown myself away asI 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 thoughtharshness was the only proper treatment for a case such as mine. I hadhad 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. Mostof my money has gone--on the fool's way. I haven't come here to lamentover it. It's one of my rules never, if I can help it, to think of thepast. What has been, has been; and what will be, will be. When I fumeand rage like an idiot, that's only the blood in me getting the betterof the brain; an example of the fault that always wrecks me. Do youthink I cannot see myself? Just now, I couldn't keep back the insensatewords--insensate because useless--but I judged myself all the time asdistinctly 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 amtired and wretched. Where is the sun? Surely one may have sunshine atNaples!"

He was now idly fretful. Miriam seated herself at his side, and he tookher hand. 

"I thought you might perhaps receive me like this at first. I came onlywith that hope. I wish you looked better, Miriam. How do you employyourself 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 evenlike him. "

"But yourself, Reuben?"

"No, no; let me rest a little. I'm sick and tired of myself. Let's talkof 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 dowith them. Mallard still acting as her guardian, I suppose. Rather ajoke, that. I never could get him to speak on the subject. But I feelglad 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 ofhis 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'lldrink a bottle of wine together. "

He kept stroking Miriam's hand, a white hand with blue veins--a stronghand, though so delicately fashioned. The touch of the wedding-ringagain 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, poorgirl. Stay in Italy a long time, now you are once here. For you to behere at all seems a miracle; it gives me hopes. "

Miriam did not resent this, in word at all events. She was submittingagain to physical oppression; her head drooped, and her abstracted gazewas veiled with despondent lassitude. Reuben talked idly, in loosesentences. 

"Do you think of me as old or young, Miriam?" he asked, when both hadkept 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 inanother I am only just beginning my life, and have all my energiesfresh. 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 arevival of mental energy. 

"But plans of what sort?"

"There is only one direction open to me. My law has of course goneto--to limbo; it was always an absurdity. Most of my money has gone thesame way, and I'm not sorry for it. If I had never had anything, Ishould 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 oneroad 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 forwardwith 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 kindof life that is useful as literary material. It's only quite of latethat I have begun to appreciate this, to see all the possibilities thatare in myself. It has taken all this time to outgrow the miserablemisdirection of my boyhood, and to become a man of my time. Thank thefates, I no longer live in the Pentateuch, but at the latter end of thenineteenth century. Many a lad has to work this deliverance for himselfnowadays. I don't wish to speak unkindly any more, Miriam, but I musttell you plain facts. Some fellows free themselves by dint of hardstudy. In my case that was made impossible by all sorts ofreasons--temperament mainly, as you know. I was always a rebel againstmy fetters; I had not to learn that liberty was desirable, but how toobtain it, and what use to make of it. All the disorder through which Ihave gone was a struggle towards self-knowledge and understanding of mytime. You and others are wildly in error in calling it dissipation, profligacy, recklessness, and so on. You at least, Miriam, ought tohave judged me more truly; you, at all events, should not have classedme with common men. "

His eyes were now agleam, and the beauty of his countenance fullymanifest. He held his head in a pose of superb confidence. There wastoo much real force in his features to make this seem a demonstrationof idle vanity. Miriam regarded him, and continued to do so. 

"To be sure, my powers are in your eyes valueless, " he pursued; "orrather, your eyes have never been opened to anything of the kind. Thenineteenth century is nothing to you; its special opportunities anddemands and characteristics would revolt you if they were made clear toyour intelligence. If I tell you I am before everything a man of mytime, I suppose this seems only a cynical confession of all theweaknesses and crimes you have already attributed to me? It shall notalways be so! Why, what are you, after all, Miriam? Twenty-three, twenty-four--which is it? Why, you are a child still; your time ofeducation is before you. You are a child come to Italy to learn whatcan 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 beenin spirit so like these, so like them in the ring of enthusiasm. 

"Some day, " Elgar went on, exalting himself more and more, "you shallwonder in looking back on this scene between us--wonder how you couldhave been so harsh to me. It is impossible that you and I, sole brotherand sister, should move on constantly diverging paths. Tell me--you arenot really without some kind of faith in my abilities?"

"You know it has always been my grief that you put the in 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 achild--there is my hope. You shall be taught--yes, yes! Your obstinacyshall 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?" Miriamasked, without looking at him, in an idly contemptuous tone. 

"Why not old Mallard?" cried Reuben, breaking suddenly into jest. "Thetutorship of children is in his line. "

Miriam showed herself offended. 

"Please don't speak of me. I am willing to hear what you purpose foryourself, but don't mix my name with it. "

Elgar resumed the tone of ambition. Whether he had in truth definiteliterary schemes could not be gathered from the rhetoric on which hewas borne. His main conviction seemed to be that he embodied the spiritof his time, and would ere long achieve a work of notable significance, the fruit of all his experiences. Miriam, though with no sign of stronginterest, 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 whatbenefit I can from Naples first of all. I suppose the sun will shineagain before long? This sky is depressing. "

He stood up, and went to the windows; then came back with uncertainstep. 

"You'll tell the Spences I've been?"

"I think I had better. They will know, of course, that I have had avisitor. "

"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 turnedover each one with angry mutterings. The chapel plans were no longerlying about; only yesterday Miriam had rolled them up and put themaway--temporarily. Before the "St. Cecilia" he stood in thoughtfulobservation, and was still there when Miriam returned. She had a lookof 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, Miriamstood with knitted brows, her eyes fixed on the floor. Reubenreappeared, 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 invitationhe came to her house, but neglected to repeat the visit. To Mrs. Lessingham he was personally a stranger. But neither of these ladiesreceived the honour of much attention from him for the first fewmoments after he had entered the room; his eyes and thoughts wereoccupied with the wholly unexpected figure of Cecily Doran. In hisrecollection, she was a slight, pale, shy little girl, fond of keepingin corners with a book, and seemingly marked out for a life ofdissenting piety and provincial surroundings. She had interested himlittle in those days, and seldom did anything to bring herself underhis notice. He last saw her when she was about twelve. Now he foundhimself in the presence of a beautiful woman, every line of whosecountenance told of instruction, thought, spirit; whose bearing wasrefined beyond anything he had yet understood by that word; whosemodest revival of old acquaintance made his hand thrill at her touch, and his heart beat confusedly as he looked into her eyes. Withdifficulty he constrained himself to common social necessities, andmade show of conversing with the elder ladies. He wished to gazesteadily at the girl's face, and connect past with present; to revivehis memory of six years ago, and convince himself that such developmentwas possible. At the same time he became aware of a reciprocalcuriosity in Cecily. When he turned towards her she met his glance, andwhen he spoke she gave him a smile of pleased attentiveness. Theconsequence 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 returnedwithout 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 anypurpose. I stared about me a good deal, and got some notions oftopography, 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 thetalk of young men with brains. Whenever it was possible, she gatheredsuch individuals about her and encouraged them to discourse ofthemselves, generally quite as much to their satisfaction as to herown. Already she had invited with some success the confidence of Mr. Clifford Marsh, who proved interesting, but not unfathomable; hebelonged to a class with which she was tolerably familiar. ReubenElgar, she perceived at once, was not without characteristics linkinghim to that same group of the new generation, but it seemed probablethat its confines were too narrow for him. There was comparativelylittle affectation in his manner, and none in his aspect; his voicerang with a sincerity which claimed serious audience, and his eyes hadsomething more than surface gleamings. Possibly he belonged to theunclassed and the unclassable, in which case the interest attaching tohim was of the highest kind. 

"Subsequent reflection, " returned Elgar, "has, at all events, enabledme to see myself as I then was; and I suppose self-knowledge is thebest result of travel. "

"If one agrees that self-knowledge is ever a good at all, " said thespeculative lady, with her impartial smile. 

"To be sure. " Elgar looked keenly at her, probing the significance ofthe remark. "The happy human being will make each stage of his journeya phase of more or less sensual enjoyment, delightful at the time andvaluable in memory. The excursion will be his life in little. I envyhim, 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 developitself. But I envy every lower thing in creation. I won't pretend tosay how it is with other people who are forced along an upward path; inmy own case every step is made with a groan, and why shouldn't Iconfess 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 withjust as little admission of shame. "

Miriam heard this modern dialogue with grave features. At Bartles, suchtalk would have qualified the talker for social excommunication, andevery other pain and penalty Bartles had in its power to inflict. Sheobserved that Cecily's interest increased. The girl listened frankly;no sense of anything improper appeared in her visage. Nay, she wasabout to interpose a remark. 

"Isn't there a hope, Mr. Elgar, that this envy of which you speak willbe one of the things that the upward path leaves behind?"

"I should like to believe it, Miss Doran, " he answered, his eyeskindling 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 girlcontinued impulsively. 

"Your progress in that direction exceeds mine. "

"Don't be troubled by the compliment, " interjected Eleanor, beforeCecily could speak. "There is no question of merit. "

Mrs. Lessingham laughed. 

The rain still fell, and the grey heavens showed no breaking. Shortlyafter this, Elgar would have risen to take his leave, but Mrs. Spencebegged him to remain and lunch with them. The visitors from theMergellina declined a similar invitation. 

Edward Spence was passing his morning at the Museum. On his return atluncheon-time, Eleanor met him with the intelligence that Reuben Elgarhad 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 aunthappened 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 adecided 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 toproduce 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 divisionof her personal property. "

When he again appeared, Elgar was in excellent spirits. He met Spencewith irresistible frankness and courtesy; his talk made the luncheoncheery, and dismissed thought of sirocco. It appeared that he had asyet no abode; his luggage was at the station. A suggestion that heshould seek quarters under the same roof with Mallard recommendeditself to him. 

"I feel like a giant refreshed, " he declared, in privately taking leaveof 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 immensehouses, all day long congested with the merry tumult of Neapolitantraffic, where herds of goats and much cows placidly make their wayamong vehicles of every possible and impossible description; where_cocchieri_ crack their whips and belabour their hapless cattle, andyell their "Ah--h--h! Ah--h--h!"--where teams of horse, ox, and ass, the three abreast, drag piles of country produce, jingling theirfantastic harness, and primitive carts laden with red-soaked wine-casksrattle recklessly along; where bare-footed, girdled, and tonsured monksplod on their no-business, and every third man one passes is a rotundecclesiastic, who never in his life walked at more than a mile an hour;where, at evening, carriages returning from the Villa Nazionale cramthe thoroughfare from side to side, and make one aware, if one did notpreviously know it, that parts of the street have no pedestrians'pavement;--from the Strada di Chiaia (now doomed, alas! by theexigencies of _lo sventramento_ and _il risanamento_) turn into thepublic staircase and climb through the dusk, with all possibleattention to where you set your foot, past the unmelodious beggars, tothe Ponte di Chiaia, bridge which spans the roadway and looks down uponits crowd and clamour as into a profound valley; thence proceed uphillon the lava paving, between fruit-shops and sausage-shops andwine-shops, always in an atmosphere of fried oil and roasted chestnutsand baked pine-cones; and presently turn left into a still narrowerstreet, with tailors and boot-makers and smiths all at work in the openair; and pass through the Piazzetta Mondragone, and turn again to theleft, but this time downhill; then lose yourself amid filthy littlealleys, where the scent of oil and chestnuts and pine-cones is strongerthan ever; then emerge on a little terrace where there is a noble viewof the bay and of Capri; then turn abruptly between walls overhung withfig-trees and orange-trees and lemon-trees, --and you will reach CasaRolandi. 

It is an enormous house, with a great arched entrance admitting to theinner court, where on the wall is a Madonna's shrine, lamp-illumined ofevenings. A great staircase leads up from floor to floor. On each storyare two tenements, the doors facing each other. In 1878, one of theapartments at the very top--an ascent equal to that of a moderatemountain--was in the possession of a certain Signora Bassano, whosename might be read on a brass plate. This lady had furnished rooms tolet, and here it was that Ross Mallard established himself for the fewdays that he proposed to spend at Naples. 

Already he had lingered till the few days were become more than afortnight, and still the day of his departure was undetermined. Thiswas most unwonted waste of time, not easily accounted for by Mallardhimself. A morning of sunny splendour, coming after much cloudiness anda good deal of rain, plucked him early out of bed, strong in theresolve that to-morrow should see him on the road to Amalfi. He hadslept well--an exception in the past week--and his mind was open to theinfluences of sunlight and reason. Before going forth for breakfast hehad a letter to write, a brief account of himself addressed to themurky little town of Sowerby Bridge, in Yorkshire. This finished, hethrew open the big windows, stepped out on to the balcony, and drankdeep draughts of air from the sea. In the street below was passing aflock of she-goats, all ready to be milked, each with a bell tinklingabout her neck. The goat-herd kept summoning his customers with a longmusical whistle. Mallard leaned over and watched the clean-fleeced, slender, graceful animals with a smile of pleasure. Then he amusedhimself with something that was going on in the house opposite. A womancame out on to a balcony high up, bent over it, and called, "Annina!Annina!" until the call brought another woman on to the balconyimmediately below; whereupon the former let down a cord, and herfriend, catching the end of it, made it fast to a basket whichcontained food covered with a cloth. The basket was drawn up, the womengossiped and laughed for a while in pleasant voices, then theydisappeared. 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 thecrash again. Hawkers were crying fruit and vegetables and fish inrhythmic cadence; a donkey was braying obstreperously. 

Mallard had just taken a light overcoat on his arm, and was ready toset out, when some one knocked. He turned the key in the door, andadmitted Reuben Elgar. 

"I'm off to Pompeii, " said Elgar, vivaciously. 

"All right. You'll go to the 'Sole'? I shall be there myself to-morrowevening. "

"I'm right to stay several days, so we shall have more talk. "

They left the house together, and presently parted with renewedassurance of meeting again on the morrow. 

Mallard went his way thoughtfully, the smile quickly passing from hisface. At a little _caffe_, known to him of old, he made a simplebreakfast, glancing the while over a morning newspaper, and watchingthe children who came to fetch their _due soldi_ of coffee in tinytins. Then he strolled away and supplemented his meal with a fine bunchof grapes, bought for a penny at a stall that glowed and was fragrantwith piles of fruit. Heedless of the carriage-drivers who shouted athim and even dogged him along street after street, he sauntered in thebroad sunshine, plucking his grapes and relishing them. Coming out bythe sea-shore, he stood for a while to watch the fishermen dragging intheir nets--picturesque fellows with swarthy faces and suntanned legsof admirable outline, hauling slowly in files at interminable rope, which boys coiled lazily as it came in; or the oyster-dredgers, poisedon the side of their boats over the blue water. At the foot of thesea-wall tumbled the tideless breakers; their drowsy music counselledenjoyment of the hour and carelessness of what might come hereafter. 

With no definite purpose, he walked on and on, for the most partabsorbed in thought. He passed through the long _grotta_ of Posillipo, gloomy, chilly, and dank; then out again into the sunshine, and alongthe road to Bagnoli. On walls and stone-heaps the little lizards dartedabout, innumerable; in vineyards men were at work dismantling thevine-props, often singing at their task. From Bagnoli, still walkingmerely that a movement of his limbs might accompany his busy thoughts, he went along by the seashore, and so at length, still long beforemidday, had come to Pozzuoli. A sharp conflict with the swarm of guideswho beset the entrance to the town, and again he escaped intoquietness, wandered among narrow streets, between blue, red, and yellowhouses, stopping at times to look at some sunny upper window hung aboutwith clusters of _sorbe_ and _pomidori_. By this time he had wonappetite for a more substantial meal. In the kind of eating-house thatsuited his mood, an obscure _bettola_ probably never yet patronized byEnglishman, he sat down to a dish of maccheroni and a bottle of redwine. At another table were some boatmen, who, after greeting him, wenton with their lively talk in a dialect of which he could understand butfew words. 

Having eaten well and drunk still better, he lit a cigar and saunteredforth to find a place for dreaming. Chance led him to the patch ofpublic garden, with its shrubs and young palm-trees, which looks overthe little port. Here, when once he had made it clear to a successionof rhetorical boatmen that he was not to be tempted on to the sea, hecould sit as idly and as long as he liked, looking across the sapphirebay and watching the bright sails glide hither and thither With thehelp of sunlight and red wine, he could imagine that time had gone backtwenty centuries--that this was not Pozzuoli, but Puteoli; that overyonder was not Baia, but Baiae; that the men among the shipping talkedto each other in Latin, and perchance of the perishing Republic. 

But Mallard's fancy would not dwell long in remote ages As he watchedthe smoke curling up from his cigar, he slipped back into the world ofhis active being, and made no effort to obscure the faces that lookedupon him. They were those of his mother and sisters, thought of whomcarried him to the northern island, now grim, cold, and sunless beneathits lowering sky. These relatives still lived where his boyhood hadbeen passed, a life strangely unlike his own, and even alien to hissympathies, but their house was still all that he could call home. Wasit to be always the same?

Fifteen years now, since, at the age of twenty, he painted his firstconsiderable landscape, a tract of moorland on the borders ofLancashire and Yorkshire. This was his native ground. At SowerbyBridge, a manufacturing town, which, like many others in the same partof England, makes a blot of ugliness on country in itself sternlybeautiful, his father had settled as the manager of certain rope-works. Mr. Mallard's state was not unprosperous, for he had invented a processput in use by his employers, and derived benefit from it. He was a manof habitual gravity, occasionally severe in the rule of his household, very seldom unbending to mirth. Though not particularly robust, heemployed his leisure in long walks about the moors, walks sometimesprolonged till after midnight, sometimes begun long before dawn. Hisacquaintances called him unsociable, and doubt less he was so in thesense that he could not find at Sowerby Bridge any one for whosesociety be greatly cared. It was even a rare thing for him to sit downwith his wife and children for more than a few minutes; if he remainedin the house, he kept apart in a room of his own, musing over, ratherthan reading, a little collection of books--one of his favourites beingDefoe's "History of the Devil. " He often made ironical remarks, andseemed 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 turnfor drawing, was sent at seventeen to the factory of Messrs. Gilstead, Miles and Doran, to become a designer of patterns. The result wassomething more than his father had expected, for Mr. Doran, who had hisabode at Sowerby Bridge, quickly discovered that the lad was meant forfar 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 madeinto a Yorkshire mill-owner; a strong, active, nobly featured man, whodressed as no one in the factory regions ever did before or probablyever will again--his usual appearance suggesting the common notion of abushranger; an artist to the core; a purchaser of pictures by unknownmen who had a future--at the sale of his collection three RobertCheeles got into the hands of dealers, all of them now the boastedpossessions of great galleries; a passionate lover of music--he hadbeen known to make the journey to Paris merely to hear Diodati sing;finally, in common rumour a profligate whom no prudent householderwould admit to the society of his wife and daughters. However, at thetime of young Mallard's coming under his notice he had been marriedabout a year. Mrs. Doran came from Manchester; she was very beautiful, but had slight education, and before long Sowerby Bridge remarked thatthe husband was too often away from home. 

Doran and the elder Mallard, having once met, were disposed to sec moreof each other; in spite of the difference of social standing, theybecame intimates, and Mr. Mallard had at length some one with whom hefound 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 hiswalks when the hills were deep in snow. 

Doran remained the firm friend of the family. Local talk had inspiredMrs. Mallard with a prejudice against him, but substantial servicesmitigated this, and the widow was in course of time less uneasy at herson's being practically under the guardianship of this singular man ofbusiness. Mallard, after preliminary training, was sent to the studioof a young artist whom Doran greatly admired, Cullen Banks, thenstruggling for the recognition he was never to enjoy, death beingbeforehand with him. Mrs. Mallard was given to understand that noexpenses were involved save those of the lad's support in Manchester, where Banks lived, and Mallard himself did not till long after knowthat his friend had paid the artist a fee out of his own pocket. Twothings did Mallard learn from Doran himself which were to have a markedinfluence on his life--a belief that only in landscape can a painter ofour time hope to do really great work, and a limitless contempt of theRoyal Academy. In Manchester he made the acquaintance of several peoplewith whom Doran was familiar, among them Edward Spence, then in theshipping-office, and Jacob Bush Bradshaw, well on his way to making afortune out of silk. On Banks's death, Mallard, now nearly twenty-one, went to London for a time. His patrimony was modest, but happily, ifthe capital remained intact, sufficient to save him from the cares thatdegrade and waste a life. His mother and sisters had also an incomeadequate 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 shedied in Germany. Thereafter Sowerby Bridge saw no more of its bugbear;Doran abandoned commerce and became a Bohemian in earnest--save thathis dinner was always assured. He wandered over Europe; he lived withBohemian society in every capital; he kept adding to his collection ofpictures (stored in a house at Woolwich, which he freely lent as anabode to a succession of ill-to-do artists); and finally he was struckwith paralysis whilst conducting to their home the widow and child of ayoung painter who had suddenly died in the Ardennes. The poor womanunder his protection had to become his guardian. He was brought to thehouse at Woolwich, and there for several months lay between life anddeath. A partial recovery followed, and he was taken to the Isle ofWight, where, in a short time, a second attack killed him. 

His child, Cecily, was twelve years old. For the last five years shehad been living in the care of Mrs. Elgar at Manchester. This lady wasan intimate friend of Mrs. Doran's family, and in entrusting his childto her, Doran had given a strong illustration of one of thesingularities of his character. Though by no means the debauchee thatSowerby 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 inthe accepted moral code than did Mr. Doran on taking him from home tolive in Manchester. In choosing a wife, he went to a family ofconventional Dissenters; and he desired his daughter to pass the yearsof her childhood with people who he knew would guide her in the verystraitest 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 ofthe two trustees to appoint a residence for Cecily, if for any reasonshe could not remain with Mrs. Elgar. This occasion soon presenteditself, and Cecily passed into the care of Doran's sister, Mrs. Lessingham, who was just entered upon a happy widowhood. Mallard, mostunexpectedly left sole trustee, had no choice but to assent to thisarrangement; the only other home possible for the girl was with Miriamat Redbeck House, but Mr. Baske did not look with favour on thatproposal. Hitherto, Mr. Trench, the elder trustee, who lived inManchester, had alone been in personal relations with Mrs. Elgar andlittle Cecily; even now Mallard did not make the personal acquaintanceof Mrs. Elgar (otherwise he would doubtless have met Miriam), but sawMrs. Lessingham in London, and for the first time met Cecily when shecame to the south in her aunt's care. He knew what an extreme changewould be made in the manner of the girl's education, and it caused himsome mental trouble; but it was clear that Cecily might benefit greatlyin health by travel, and, as for the moral question, Mrs. Lessinghamstrongly stirred his sympathies by the dolorous account she gave of thechild's surroundings in the north. Cecily was being intellectuallystarved; that seemed clear to Mallard himself after a littleconversation with her. It was wonderful how much she had alreadylearnt, impelled by sheer inner necessity, of things which in generalshe was discouraged from studying. So Cecily left England, to returnonly for short intervals, spent in London. Between that departure andthis present meeting, Mallard saw her only twice; but the girl wrote tohim 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 herrapidly growing mind such as the shy artist might have glorified inpossessing. In reality, he did nothing of the kind; he wished theletters would not come and disturb him in his work. He sent grufflittle answers, over which Cecily laughed, as so characteristic. 

Yes, there was a distinct connection between those homely memories andpicturings which took him in thought to Sowerby Bridge, and the imageof 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 itwas 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 wasCecily's? Through her aunt she had aristocratic relatives; her wealthmade her a natural member of what is called society; her beauty and herbrilliancy marked her to be one of society's ornaments. What could shepossibly be to him, Ross Mallard, landscape-painter of small if anynote, as unaristocratic in mind and person as any one that breathed? Toput the point with uncompromising plainness, and therefore in all itsabsurdity, how could he possibly imagine Cecily Doran called Mrs. Mallard?

The thing was flagrantly, grossly, palpably absurd. He tingled in theears in trying to represent to himself how Cecily would think of it, ifby any misfortune it were ever suggested to her. 

Then why not, in the name of common sense, cease to ponder suchfollies, and get on with the work which waited for him? Why thisfluttering about a flame which scorched him more and more dangerously?It was not the first time that he had experienced temptations of thiskind; a story of five years ago, its scene in London, should havereminded him that he could stand a desperate wrench when convinced thathis life's purpose depended upon it. Here were three years oftrusteeship before him--he could not, or would not, count on hermarrying before she came of age. Her letters would still come; fromtime to time doubtless he must meet her. It had all resulted from thisconfounded journey taken together! Why, knowing himself sufficiently, did he consent to meet the people at Genoa, loitering there for acouple 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 hadhitherto tried to avoid them. He was a lonely man like his father, butnot content with loneliness; friendship was always strong to tempt him, and when the thought of something more than friendship had beensuffered to take hold upon his imagination, it held with terrible grip, burning, torturing. He had come simply to meet Cecily; there was thelong and short of it. It was a weakness, such as any man may be guiltyof, particularly any artist who groans in lifelong solitude. Let it herecognized; let it be flung savagely into the past, like so many othersencountered and overcome on his course. 

The other day, when it was rainy and sunless, he had seemed all at onceto find his freedom. In a moment of mental languor, he was able to viewhis position clearly, as though some other man were concerned, and tocry out that he had triumphed; but within the same hour an event befellwhich revived all the old trouble and added new. Reuben Elgar enteredhis room, coming directly from Villa Sannazaro, in a state ofexcitement, talking at once of Cecily Doran as though his acquaintancewith her had been unbroken from the time when she was in his mother'scare to now. Irritation immediately scattered the thoughts Mallard hadbeen ranging; he could barely make a show of amicable behaviour; a coldfear began to creep about his heart. The next morning he woke to a newphase of his conflict, the end further off than ever. Unable to commandthought and feeling, he preserved at least the control of his action, and could persevere in the resolve not to see Cecily; to avoid casualmeetings he kept away even from the Spences. He shunned all placeslikely to be visited by Cecily, and either sat at home in dull idlenessor strayed about the swarming quarters of the town, trying to entertainhimself with the spectacle of Neapolitan life. To-day the deliciousweather had drawn him forth in a heedless mood. And, indeed, it did notmuch matter now whether he met his friends or not; he had spoken theword--to-morrow he would go his way. 

At the very moment of thinking this thought, when his cigar was nearlyfinished and he had begun to stretch his limbs, wearied by remaining inone position, shadows and footsteps approached him. He looked up, and--

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

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

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

"Yes, I have had my maccheroni. "

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

"Of course Mr. Mallard will come, " said Cecily, her face radiant. "Hecan 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 wasselected and a bargain struck, the original demand made by the artlesssailors being of course five times as much as was ever paid for thetransit. They rowed out through the cluster of little craft, thenhoisted 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 justlanded on their way from India--a military gentleman, and a moremilitary lady, and a most military son, relatives of ours. We spentlast evening with them, and I implored to be let off to-day. "

Mallard propped himself idly, and from under the shadow of his hatoften looked at her. He had begun to wonder at the unreserved joy withwhich she greeted his joining the party. Of course she could have noslightest suspicion of what was in his mind; one moment's thought ofhim in such a light must have altered her behaviour immediately. Altered in what way? That he in vain tried to imagine; his knowledge ofher did not go far enough. But he could not be wrong in attributingunconsciousness to her. Moreover, with the inconsistency of a man inhis plight, he resented it. To sit thus, almost touching him, gazingfreely into his face, and yet to be in complete ignorance of sufferingwhich racked him, seemed incompatible with fine qualities either ofheart or mind. What rubbish was talked about woman's insight, about herdelicate sympathies!

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

It was Miriam who spoke. Mallard was watching Cecily, and now, onturning his head, he felt sure that Mrs. Baske had been observant ofhis 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 saygood-bye for a time. "

"You really go to-morrow?" asked Cecily, with interest, but nothingmore. 

"Yes. I hope to see Mrs. Lessingham for a moment also. Can you tell mewhen 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 eyeswere 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 factthat the elder had been a married woman was of still more account. Onthe first day of his meeting with Mrs. Baske, he had thought a gooddeal about her; since then she had slipped from his mind, but now hefelt his interest reviving. Surely she was as remote from him as awoman well could be, yet his attitude towards her had no character ofintolerance; he half wished that he could form a closer acquaintancewith her. At present, the thought of calm conversation with such awoman 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 theSpences had spoken freely in her presence of himself and his oddrelations to the girl; there was no doubting how _they_ regarded him. Possibly he was a frequent subject of discussion between Eleanor andher cousin. Mature women could talk with each other freely of thesethings. 

On the other hand, whatever Mrs. Lessingham might have in her mind, shecertainly would not expose it in dialogue with her niece. Cecily was inan unusual position for a girl of her age; she had, he believed, nointimate 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 asmarried women had theirs, and with intimates of the ordinary kindCecily must have come by now to consider her guardian as a malecreature of flesh and blood. What did it mean, that she did not?

A question difficult of debate, involving much that the mind is wont toslur over in natural scruple. Mallard was no slave to the imbecileconvention which supposes a young girl sexless in her understanding; hecould not, in conformity with the school of hypocritic idealism, regardCecily as a child of woman's growth. No. She had the fruits of a moderneducation; she had a lucid brain; of late she had mingled and conversedwith a variety of men and women, most of them anything but crasslyconventional. It was this very aspect of her training that had causedhim so much doubt. And he knew by this time what his doubt principallymeant; in a measure, it came of native conscientiousness, of prejudicewhich testified to his origin; but, more than that, it signified simplejealousy. Secretly, he did not like her outlook upon the world to be sounrestrained; he would have preferred her to view life as a simplermatter. Partly for this reason did her letters so disturb him. No; itwould have been an insult to imagine her with the moral sensibilitiesof a child of twelve. 

Was she intellectual at the expense of her emotional being? Was sheguarded by nature against these disturbances? Somewhat ridiculous toask 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 gaveway to lyrical outbursts of delight, who was so warm-hearted in herfriendship, whose every movement was in glad harmony with theloveliness of her form, --must surely have the correspondingcapabilities of passion. 

After all--and it was fetching a great compass to reach a point so nearat hand--might she not take him at his own profession? Might she notview him as a man indeed, and one not yet past his youth, but still asa man who suffered no trivialities to interfere with the grave objectsof his genius? She had so long had him represented to her in thatway--from the very first of their meetings, indeed. Grant her maturesense and a reflective mind, was that any reason why she should probesubtly the natural appearance of her friend, and attribute to him thatwhich he gave no sign of harbouring? Why must she be mysteriouslyconscious of his inner being, rather than take him ingenuously for whathe seemed? She had instruction and wit, but she was only a girl; herexperience was as good as nil. Mallard repeated that to himself as helooked at Mrs. Baske. To a great extent Cecily did, in fact, inhabit anideal world. She was ready to accept the noble as the natural. Untroubled herself, she could contemplate without scepticism the imageof an artist finding his bliss in solitary toil. This was the ground ofthe respect she had for him; disturb this idea, and he became to herquite another man--one less interesting, and, it might be, less lovablein either sense of the word. 

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

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

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

"I hope not. "

"But such contrasts help one to get the most out of life, " sherejoined, laughing; "At all events, when some one happens to speak tome of Mr. Mallard's pictures, I shall win credit by casually mentioningthat 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; theycontained almost a hint of his hidden self, and he had not yet allowedanything of the kind to escape him. But the moment proved too strong. 

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

An interruption from Spence put an end to this dangerous dialogue. Mallard, inwardly growling at himself, resisted the temptation tofurther _tete-a-tete_, and in a short time the party went in search ofa conveyance for their return. None offered that would hold fourpersons; the ordinary public carriages have convenient room for twoonly, and a separation was necessary. Mallard succeeded in catchingSpence's eye, and made him understand with a savage look that he was totake Cecily with him. This arrangement was effected, and the firstcarriage drove off with those two, Cecily exchanging merry words withan 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 inEnglish. 

For the first time, Mallard was alone with Mrs. Baske. Miriam had notconcealed surprise at the new adjustment of companionship; she lookedcuriously both at Cecily and at Mallard whilst it was going on. Thefirst remark which the artist addressed to her, when they had beendriving for a few minutes, was perhaps, she thought, an explanation ofthe 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 atfirst, but they had a long drive before them. Miriam presently trustedherself to ask, --

"Has he spoken to you at all of his plans--of what he is going to dowhen 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 athim 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 hisperseverance 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 valueon your friendship, and I think you may still influence him. I am veryglad 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 kindyou suggest is the rarest of things. "

"I'm afraid you are right. "

She retreated into herself, and, when he looked at her, he saw coldreserve once more on her countenance. Doubtless she did not choose tolet him know how deeply this question of his power concerned her. Mallard felt something like compassion; yet not ordinary compassioneither, for at the same time he had a desire to break down thisreserve, and see still more of what she felt. Curious; that eveningwhen he dined at the villa, he had already become aware of this sort ofattraction in her, an appeal to his sympathies together with theexcitement 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'sself. "

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 ifdirect encouragement were withheld. "

Again she said nothing, and again Mallard felt a desire to subdue thepride, or whatever it might be, that had checked the growth offriendliness between them in its very beginning. He remained mute for along time, until they were nearing Pozzuoli, but Miriam showed nodisposition 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, hehad a miserable longing which crushed his heart down, down; instruggling against this, he felt that Mrs. Baske's proximity was anaid, but that it would be still more so if he could move her to anyunusual self-revelation. He had impulses to offend her, to irritate herprejudices--anything, so she should but be moved. This question thatfell from him was mild in comparison with some of the subjects thatpressed 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 scornimplied in this rejoinder. He noted that her features had more decidedbeauty than when placid. 

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

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

"As Miss Doran does, " added Mallard, his eyes happening to catchCecily's face as it looked backwards, and his tongue speakingrecklessly. 

"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 ofcommitting some flagrant absurdity was too great. The subject attractedhim like an evil temptation, for he desired to have Miriam speak ofCecily. But he mastered himself. 

"The artist's life may be the highest of which a particular man iscapable. 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 somekind. 

"On what grounds do you believe that?"

His eyes sought her face rapidly. Was she ironical at his expense? Thatwould be new light upon her mind, for hitherto she had seemed to himpainfully literal. Irony meant intellect; mere scorn or pride mightsignify anything but that. And he was hoping to find reserves of powerin her, such as would rescue her from the imputation of commonplacenessin 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. Withoutlooking at him, she said, in a voice which seemed rather to resent hisinterpretation 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 wondera little at a man's passing his life as I do. You interpret lifeabsolutely; it is your belief that it can have only one meaning, thesame for all, involving certain duties of which there can be noquestion, and admitting certain relaxations which have endured themoral 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 youjudge all who differ from you. "

This time she clearly was resolved to make no reply. They were passingthrough Pozzuoli, and she appeared to forget the discussion in lookingabout her. Mallard watched her, but she showed no consciousness of hisgaze. 

"Even if the world recognized me as an artist of distinction, " heresumed, "you would still regard me as doubtfully employed. Art doesnot seem to you an end of sufficient gravity. Probably you had ratherthere 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 thiscourse is the highest I can follow, I mean that I believe it employsall my best natural powers as no other would. As for highest in theabsolute sense, that is a different matter. Possibly the life of ahospital nurse, of a sister of mercy--something of that kind--comesnearest to the ideal. "

She glanced at him, evidently in the same kind of doubt about hismeaning 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 mostobvious fact, the task of mercy must surely take precedence of mostothers. "

"I am surprised to hear you say this. "

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

"Why, Mrs. Baske?"

She hesitated a little, but made answer:

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

"True. "

Again a long silence. The carriage was descending the road fromPozzuoli; it approached the sea-shore, where the gentle breakers werebeginning to be tinged with evening light. Cecily looked back and wavedher 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 aphrase she had heard, a phrase which represented the philosophy aliento 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 neverthinks of his work in that way. "

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

"Most decidedly, none. You little imagine how distasteful the word isto 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, partlyat the simplicity of the question, partly because it pleased him tohave brought her to such directness. 

"Because, " he answered, "this work gives me keener and more lastingpleasure than any other would. And I am not a man easily pleased withmy own endeavours, Mrs. Baske. I work with little or no hope of eversatisfying myself--that is another thing. I have heard men speak of mykind of art as 'the noble pursuit of Truth, ' and so on. I don't carefor such phrases; they may mean something, but as a rule come of thevery spirit so opposed to my own--that which feels it necessary tojustify art by bombast. The one object I have in life is to paint a bitof the world just as I see it. I exhaust myself in vain toil; I shallnever succeed; but I am right to persevere, I am right to go onpleasing myself. "

Miriam listened in astonishment. 

"With such views, Mr. Mallard, it is fortunate that you happen to findpleasure 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 toplease 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 notreally pleased with the kind of life he has too long been leading; thatto 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 aman of steady purpose by considerations that have primary reference toany one or anything but himself?"

She made no answer. 

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

Miriam pondered, then said quietly:

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

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

During the rest of the drive they scarcely spoke at all; the fewsentences exchanged were mere remarks upon the scenery. Both carriagesdrew 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, helooked back. Miriam was gazing after them. 

Cecily was a little tired, and not much disposed to converse. Hercompanion being still less so, they reached the Mergellina withouthaving 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 thathe should go. He had said good-bye to Mrs. Lessingham and to Cecilyherself, yet made no haste to depart. It drew on to evening, and he satidly in his room in Casa Rolandi, looking at his traps half packed. Then of a sudden up he started. "Imbecile! Insensate! I give youfifteen minutes to be on your way to the station. Miss the nexttrain--and sink to the level of common men!" Shirts, socks--straps, locks; adieux, tips--horses, whips! Clatter through the PiazzettaMondragone; down at breakneck speed to the Toledo; across the Piazzadel Municipio; a good-bye to the public scriveners sitting at theirlittle tables by the San Carlo; sharp round the corner, and along bythe Porto Grande with its throng of vessels. All the time he sings atune to himself, caught up in the streets of the tuneful city; an airlilting to the refrain--

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

Just after nightfall he alighted from the train at Pompeii. Havingstowed away certain impedimenta at the station, he took histravelling-bag in his hand, broke with small ceremony through portersand hotel-touts, came forth upon the high-road, and stepped forwardlike one to whom the locality is familiar. In a minute or two he wasovertaken by a little lad, who looked up at him and said in aninsinuating 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 onbetween white trunks of plane-trees; when the station and the housesnear it were left behind, no other building came in view. To the leftof the road, hidden behind its long earth-rampart, lay the dead city;far beyond rose the dark shape of Vesuvius, crested with beacon-glow, asmall red fire, now angry, now murky, now for a time extinguished. Thelong rumble of the train died away, and there followed silenceabsolute, scarcely broken for a few minutes by a peasant singing in thedistance, 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 broodingvoiceless upon the desolate home of forgotten generations. 

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

Elgar was one of the company. When he became aware of Mallard'sarrival, he stood up with a cry of "All hail!" and pointed to a seatnear 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-dayhave I ascended Vesuvius. How many bottles of wine I drank betweenstarting and returning I cannot compute; I never knew before what itwas to be athirst. Why, their vino di Vesuvio is for all the world likecider; I thought at first I was being swindled--not an impossible thingin these regions. I must tell you a story about a party of Americans Iencountered 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 ofgenial appearance, loud in vivacious talk. The exception was a youngEnglishman, somewhat oddly dressed, and with a great quantity of auburnhair 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. Neitherwas he in the mood for talk; but Elgar, who had finished his solidmeal, and now amused himself with grapes (in two forms), spared him thenecessity of anything but an occasional monosyllable. The young man waselated, and grew more so as he proceeded with his dessert; his cheekswere deeply flushed; his eyes gleamed magnificently. 

In the meantime Clifford Marsh had joined in conversation with theGermans; his use of their tongue was far from idiomatic, but by sheerdetermination to force a way through linguistic obstacles, he talkedwith a haphazard fluency which was amusing enough. No false modestyimposed a check upon his eloquence. It was to the general table that headdressed himself on the topic that had arisen; in an English dress hisspeech ran somewhat as follows:--

"Gentlemen, allow me to say that I have absolutely no faith in thefuture of which you speak! It is my opinion that democracy is the fatalenemy of art. How can you speak of ancient and mediaeval states?Neither in Greece nor in Italy was there ever what we understand by ademocracy. "

"Factisch! Der Herr hat Recht!" cried some one, and several othervoices strove to make themselves heard; but the orator raised his noteand overbore interruption. 

"You must excuse me, gentlemen, if I say that--however it may be fromother points of view--from the standpoint of art, democracy is simplythe triumph of ignorance and brutality. "("Gewisz!"--"Nimmermehr!"--"Vortrefflich!") "I don't care to drawdistinctions between forms of the thing. Socialism, communism, collectivism, parliamentarism, --all these have one and the same end: toput men on an equality; and in proportion as that end is approached, sowill art in every shape languish. Art, gentlemen, is nourished uponinequalities and injustices!" ("Ach!"--"Wie kann man so etwassagen!"--"Hoch! verissime!") "I am not representing this as either goodor bad. It may be well that justice should be established, even thoughart perish. I simply state a fact!" ("Doch!"--"Erlauben Sie!")"Supremacy of the vulgar interest means supremacy of ignoble judgmentin all matters of mind. See what plutocracy already makes of art!"

Here one of the Germans insisted on a hearing; a fine fellow, withSamsonic locks and a ringing voice. 

"Sir! sir! who talks of a genuine democracy with mankind in its presentstate? Before it comes about, the multitude will be instructed, exalted, emancipated, humanized!"

"Sir!" shouted Marsh, "who talks of the Millennium? I speak of thingspossible within a few hundred years. The multitude will _never_ behumanized. Civilization is attainable only by the few; nature soordains 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, socould derive neither pleasure nor profit from the high debate. 

"Are you as glum here as in London?" Reuben asked of his companion, ina bantering voice. "I should have pictured you grandly jovial, wreathedperhaps with ruddy vine-leaves, the light of inspiration in your eye, and in your hand a mantling goblet! Drink, man, drink! you need astimulant, an exhilarant, an anti-phlegmatic, a counter-irritantagainst English spleen. You are still on the other side of the Alps, ofthe Channel; the fogs yet cling about you. Clear your brow, O painterof Ossianic wildernesses! Taste the foam of life! We are in the land ofHorace, and _nunc est bibendum_!--Seriously, do you never relax?"

"Oh yes. You should see me over the fifth tumbler of whiskey atStornoway. "

"Bah! you might as well say the fifth draught of fish-oil North Cape. How innocent this wine is! A gallon of it would give one no more than apleasant glow, the faculty of genial speech. Take a glass with me tothe health of your enchanting ward. "

"Please to command your tongue, " growled Mallard, with a look that wasnot to be mistaken. 

"I beg your pardon. It shall be to the health of that superb girl wesaw in the Mercato. But, as far as I can judge yet, the Neapolitan typedoesn't appeal to me very strongly. It is finely animal, and of coursethat has its value; but I prefer the suggestion of a soul, don't you? Iremember a model old Langton had in Rome, a girl fresh from themountains; by Juno! a glorious creature! I dare say you have seen herportrait in his studio; he likes to show it. But it does her nothinglike justice; she might have sat for the genius of the Republic. Utterly untaught, and intensely stupid; but there were marvellousthings to be read in her face. Ah, but give me the girls of Venice! Youknow them, how they walk about the piazza; their tall, lithe forms, thecounterpart of the gondolier; their splendid black hair, elaboratelybraided and pierced with large ornaments; their noble, aristocratic, grave features; their long shawls! What natural dignity! What eloquenteyes! I like to imagine them profoundly intellectual, which they areunhappily not. "

Marsh had withdrawn from colloquy with the Germans, and kept glancingacross the table at his compatriots, obviously wishing that he mightjoin them. Mallard, upon whom Elgar's excited talk jarred more andmore, noticed the stranger's looks, and at length leaned forward tospeak to him. 

"As usual, we are in a minority among the sun-worshippers. "

"Sun-worshippers! Good!" laughed the other. "Yes, I have never met morethan one or two chance Englishmen at the 'Sole. '"

"But you are at your case with our friends there. --I think you know aslittle German as I do, Elgar?"

"Devilish bad at languages! To tell you the truth, I can't endure thesense of inferiority one has in beginning to smatter with foreigners. Iread four or five, but avoid speaking as much as possible. "

Marsh took an early opportunity of alluding to the argument in which hehad recently taken part. The subject was resumed. At Elgar's biddingthe waiter had brought cigars, and things looked comfortable; theGermans 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 spreadof rationalism. "

"You take it for granted that Puritanism doesn't survive religiousdogma? Believe me, you are greatly mistaken. I am sorry to say I have alarge experience in this question. The mass of the English people haveno genuine religious belief, but none the less they are Puritans inmorality. The same applies to the vastly greater part of those who evenrepudiate Christianity. "

"One must take account of the national hypocrisy, " remarked the youngerman, with an air of superiority, shaking his head as his habit was. 

"It's a complicated matter. The representative English bourgeois is ahypocrite in essence, but is perfectly serious in his judgment of theman next door; and the latter characteristic has more weight than theformer in determining his life. Puritanism has aided the materialprogress of England; but its effect on art! But for it, we should havea school of painters corresponding in greatness to the Elizabethandramatists. Depend upon it, the democracy will continue to be Puritan. Every picture, every book, will be tried by the same imbecile testEnforcement of Puritan morality will be one of the ways in which themob, come to power, will revenge itself on those who still remain itssuperiors. "

Marsh was not altogether pleased at finding his facile eloquenceoutdone. In comparing himself with Elgar, he was conscious of butweakly representing the tendencies which were a passionate force inthis man with the singularly fine head, with such a glow of wild lifeabout him. He abandoned the abstract argument, and struck a personalnote. 

"However it may be in the future, I grant you the artist has at presentno scope save in one direction. For my own part, I have fallen back onlandscape. Let those who will, paint Miss Wilhelmina in the nursery, with an interesting doll of her own size; or a member of Parliamentrising to deliver a great speech on the liquor traffic; or Mrs. What-do-you-call-her, lecturing on woman's rights. These are thesubjects our time affords. "

Mallard eyed with fresh curiosity the gentleman who had "fallen back onlandscape. "

"What did you formerly aim at?" he inquired, with a sort of suavegruffness. 

"Things which were hopelessly out of the question. I worked for a longtime at a 'Death of Messalina. ' That was in Rome. I had a splendidinspiration for Messalina's face. But my hand was paralyzed when Ithought of the idiotic comments such a picture would occasion inEngland. One fellow would say I had searched through history in aprurient spirit for something sensational; another, that I read a morallesson 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 thefools 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 werewont to call themselves "historical, " Where is the line betweensubjects for the easel and subjects for the desk? What distinguishesthe art of the illustrator from the art of the artist?

That was a great evening round the table at the Albergo del Sole. Howgloriously the air thickened with tobacco-smoke! What removal of emptybottles and replacing them with full! The Germans were making it a set_Kneipe_; the Englishmen, unable to drink quite so heroically, werescarce behind in vehemence of debate. Mallard, grimly accepting thehelp of wine against his inner foes, at length earned Elgar's approval;he had relaxed indeed, and was no longer under the oppression ofEnglish fog. But with him such moods were of brief duration; hesuddenly quitted the table, and went out into the night air. 

The late moon was rising, amber-coloured on a sky of dusky azure. Hewalked from the garden, across the road, and towards the ruins of theAmphitheatre, which lie some distance apart from the Pompeian streetsthat have been unearthed; he passed beneath an arch, and stood lookingdown into the dark hollow so often thronged with citizens of Latinspeech. Small wonder that Benvenuto's necromancer could evoke hismyriads of flitting ghosts in the midnight Colosseum; here too itneeded but to stand for a few minutes in the dead stillness, and theair grew alive with mysterious presences, murmurous with awfulwhisperings. Mallard enjoyed it for awhile, but at length turned awayabruptly, feeling as if a cold hand had touched him. 

As he re-entered the inn-precincts, he heard voices still uproarious inthe dining-room; but he had no intention of going among them again. Hisbedroom was one of a row which opened immediately upon the garden. Helocked himself in, went to bed, but did not sleep for a long time. Awind was rising, and a branch of a tree constantly tapped against thepane. It might have been some centuries-dead inhabitant of Pompeiitrying to deliver a message from the silent world. 

The breakfast-party next morning lacked vivacity. Clifford Marsh wasmute and dolorous of aspect; no doubt his personal embarrassments wereoccupying him. Yesterday's wine had become his foe, instead of an allyurging him to dare all in the cause of "art. " He consumed his coffeeand roll in the manner of ordinary mortals, not once flourishing hisdainty hand or shaking his ambrosial hair. Elgar was very stiff fromhis ascent of Vesuvius, and he too found that "the foam of life" had anunpleasant after-taste, suggestive of wrecked fortunes and a dubiousfuture. Mallard was only a little gruffer than his wonted self. 

"I am going on at once to Sorrento, " he said, meeting Elgar afterwardsin the garden. "To-morrow I shall cross over the hills to Positano andAmalfi. 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 acarriage to Sorrento, and to-morrow a donkey for the baggage. "

They paced about, hands in pockets. It was a keen morning; thetramontana blew blusterously, causing the smoke of Vesuvius to lie alldown 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 wasmarvellous. Distance seemed to have no power to dim the details of thelandscape. The Apennines glistened with new-fallen snow. 

"I hadn't thought of going any further just now, " said Elgar, whoseemed to have a difficulty in simply declining the invitation, as hewished to do. 

"What should you do, then?"

"Spend another day here, I think, --I've only had a few hours among theruins, 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 thesurroundings. "

"Better come on with me. I shall be glad of your company. "

It was said with decision, but scarcely with heartiness. Elgar lookedabout him vaguely. 

"To tell you the truth, " he said at last, "I don't care to incur muchexpense. "

"The expenses of what I propose are trivial. "

"My traps are at Naples, and I have kept the room there. No, I don'tsee 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 fewdays; there was no preventing the fellow's eventual return--his visitsto the villa, perhaps to Mrs. Gluck's. Again imbecile and insensateWhat 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 ashe meditated?

The devil! Had he not a stronger will than Reuben Elgar? If he wishedto carry a point with such a weakling, was he going to let himself bethwarted? Grant it was help only for a few days, no matter; Elgarshould 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. "Iwant to have some talk with you. Let us pay our shot, and walk on tothe 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, speedingalong the level road towards Castellammare and the mountains. Thisexertion of native energy had been beneficial to Mallard's temper; hetalked almost genially. Elgar, too, had subdued his restiveness, andbegan to look forward with pleasure to the expedition. 

"I only wish this wind would fall!" he exclaimed. "It's cold, and Ihate a wind of any kind. "

"Hate a wind? You're effeminate; you're a boulevardier. It would do yougood to be pitched in a gale about the coast of Skye. A fellow of yourtemperament has no business in these relaxing latitudes. You wanttonics. "

"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 hisweakness, 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 talkas 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 insultingcomparisons. Elgar laughed, and stretched himself on the cushions so asto avoid the wind as much as possible. 

They clattered through the streets of Castellammare, pursued byurchins, crying, "Un sordo, signori!" Thence on by the seaside road toVico Equense, Elgar every now and then shouting his ecstasy at theview. The hills on this side of the promontory climb, for the mostpart, softly and slowly upwards, everywhere thickly clad with olivesand orange-trees, fig-trees and aloes. Beyond Vico comes a juttingheadland; 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 otherattitude on the first revelation of such a prospect were irreverent. Itis not really a plain, but a gently rising wide and deep lap, surrounded by lofty mountains and ending at a line of sheer cliffsalong the sea-front. A vast garden planted for Nature's joy; apleasance of the gods; a haunt of the spirit of beauty set betweensun-smitten crags and the enchanted shore. 

"Heaven be praised that you forced me to come!" muttered Elgar, in hischoking throat. 

Mallard could say nothing. He had looked upon this scene before, but itaffected him none the less. 

They drove into the town of Tasso, and to an inn which stood upon theedge of a profound gorge, cloven towards the sea-cliffs. Sauntering inthe yard whilst dinner was made ready, they read an inscription on ahomely fountain:

"Sordibus abstersis, instructo marmore, priscus Fons nitet, et manatgratior unda tibi. "

"Eternal gratitude to our old schoolmasters, " cried Elgar, "whothrashed us through the Eton Latin grammar! What is Italy to the manwho cannot share our feelings as we murmur that distich? I marvel thatI was allowed to learn this heathen tongue. Had my parents known whatit would mean to me, I should never have chanted my _hic, haec, hoc_. "

He was at his best this afternoon; Mallard could scarcely identify himwith the reckless, and sometimes vulgar, spendthrift who had beenrushing his way to ruin in London. His talk abounded in quotation, inliterary allusion, in high-spirited jest, in poetical feeling. When hadhe read so much? What a memory he had! In a world that consisted of butone sex, what a fine fellow he would have been!

"What do you think of my sister?" he asked, _a propos_ of nothing, asthey 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 toher, poor girl. "

"I'm afraid you have often done so. "

"Often. I rave at her superstition; how can she help it? But she's agood girl, and has wit enough if she might use it. Oh, if somegenerous, large-brained man would drag her out of that slough ofdespond!--What a marriage that was! Powers of darkness, what amarriage!"

Mallard was led to no question. 

"I shall never understand it, never, " went on Elgar, in excitement. "Ifyou 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 torturehim. 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 anice thing to detest the memory of one's parents, Mallard. It doesn'thelp to make one a well-balanced man. How on earth did I get myindividuality? And you mustn't think that Miriam is just what sheseems--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 acheck 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 andjutting rock discernible through the pellucid air, every minutestruggedness casting its clear-cut shadow. But the surpassing glory wasthe prospect at the Cape of Sorrento when they reached it on their walkback. Before them the entire sweep of the gulf, from Ischia to Capri;Naples in its utmost extent, an unbroken line of delicate pink, fromPosillipo to Torre Annunziata. Far below their feet the little _marina_of Sorrento, with its row of boats drawn up on the strand; behind themnoble limestone heights. The sea was foaming under the tramontana, andits foam took colour from the declining sun. 

Next morning they set forth again as Mallard had proposed, theirbaggage packed on a donkey, a guide with them to lead the way over themountains to the other shore. A long climb, and at the culminatingpoint 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 beyondthe Gulf of Salerno; and his companion's eyes were agleam. 

Early in the afternoon they reached the coast at Positano, and thencetook boat for Amalfi. Elgar was like one possessed at his first sightof the wonderful old town, nested in its mountain gorge, overlooked bywild crags; this relic saved from the waste of mediaeval glory. Whenthey 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 ofsunlight in clambering about the little maze of streets, or rather ofmountain paths and burrows beneath houses piled one upon anotherindistinguishably. Forced back by hunger, he still lingered upon thewindow-balcony, looking' up at the hoary riven tower set high above thetown on what seems an inaccessible peak, or at the cathedral and itsmany-coloured campanile. 

How could Mallard help comparing these manifestations of ardent temperwith what he had witnessed in Cecily? The resemblance was at momentsmore than he could endure; once or twice he astonished Elgar with areply of unprovoked savageness. The emotions of the day, even more thanits bodily exercise, had so wearied him that he went early to bed. Theyhad a double-bedded room, and Elgar continued talking for hours. Evenwithout this, Mallard felt that he would have been unable to sleep. Toadd to his torments, the clock of the cathedral, which was just on theopposite side of the street, had the terrible southern habit ofstriking the whole hour after the chime at each quarter; by midnightthe clangour was all but incessant. Elgar sank at length into oblivion, but to his companion sleep came not. Very early in the morning theresounded the loud blast of a horn, all through the town and away intoremoteness. Signify what it might, the practical result seemed to be arousing of the population to their daily life; lively voices, the trampof feet, the clatter of vehicles began at once, and waxed with thespread of daylight. 

The sun rose, but only to gleam for an hour on clouds and vapours whichit had not power to disperse. The mountain summits were hidden, anddown their sides crept ominously the ragged edges of mist; a thin rainbegan to fall, and grew heavier as the sky dulled. Having breakfasted, the two friends spent an hour in the cathedral, which was dark andchill and gloomy. Two or three old people knelt in prayer, their headsbowed against column or wall; remarking the strangers, they came 'up tothem and begged. 

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

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

Wet and weary, they had no choice but to return to the inn. Elgar'sanimation had given place to fretfulness; Mallard, after his miserablenight, eared little to converse, and would gladly have been alone. Amidday meal, with liberal supply of wine, helped them somewhat, andthey 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 withwhite 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 ofwriting?"

"Perfectly serious. "

"And what are you going to write?"

"That I haven't quite determined. I am revolving things. I have ideaswithout number. "

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

"No doubt you are right"

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

"I want to work here for a time. " Work! The syllable was like lead uponhis tongue, and the thought a desolation in his mind. "Write to yoursister; get her to send your belongings from Casa Rolandi, togetherwith a ream of scribbling-paper. I shall be out of doors most of theday, 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 insunlight 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 idleenjoyment. 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 ifhe slightly resented this interference with his private affairs. 

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

"But you are right; I have every reason to trust your advice. I'll tellyou what, Mallard. To-morrow I'll drive to Salerno, take the train toNaples, pack my traps, and relieve Miriam's mind by an assurance thatI'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 intolerablesuffering, cried out vehemently:

"Can't you see into yourself far enough to know that you are palteringwith necessity? Are you such a feeble creature that you must be at themercy of every childish whim, and ruin yourself for lack of courage todo what you know you ought to do? If instability of nature had madesuch work of me as it has of you, I'd cut my throat just to prove thatI 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 theother? If you cut your throat, it was your destiny to do so; just as itwas to commit the follies that led you there. What is all this nonsenseabout weak men and strong men? I act as I am bound to act; I refrain asI am bound to refrain. You know it well enough. "

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

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

"True. This very discussion is a part of the scheme of things, thenecessary antecedent of something or other in your life and mine. Ishall go to Naples to-morrow; I shall spend one day there; on the dayafter 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 truerfatalist. 

Again they left the inn, this time going seaward. Still in rain, theywalked towards Minori, along the road which is cut in themountain-side, high above the beach. They talked about the massivestrongholds which stand as monuments of the time when the coast-townswere in fear of pirates. Melancholy brooded upon land and sea; thehills of Calabria, yesterday so blue and clear, had vanished like asunny hope. 

The morrow revealed them again. But again for Mallard there had passeda night of much misery. On rising, he durst not speak, so bitter was hemade by Elgar's singing and whistling. Yet he would not have eared toprevent the journey to Naples, had it been in his power. He was sick ofElgar's company; he wished for solitude. When his eyes fell on thematerials 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 mypromise. "

"Yes. "

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

"I have already begun to work out an idea, " said Elgar, as hebreakfasted merrily. "I woke in the night, and it came to me as I heardthe bell striking. My mind is always active when I am travelling; tento one I shall come back ready to begin to write. I fear there's nodecent ink purchasable in Amalfi; I mustn't forget that. By-the-bye, isthere anything I can bring you?"

"Nothing, thanks. "

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

A morning of mornings, deliciously fresh after the rain, the airexquisitely fragrant. On the mountain-tops ever so slight a mist stillclinging, 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 thespring. "

CHAPTER VII

THE MARTYR

Clifford Marsh left Pompeii on the same day as his two chanceacquaintances; he returned to his quarters on the Mergellina, muchperturbed in mind, beset with many doubts, with divers temptations. "Shall I the spigot wield?" Must the ambitions of his glowing youthcome to naught, and he descend to rank among the Philistines? For, togive him credit for a certain amount of good sense, he never gravelycontemplated facing the world in the sole strength of his genius. Heknew one or two who had done so before his mind's eye was a certainlittle garret in Chelsea, where an acquaintance of his, a man of realand various powers, was year after year taxing his brain and heart in abitter struggle with penury; and these glimpses of Bohemia were farfrom inspiring Clifford with zeal for naturalization. Elated with wineand 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 thathis impressionist studies would not supply him with bread, to saynothing of butter--and Clifford must needs have both. 

That step-father of his was a well-to-do manufacturer of shoddy inLeeds, one Hibbert, a good-natured man on the whole, but of limitedhorizon. He had married a widow above his own social standing, and fora long time was content to supply her idolized son with the means ofpursuing artistic studies in London and abroad. But Mr. Hibbert had astrong opinion that this money should by now have begun to make someshow of productiveness. Domestic grounds of dissatisfaction ripened hisresolve to be firm with young Mr. Marsh. Mrs. Hibbert was extravagant;doubtless her son was playing the fool in the same direction. Afterall, one could pay too much for the privilege of being snubbed by one'ssuperior wife and step-son. If Clifford were willing to "buckle to" atsober 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 fellowwould jump. Otherwise, let the fastidious gentleman pay his owntailor's bills. 

Clifford's difficulties were complicated by his relations with MadelineDenyer. It was a year since he had met Madeline at Naples, had promptlyfallen in love with her face and her advanced opinions, and had won heraffection in return. Clifford was then firm in the belief that, if heactually married, Mr. Hibbert would not have the heart to stop hisallowance; Mrs. Denyer had reasons for thinking otherwise, and herdaughter saw the case in the same light. It must be added that hepresumed 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 hisparents-in-law. Madeline knew well enough that nothing of this kind waspossible, and in the end made her lover's mind clear on the point. Since then the course of these young people's affections had beenanything but smooth. However, the fact remained that there _was_ mutualaffection--which, to be sure, made the matter worse. 

Distinctly so since the estrangement which had followed Marsh's arrivalat the boarding-house. He did not take Madeline's advice to seekanother abode, and for two or three days Madeline knew not whether tobe glad or offended at his remaining. For two or three days only; thenshe began to have a pronounced opinion on the subject. It was monstrousthat he should stay under this roof and sit at this table, after whathad happened. He had no delicacy; he was behaving as no gentlemancould. 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 stoodbefore her twiddling his watch-chain, "I really think the time has comefor me to ask an explanation of what is going on. My daughterdistresses me by saying that all is at an end between you. If that isreally the case, why do you continue to live here, when you must knowhow disagreeable it is to Madeline?"

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

"I should have thought so. But in that case I am obliged to ask youanother question. What can you mean by paying undisguised attentions toanother 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 speakingof Miss Doran. If your observation had been accurate, you would havenoticed that Miss Doran gives me no opportunity of paying herattentions, 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_ theseladies 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 tomy accusation--!"

And he broke off significantly. 

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

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

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

Marsh hesitated; then, throwing his head back, remarked in anunapproachable 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, andlooked angry. Mrs. Denyer had reached the point to which her remarkswere from the first directed, and it was not her intention to spare theyoung man's susceptibilities. She had long ago gauged him, and notinaccurately on the whole; it seemed to her that he was of the men whocan 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-beingmuch at heart. I have no wish to hurt your feelings, but I have beenupset 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 ofyoung gentlemen who wish to revenge themselves just a little for whatthey think a slight. Of course you have never given a thought to MissDoran, 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 ayoung lady of very proper behaviour. In no case, as you of courseunderstand, could she be so indelicate as anything of this kind wouldimply. No; but you are vexed with Madeline about some silly littledifference, and you play with her feelings. There has been enough ofit; I must interfere. And now let us talk a little about your position. Madeline has, of course, told me everything. Listen to me, my dearClifford; you must at once accept Mr. Hibbert's kindly meantproposal--you must indeed. "

Marsh had reflected anxiously during this speech. He let a moment ofsilence 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 inthis way you secure yourself the future just suited to your talents? Asan artist you will never make your way; that is certain. As a man witha substantial business at your back, you can indulge your artistictastes quite sufficiently, and will make yourself the centre of anadmiring circle. We cannot all be stars of the first magnitude. Becontent to shine in a provincial sphere, at all events for a time. Madeline as your wife will help you substantially. You will have goodsociety, and better the richer you become. You are made to be a richman and to enjoy life. Now let us settle this affair with yourstep-father. "

Still Clifford reflected, and again with the result that he appeared tohave no thought of being persuaded to such concessions. The debate wenton for a long time, ultimately with no little vigour on both sides. Itsonly 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'sfriendliness towards Cecily Doran. It was not to be supposed thatMadeline thought tenderly of the other's beauty, or with warmadmiration of her endowments; but she would not let Clifford Marshimagine that it mattered to her in the least if he at once transferredhis devotion to Miss Doran. Her tone in conversing with Cecily became alittle more patronizing, --though she spoke no more ofimpressionism, --in proportion as she discovered the younger girl'sopenness 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'tyou think it is a pity to make a pastime of an art? I soon saw that Iwas never likely really to _do_ anything in music or drawing, and outof respect for them I ceased to--to potter. Please don't think I applythat word to you. "

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

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

"A sad, sad change!" Mrs. Denyer was wont to sigh. "All the poetrygone! Think of Rome before 1870, and what it is now becoming. One neverlooked for intellect in Italy--living intellect, of course, I mean--butnatural poetry one did expect and find. It is heart-breaking, thisprogress! If it were not for my dear girls, I shouldn't be here; theyadore Italy--of course, never having known it as it was. And I am sureyou must feel, as I do, Mrs. Lessingham, the miserable results ofcheapened travel. Oh, the people one sees at railway-stations, evenmeets in hotels, I am sorry to say, sometimes! In a few years, I dobelieve, Genoa and Venice will strongly remind one of Margate. "

No echo of the cry of "Wolf!" ever sounded in Mrs. Denyer'sconversation when she spoke of her husband. That Odysseus of commercewas always referred to as being concerned in enterprises of mysteriousimportance and magnitude; she would hint that he had politicalmissions, naturally not to be spoken of in plain terms. Mrs. Lessinghamoften wondered with a smile what the truth really was; she saw noreason for making conjectures of a disagreeable kind, but it was prettyclear to her that selfishness, idleness, and vanity were at the root ofMrs. Denyer's character, and in a measure explained the position of thefamily. 

During the last few days, Barbara had exhibited a revival of interestin the "place in Lincolnshire. " Her experiments proved that it neededbut a moderate ingenuity to make Mr. Musselwhite's favourite topicpractically inexhaustible. The "place" itself having been sufficientlydescribed, it was natural to inquire what other "places" were itsneighbours, what were the characteristics of the nearest town, how longit took to drive from the "place" to the town, from the "place" to suchanother "place, " and so on. Mr. Musselwhite was undisguisedly gratefulfor every remark or question that kept him talking at his ease. It wasalways his dread lest a subject should be broached on which he couldsay nothing whatever--there were so many such!--and as often as Barbarabroke a silence without realizing his fear, he glanced at her with thegentlest and most amiable smile. Never more than glanced; yet this didnot seem to be the result of shyness; rather it indicated a lack ofmental activity, of speculation, of interest in her as a human being. 

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

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

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

Mr. Musselwhite was slowly rising. 

"Let us take some one else's opinion, " said the mother. "I wonder whatMr. 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, inthe most natural way possible, requested Mr. Musselwhite's judgment onthe portraits under discussion. 

He took the two in his hands, and, after inspecting them, looked roundto make comparison with the original. Barbara met his gaze placidly, with gracefully poised head, her hands joined behind her. It was such along time before the arbiter found anything to remark, that thesituation became a little embarrassing; Zillah laughed girlishly, andher 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. Ireally 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 firsttime that he had seen the girl's features; hitherto they had been, likeeverything else not embalmed in his memory, a mere vague perception, adetail of the phantasmic world through which he struggled against his_ennui_. 

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

"Then we certainly will, " was Mrs. Denyer's conclusion; and with agracious inclination of the head, she left the room, followed by herdaughters. 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 CliffordMarsh was away at Pompeii, daily "scenes" took place between her andher mother. Mrs. Denyer would have had her make conciliatory movements, whereas Madeline, who had not exchanged a word with Clifford since theparting in wrath, was determined not to be the first to show signs ofyielding. And she held her ground, tearless, resentful, strong in asense of her own importance. 

When he again took his place at Mrs. Gluck's table, Clifford had theair of a man who has resigned himself to the lack of sympathy andappreciation--nay, who defies everything external, and in the strengthof his genius goes serenely onwards. Never had he displayed suchself-consciousness; not for an instant did he forget to regulate theplay of his features. Mrs. Denyer he had greeted distantly; herdaughters, more distantly still. He did not look more than once ortwice in Miss Doran's direction, for Mrs. Denyer's reproof had made himconscious of an excess in artistic homage. His neighbour being Mr. Bradshaw, he conversed with him agreeably, smiling seldom. He seemedneither depressed nor uneasy; his countenance wore a grave and noblemelancholy, now and then illumined with an indescribable ardour. 

The Bradshaws had begun to talk of leaving Naples, but this seemed tobe the apology for enjoying themselves which is so characteristic ofEnglish people. Even Mrs. Bradshaw found her life from day to day verypleasant, and in consequence never saw her friends at the villa withoutexpressing much uneasiness about affairs at home, and blaming herhusband for making so long a stay. Both of them were now honoured withthe special attention of Mr. Marsh. Clifford was never so much in hiselement as when conversing of art and kindred matters with persons whoavowed their deficiencies in that sphere of knowledge, yet were willingto learn; relieved from the fear of criticism, he expanded, he glowed, he dogmatized. With Mrs. Lessingham he could not be entirely at hisease; her eye was occasionally disturbing to a pretender who did notlack discernment. But in walking about the museum with Mr. Bradshaw, hewas the most brilliant of ciceroni. Jacob was not wholly credulous, forhe had spoken of the young man with Mrs. Lessingham, but he found suchcompanionship entertaining enough from time to time, and Clifford'sknowledge of Italian was occasionally a help to him. 

A day or two of moderate intimacy with any person whatsoever always ledClifford to a revelation of his private circumstances; it was not longbefore Mr. Bradshaw was informed not only of Mr. Hibbert's harshness, but of the painful treatment to which Clifford was being subjected atthe hands of Mrs. Denyer and Madeline. The latter point was handledwith 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 soperchance come to Miss Doran's ears. He made no unworthy charges; hespoke not in anger, but in sorrow; he was misunderstood, he wasdepreciated, by those who should have devoted themselves to supportinghis courage under adversity. And as he talked, he became the embodimentof calm magnanimity; the rhetoric which was meant to impress hislistener had an exalting effect upon himself--as usual. 

"You mean to hold out, then?" asked the bluff Jacob, with a smile whichall but became a chuckle. 

"I am an artist, " was the noble reply. "I cannot abandon my life'swork. "

"But how about bread and cheese? They are necessary to an artist, asmuch 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. Spenceand Mrs. Lessingham with regard to Cecily. They were alone together atthe villa; Cecily and Miriam had gone for a drive with the Bradshaws. After speaking of Reuben Elgar, Mrs. Lessingham passed rather abruptlyto what seemed a disconnected subject. 

"I don't think it's time yet for Cecily to give up her set studies. Ishould like to find some one to read with her regularly again beforelong--say Latin and history; there would be no harm in a littlemathematics. 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'sdisposition every day. What an admirable mind she has! I never knew anyone acquire with so little effort. Of course, she has long ago left mebehind in everything. The only use I can be to her is to help her ingaining 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, andrustling her plumage a little as a lady does when she is about to speakin confidence of something that pleases her. "Of course, I very soonunderstood that the ordinary _surveillance_ and restrictions and moraltheories were of little use in her case. (I may speak with you quitefreely, I am sure. ) I'm afraid the results would have been very sad ifCecily 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 carefullyduring the first two years; then I was able to pursue my method with agood deal of confidence. It has been my aim to give free play to allher faculties; to direct her intelligence, but never to check itsgrowth--as is commonly done. We know what is meant by a girl'seducation, as a rule; it is not so much the imparting of knowledge asthe 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 andthe other thing--these things being, in fact, the most important forher to understand. I won't say that every girl can safely be left sofree as I have left Cecily; but when one has to deal with exceptionalintelligence, why not yield it the exceptional advantages? Then again, I had to bear in mind that Cecily has strong emotions. This seemed tome only another reason for releasing her mind from the misconceptionsit is usual to encourage. I have done my best to help her to see thingsas they _are_, not as moral teachers would like them to be, and asparents make-believe to their girls that they are indeed. "

Mrs. Lessingham ended on a suave note of triumph, and smiled verygraciously as Eleanor looked approval. 

"The average parent says, " she pursued, "that his or her daughter mustbe kept pure-minded, and therefore must grow up in a fool's paradise. Ihave no less liking for purity, but I understand it in rather adifferent sense; certain examples of the common purity that I have metwith didn't entirely recommend themselves to me. Then again, theaverage parent says that the daughter's lot in life is marriage, andthat after marriage is time enough for her to throw away the patentrose-coloured spectacles. I, on the other hand, should be very sorryindeed to think that Cecily has no lot in life besides marriage; to meshe seemed a human being to be instructed and developed, not a prettygirl to be made ready for the market. The rose coloured spectacles hadno part whatever in my system. I have known some who threw them asideat marriage, in the ordinary way, with the result that they thenceforthlooked on everything very obliquely indeed. I'm sorry to say that itwas my own fate to wear those spectacles, and I know only too well howhard 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 mustknow nothing, think nothing, but what is likely to meet the approval ofthe average husband--that is to say, the foolish, and worse thanfoolish, husband. I see no such difference between girl and boy asdemands a difference in moral training; we know what comes of theprevalent contrary views. And in Cecily's case, I believe I havevindicated my theory. She respects herself; she knows all that lack ofself-respect involves. She has been fed on wholesome victuals, not onadulterated milk. She is not haunted with that vulgar shame whichpasses 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 amquite easy in mind about her. Cecily will never do anything foolish. It's only the rose-coloured spectacles that cause stumbling. And I meanby 'stumbling' all the silliness to which girls are subject. Ah! if Icould live _my_ girlhood over again, and with some sensible woman toguide me! If I could have been put on my guard against idioticillusions, 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. Itwould say little for her qualities if a girl could not make a generousmistake. "

"Such mistakes are not worthy of being called generous, as a rule. Theyare too imbecile. That state of illusion is too contemptible. There isvery 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 saidbefore, education is no substitute for experience. Don't think mecaptious, however. I sympathize entirely with the course you havetaken. If I had a daughter, I should like her to be brought up on thesame principles. "

"Cecily is very mature for her age, " continued Mrs. Lessingham, withevident pleasure in stating and restating her grounds of confidence. "She feels strongly, but never apart from judgment. Now and then sheastonishes me with her discernment of character; clearness of thoughtseems almost to anticipate in her the experience on which you lay suchstress. Have you noticed her with Mr. Mallard? How differently manygirls would behave! But Cecily understands him so well; she knows hethinks of her as a child, and nothing could be more simply natural thanher friendship for him. I suppose Mr. Mallard is one of the artists whonever marry?"

"I don't know him well enough to decide that, " answered Eleanor, with acurious smile. 

It was in the evening of this day, when the Spences and Miriam weresitting together after dinner, that a servant announced a visit ofReuben Elgar, adding that he was in his sister's room. Miriam went tojoin 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 theunimaginable--from Salerno! Leave Naples without seeing those places, and hold yourself for ever the most wretched of mortals! Old Mallardforced me to go with him, and I am in his debt to eternity!"

This exalted manner of speech was little to Miriam's taste especiallyfrom her brother. Sobriety was what she desired in him. It seemed asmall advantage that his extravagance should exhibit itself in this wayrather than in worse; the danger was still there. 

"Sit down, and talk more quietly. You say Mr. Mallard _forced_ you togo?"

"I was coming back to Naples from Pompeii. By-the-bye, I went upVesuvius, and descended shoeless. The guides ought to have metal bootson 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'mgoing to settle my affairs here to-morrow, and join him again. He'spersuaded 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 asense. 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 shallkeep my word. "

"He is working himself?"

"Will be by now; we had horrible day of rain at Amalfi. He seems ratherglummer than usual, but that won't hinder his work. I wish I had theold fellow's energy. After all, though, one can force one's self to usepencils and brushes; it's a different thing when all has to come fromthe 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 yourequanimity. Never mind, I shall try. By-the-bye, I ought to have a wordwith Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily before I go. Are they likely to be heretomorrow?"

"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 athim. 

"Why on earth not?"

His brow darkened, and he seemed about to utter something not unlikehis vehemencies on the day of arrival. 

"You must judge for yourself, of course, " said Miriam. "We won't talkabout it. "

Reuben nodded agreement carelessly. Then he began to talk of hisproposed work, and presently they went to join the Spences. For an houror more, Reuben held forth rapturously on what he had seen these lastfew 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. (Hiscousinship with Eleanor had never been affirmed by intimateassociation, and he had not the habit of addressing her by the personalname. ) "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, Elgarleant forward on the back of a chair. Then he bade them good-bye, hispulse at fever-time. 

Half-past ten next morning found him walking hither and thither on theMergellina, frequently consulting his watch. He decided at length toapproach the house in which his acquaintances dwelt. Passing throughthe _portone_, whom should he encounter but Clifford Marsh, known tohim only from the casual meeting at Pompeii, not by name. They stoppedto 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 callingto see those ladies, " he continued, "they went out half an hour ago. Isaw them drive away. "

Elgar muttered his annoyance. Though he disliked doing so, he askedMarsh whether he knew when the ladies were likely to return. Clifforddeclared his ignorance. The two looked at each other, smiled, said goodmorning, and turned different ways. 

Reuben walked about the sea-front for a couple of hours. "Who is thatconfounded fellow?" he kept asking in his mind, adding the highlyludicrous question, "What business has he to know them?" His impatiencewaxed; now and then he strode at such a pace that perspiration coveredhim. The most trivial discomposure had often much the same effect onhim; if he happened to have a difficulty in finding his way, forinstance, he would fume himself into exasperated heat. 

"What business have they to live in a vulgar boarding house? It'sabominable bad taste and indiscretion in that woman. In fact, I don'tlike 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 liketo call--for various reasons. He fretted about the roads, this way andthat, till hunger oppressed him. Having eaten at the first restauranthe came to, he directed his steps towards the Mergellina again. At twoo'clock he reached the house and made inquiry. The ladies had not yetreturned. 

He struck off towards the Chiaia, again paced backwards and forwards, cursed at carriage-drivers who plagued him, tried to amuse himself onthe Santa Lucia. And pray what was all this fuss about? When he rosethis morning, he had half a mind to start at once for Amalfi, and notsee Mrs. Lessingham and her niece at all; he "didn't know that he caredmuch. " He had met Cecily Doran twice. The second time was on the StradaNuova di Posillipo, where he encountered a carriage in which Cecily andher aunt were taking the air; he talked with them for three minutes. Itwas 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 truththat he thought himself capable of saying good-bye to the wonderfulgirl, and posting off to his literary work. Why expose himself totemptation? Because he chose to; because it was pleasant; surely anexcellent reason. 

If only he hadn't come up against that confounded artist-fellow! Thathad upset him, most absurdly. A half good-looking sort of fellow: afellow who could prate with a certain _brio_; not unlikely to makesomething 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 themarriage-column in a newspaper without feeling a distinct jealousy ofall the male creatures there mentioned. 

He sought out a _caffe_, and sat there for an hour, drinking a liquorthat called itself lacryma-Christi, but would at once have beendetected for a pretender by a learned palate. He drank it for the firsttime, and tried to enjoy it, but his mind kept straying to alienthings. When it was nearly four o'clock, he again went forth, took acarriage, and bade the man drive quickly. 

This time he was successful. A servant conducted him by many stairs andpassages to Mrs. Lessingham's sitting-room. He entered, and foundhimself alone with Cecily. 

"Mrs. Lessingham will certainly be back very soon, " she said, inshaking hands with him. "They told me you had called before, and Ithought you would like better to wait a few minutes than to bedisappointed again. "

"I think of going to Amalfi to-morrow morning, perhaps for a longtime, " remarked the visitor. "I wished to say good bye. "

The accumulated impatience and nervousness of the whole morningdisturbed his pulses and put a weight upon his tongue; he spoke withawkward indecision, held himself awkwardly. His own voice soundedboorish to him after Cecily's accents. 

Cecily began to speak of how she had spent the day. Her aunt was makingpurchases--was later in returning than had been expected. Then sheasked for an account of Elgar's doings since they last met. Theconversation grew easier Reuben began to recover his natural voice, andto lose disagreeable self-consciousness in the delight of hearingCecily and meeting her look. Had he known her better, he would haveobserved that she spoke with unusual diffidence, that she was not quiteso self-possessed a. Of wont, and that her manner was deficient in thefrank gaiety which as a rule made its great charm. Her tone softeneditself in questioning; she listened so attentively that, when he hadceased speaking, her eyes always rose to his, as if she had expectedsomething further. 

"Who is the young artist that lives here?" Elgar inquired. "I met himat 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 recentlybeen 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 againturbid; 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 likethis. "

"One or two are certainly odd, " was the reply, in a gentle tone; "butmost of them are very pleasant to be with occasionally. Naturally wesee more of the Bradshaws than of any one else. There's a family namedDenyer--a lady with three daughters; I don't think you would dislikethem. Mr. Marsh is their intimate friend. "

It was all but as though she pleaded against a mistaken judgment whichtroubled her. To Mallard she had spoken of her fellow-boarders in quitea different way, with merry though kindly criticism, or in the strainof 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 tosit in judgment. "

Elgar had the good taste to say nothing more on the subject. He let hiseyes 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 withher. No one's society could do her so much good as yours. The poor girlhas too long been in need of such an aid to rational cheerfulness. "

They were interrupted by the entrance of an English maidservant, whoasked whether Miss Doran would have tea brought at once, or wait tillMrs. Lessingham's return. 

"You see how English we are, " said Cecily to her visitor. "I thinkwe'll have it now; Mrs. Lessingham may be hero 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 goneto the window. 

"We won't shut out the evening sky, " said Cecily, standing not far fromhim. 

The door closed upon the servant who had carried in the tea-tray. Elgarturned 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. Asregards 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 mostcharacteristic voice, the voice which was musical and alluring, andsuggestive of his nature's passionate depths and heights. "You havegrown into health of body and soul, and out of all the evil things thatwould have robbed you of natural happiness. Nothing ever made me moreglad than first seeing you at the villa. I didn't know what you hadbecome, and in looking at you I rejoiced on your account. You wouldgladden even miserable old age, like sunlight on a morning of spring. "

Cecily moved towards the tea-table in silence. She began to fill one ofthe cups, but put the teapot down again and waited for a moment. Havingresumed her purpose, she looked round and saw Elgar seated sideways ona chair by the window. With the cup of tea in her hand, she approachedhim and offered it without speaking. He rose quickly to take it, andwent to another part of the room. 

"I hope Miriam will stay here the whole winter, " Cecily said, as sheseated herself by the table. 

"I hope so, " he assented absently, putting his tea aside. "How long areyou 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 itwould suit my purpose better than Amalfi. Yet I must be alone, if I amto work. I haven't Mallard's detachment. That seems to you a paltryconfession of weakness. "

"No, indeed. I am told that Mr. Mallard is quite exceptional in hispower of disregarding everything but his work. "

"Exceptional in many things, no doubt. I must seem very insignificantin comparison. "

"Why should you? Mr. Mallard is so much older; he has long been fixedin his course. "

"Older, yes, " assented Elgar, with satisfaction. "Perhaps at his age Itoo 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 usualcareless 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 themonosyllable. 

"But she has nothing encouraging to say? She shows that she looks uponme as one of whom no good can come? That is the impression you havereceived from her?"

Cecily looked at him gravely. 

"She has scarcely spoken of you at all--scarcely more than the fewwords 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 greetMrs. 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 youngpeople. Of course she betrayed no surprise; neither did she makeexhibition of pleasure. Her greeting of the visitor was gracefullycasual, given in passing. She sank upon a low chair as if overcome withweariness. Mrs. Lessingham had nothing to learn in the arts wherewithsocial intercourse is kept smooth in spite of nature's improprieties. When she chose, she could be the awe-inspiring chaperon, no lesscompletely 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, andheard the news from him. I am glad you could find a moment to call. Youare going to be very busy, I hear, for the rest of the winter. "

"I hope so, " Elgar replied, walking across the room to fetch hishalf-emptied teacup. 

"We shall look eagerly for the results of your work. "

For ten minutes the conversation kept a rather flat course. Cecily onlyspoke when addressed by her aunt; then quite in her usual way. Elgartook the first opportunity to signal departure. When Cecily gave himher hand, it was with a moment's unfaltering look--a look verydifferent from that which charmed everyday acquaintances at theircoming and going, unlike anything man or woman had yet seen on hercountenance. The faintest smile hovered about her lips as she said, "Good-bye;" her steadfast eyes added the hope which there was no needto speak. 

When he was gone, Mrs. Lessingham sipped her tea in silence. Cecilymoved about and presently brought a book to her chair by the tea-table. 

"No doubt you had the advantage of hearing Mr. Elgar's projectsdetailed, " said her aunt, with irony which presumed a completeunderstanding 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 isoriginally much better endowed; though at present I should think he iseven less to be depended upon, either intellectually or morally. Butthey belong to the same species. What numbers of such young men I havemet!"

"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 anessay on 'The Young Man of Promise' of our day. I should be rather toosevere; you would treat them with a lighter hand, and therefore moreeffectually. "

In speaking, she kept her eyes on the girl, who appeared to muse thesubject with sportful malice. 

"I am not sure, " said Cecily, "that Mr. Elgar would come into theessay. "

"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 itinteresting. "

With another laugh, she dismissed the subject; nor did her auntendeavour to revive it. 

The morrow was Sunday. Elgar knew at what time his tram left forSalerno; the time-table was the same as for other days. Yet he lay inbed till nearly noon, till the train had long since started. No, heshould not go to-day. 

It irked him to rise at all. He had not slept; his head was hot, andhis hands shook nervously. Dressed, he sat down for a minute, andremained seated half an hour, gazing at the wall. When at length heleft the house, he walked without seeing anything, stumbling againstthings 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 theappointed time. To-morrow, perhaps; and perhaps not even to-morrow Ithad got beyond his control. 

He ate, and returned to his room. Just now his need was physicalrepose, undisturbed indulgence of reverie. And the reverie of a man inhis condition is a singular process. It consists of a small number ofmemories, forecasts, Imaginings, repeated over and over again, till onewould think the brain must weary itself beyond endurance. It can go onfor many hours consecutively, and not only remain a sufficient andpleasurable employment, but render every other business repulsive, allbut impossible. 

At evening there came a change. He was now unable to keep still; hewent into the town, and exhausted himself with walking up and down thehilly streets. Society would have helped him, but he could find none. He would not go to the villa; still less could he visit theboarding-house. 

What a night! At times he moved about his room like one in franticpain, finally flinging himself upon the bed and lying there till theimpulse of his fevered mind broke the beginnings of sleep. Or he walkedthe length of the floor, with measured step, fifty times, counting eachtime he turned--a sort of conscious insanity. Or he took hispocket-knife, and drove the point into the flesh of his arm, satisfiedwhen the pang became intolerable. Then again a loss of all control inmere 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 thesea-front. Between nine and ten he turned into the upward road, andwent with purpose towards Villa Sannazaro. 

CHAPTER IX

IN THE DEAD CITY

Through it was Sunday, Cecily resolved to go and spend the afternoonwith Miriam. She was restless, and could not take pleasure in Mrs. Lessingham's conversation. Possibly her arrival at the villa would beanything but welcome; but she must see Miriam. 

She drove up by herself, and first of all saw the Spences. From themshe 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 backand cheer us old people with your brightness. "

So Cecily went with light step along the corridor, and with lightfingers 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. Thenshe glanced at the "St. Cecilia;" then examined herself for a moment inone 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 incertain moods. To-day I am in a very strange mood indeed; verymalicious, very wicked. And it is Sunday. "

Miriam did not seem to resent this. She looked away at the window, butsmiled. Could Cecily have been aware how her face had changed when thedoor 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 beDante. 

"Do you read this on Sunday?"

Miriam deigned no reply. The other, sitting just in front of her, tookup the volume and rustled its leaves. 

"How far have you got? This pencil mark? 'Amor ch'a null' amato amarperdona. '"

She read the line in an undertone, slowly towards the close. Miriam'sface showed a sudden and curious emotion. Glancing at the book, shesaid 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 fineafternoon. "

"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, leaningher 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 andevery undertaking. I should like to fret and torment and offend you. Ishould like to ask you why _I_ am allowed to enjoy the sunshine, andyou not? _Oggi e festa_! What a dreadful sound that must have in yourears Miriam!"

"But they don't apply it to Sunday, " returned the other, who seemed toresign herself to this teasing. 

"Indeed they do!" With a sudden change of subject, Cecily added, "Yourbrother came to see us yesterday, to say good-bye. "

"Did he?"

"It doesn't interest you. You care nothing where he goes, or what hedoes--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? Nevermind; 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 Ishouldn't call so; but neither do I call them music, just as Idistinguish between bad or foolish verse, and poetry. Everything worthyof being called art is sacred. I shall keep telling you that till inself-defence you are forced to think about it. And now I shall play thepiece whether you like it or not. "

She opened the piano. What she had in mind was one of the "MomentsMusicaux" of Schubert--a strain of exquisite melody, which ceased toosoon. Cecily sat for a few moments at the key-board after she hadfinished, her head bent; then she came and stood before Miriam. 

"Do you like it?"

There was no answer. She looked steadily at the trouble a ace, and, asit still kept averted from her, she laid her arms softly, halfplayfully, about Miriam's neck. 

"Why must there always be such a distance between us, Miriam dear? Evenwhen I seem so near to you as this, what a deep black gulf reallyseparates us!"

"You were once on my side of it" said Miriam, her voice softened. "Howdid you pass to the other?"

"How could I tell you? No one read me lectures, or taught me hardarguments. The change came insensibly, like passing out of a dream intothe light of morning. I followed where my nature led, and my thoughtsabout everything altered. I don't know how it might have been if I hadlived 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. Whoknows? Perhaps there may come a day when I shall look back upon it, andsee it as empty of satisfaction as it now seems to you. But more likelythat 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-daysaddened by it beyond her wont; her excessive gaiety yielded to adejection which passed indeed, but for a while made her very unlikeherself, silent, with troubled eyes. 

"I had one valid excuse for coming to see you to-day, " she said, whengaiety and dejection had both gone by. "Mr. And Mrs. Bradshaw seriouslythink of going to Rome at the end of next week, and they wish to haveanother day at Pompeii. They would like it so much if you would go withthem. If you do, I also will; we shall make four for a carriage, anddrive 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 justcoming 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 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, andlet 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 hishand on her arm, and clutched it so strongly that she sank back andregarded him with a look of anger. 

"Miriam! Do as I wish, dear. Be kind to me for this once. If yourefuse, it will make no difference. Have some feeling for me. This oneday, Miriam. "

Again she looked at him, and reflected. On account of the driver, though of course he could not understand them, they had subdued theirvoices, 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 herusual pleasure in to-day's expedition. Even Mrs. Bradshaw, sitting overagainst her in the carriage, noticed that the girl's countenance lackedits natural animation, wore now and then a tired look; the lids hung alittle heavily over the beautiful eyes, and the cheeks were a thoughtpale. When she forgot herself in conversation, Cecily was the same asever; mirthful, brightly laughing, fervent in expressing delight; buther thoughts too often made her silent, and then one saw that she wasnot heart and soul in the present. It was another Cecily than on thatday at Baiae. "She has been over-exciting herself since she came here, "was Mrs. Bradshaw's mental remark. Miriam, anxiously observant, made adifferent interpretation, and was harassed with a painful conflict ofthoughts. 

Jacob Bush Bradshaw had no eyes for these trivialities. He sat in thesquared posture of a hearty Englishman, amusing himself with everythingthey passed on the road self-congratulant on the knowledge andexperience he had been storing, joking as often as he spoke. 

"The lad Marsh would have uncommonly liked an invitation to come withus to-day, " he said, about midway in the drive. "What precious mischiefwe 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 noattention 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 hadanother carriage, or gone by train. "

Mr. Bradshaw chuckled for some minutes at this proposal, but his wifewould not allow him to pursue the jest. 

They lunched at the Hotel Diomede before entering the precincts of theruins. Mr. Bradshaw had invariably a splendid appetite, and was by thistime skilled in ordering the meals that suited him. The few phrases ofItalian which he had appropriated were given forth _ore rotundo_, withAnglo-saxon emphasis on the _o_'s, and accompanied with large gestures. His mere appearance always sufficed to put landlords and waiters intotheir most urbane mood; they never failed to take him for one of theEnglish nobility--a belief confirmed by the handsomeness of hisgratuities. Mrs. Bradshaw was not, perhaps, the ideal lady of rank, butthe fine self-satisfaction on her matronly visage, the good-natureddisdain with which she allowed herself to be waited upon by foolishforeigners, her solid disregard of everything beyond the circle of herown party, were impressive enough, and exacted no little subservience. 

Strong in the experience of two former visits, Mr. Bradshaw would haveno guide to-day. Murray in hand, he knew just what he wished to seeagain, and where to find it. 

As Miriam was at Pompeii for the first time, he took her especiallyunder his direction, and showed her the city much as he might have ledher over his silk-mill in Manchester. Unimbued with history andliterature, he knew nothing of the scholar's or the poet's enthusiasm;his gratification lay in exercising his solid intelligence on a lot ofstrange and often grotesque facts. Here men had lived two thousandyears ago. There was no mistake about it; you saw the deep ruts oftheir wheels along the rugged street; nay, you saw the wearing of theirvery feet on the comically narrow pavements. And their life had been asdifferent as possible from that of men in Manchester. Everythingexcited him to merriment. 

"Now, this is the house of old Pansa--no doubt an ancestor of friendSancho"--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 arein what they called the atrium. "

Cecily spoke seldom. Of course, she would have preferred to be alonehere with Miriam; best of all--or nearly so--if they could have madethe same party as at Baiae. At times she lingered a little behind theothers, and seemed deep in contemplation of some object; or she stoodto watch the lizards darting about the sunny old walls. When all wereenjoying the view from the top of Jupiter's Temple, she gazed longtowards the Sorrento promontory, the height of St. Angelo. 

"Amalfi is over on the far side, " she said to Miriam. "They are bothworking there now. "

Miriam replied nothing. 

When they were in the Street of Tombs, Cecily again paused, by thesepulchre of the Priestess Mamia, whence there is a clear prospectacross the bay towards the mountains. Turning back again, she heard avoice that made her tremble with delighted surprise. A wall concealedthe speaker from her; she took a few quick steps, and saw Reuben Elgarshaking hands with the Bradshaws. He looked at her, and came forward. She could not say any thing, and was painfully conscious of the bloodthat rushed to her face; never yet had she known this stress ofheart-beats that made suffering of joy, and the misery of being unableto command herself under observant eyes. 

It was years since Elgar and the Bradshaws had met. As a boy he hadoften visited their house, but from the time of his leaving home atsixteen to go to a boarding-school, his acquaintance with them, as withall his other Manchester friends, practically ceased. They had oftenheard of him--too often, in their opinion. Aware of his arrival atNaples, they had expressed no wish to see him. Still, now that he metthem in this unexpected way, they could not but assume friendliness. Jacob, not on the whole intolerant, was willing enough to take "thelad" on his present merits; Reuben had the guise and manners of agentleman, and perhaps was grown out of his reprobate habits. Mr. Bradshaw and his wife could not but notice Cecily's agitation at themeeting; they exchanged wondering glances, and presently found anopportunity for a few words apart. What was going on? How had these twoyoung 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 theday begun--that only now had the sunshine its familiar brightness, theancient walls and ways their true enchantment? She did not at oncebecome 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, butoccasionally she had forgotten herself so far as to look and ponder;now she saw nothing. Her mind was gravely troubled; she wished onlythat 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 asubdued voice and with the most pleasant manner possible. He walked fora time with Mrs. Bradshaw, and accommodated himself with much tact toher way of regarding foreign things, whether ancient or modern. In ashort time all went smoothly again. 

Not since they shook hands had Elgar and Cecily encountered eachother's glance. They looked at each other often, very often, but onlywhen the look could not be returned; they exchanged not a syllable. Yetboth knew that at some approaching moment, for them the supreme momentof this day, their eyes must meet. Not yet; not casually, and whilstothers regarded them. The old ruins would be kind. 

It was in the house of Meleager. They had walked among the colouredcolumns, and had visited the inner chamber, where upon the wall ispainted the Judgment of Paris. Mr. Bradshaw passed out through thenarrow 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 ofmaidenhair that he had just gathered. She took it, or would have takenit, but her hand was closed in his. 

"I have stayed only to see you again, " came panting from his lips. "Icould not go till I had seen you again!"

And before the winged syllables had ceased, their eyes met; nor theireyes alone, for upon both was the constraint of passion that leaps likeflame to its desire--mouth to mouth and heart to heart for one instantthat concentrated all the joy of being. 

What hand, centuries ago crumbled into indistinguishable dust, paintedthat parable of the youth making his award to Love? What eyes gazedupon it, when this was a home of man and woman warm with life, listening all day long to the music of uttered thoughts? Dark-buriedwhilst so many ages of history went by, thrown open for the sunshine torest upon its pallid antiquity, again had this chamber won a place inhuman hearts, witnessed the birth of joy and hope, blended itself withthe destiny of mortals. He who pictured Paris dreamt not of thesepassionate lips and their unborn language, knew not that he wrought fora world hidden so far in time. Though his white-limbed goddess fadeghostlike, the symbol is as valid as ever. Did not her wan beauty smileyouthful again in the eyes of these her latest worshippers?

And they went forth among the painted pillars, once more shunning eachother's look. It was some minutes before Cecily knew that her fingersstill crushed the spray of maidenhair; then she touched it gently, andsecreted it within her glove. It must be dead when she reached home, but that mattered nothing; would it not remain the sign of somethingdeathless?

She believed so. In her vision the dead city had a new and wonderfullife; it lay glorious in the light of heaven, its strait ways fit forthe treading of divinities, its barren temples reconsecrate with songand sacrifice. She believed there was that within her soul which shouldsurvive all change and hazard--survive, it might be, even this warmflesh that it was hard not to think immortal. 

She sought Miriam's side, took her hand, held it playfully as theywalked 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 aninvitation to accompany that party of four to Pompeii. For one thing, he was beginning to have a difficulty in passing his days; if thepresent state of things prolonged itself, his position might soonresemble that of Mr. Musselwhite. But chiefly would he have welcomedthe prospect of spending some hours in the society of Miss Doran, andunder circumstances which would enable him to shine. Clifford had begunto nurse a daring ambition. Allowing his vanity to caress him into thehalf-belief that he was really making a noble stand against theharshness of fate, he naturally spent much time in imagining how otherpeople regarded him--above all, what figure he made in the eyes of MissDoran. There could be no doubt that she knew, at all events, the mainitems of his story; was it not certain that they must make some appealto her sympathies? His air of graceful sadness could not but lead herto muse as often as she observed it; he had contemplated himself in themirror, and each time with reassurance on this point. Why should theattractions which had been potent with Madeline fail to engage theinterest of this younger and more emotional girl? Miss Doran was farbeyond Madeline in beauty, and, there was every reason to believe, hadthe substantial gifts of fortune which Madeline altogether lacked. Itwas 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 irresistibleargument. 

He was incapable of passion. Just as he had made a pretence of pursuingart, because of a superficial cleverness and a liking for ease and thevarious satisfactions of his vanity in such a career, so did he nowpermit his mind to be occupied with Cecily Doran, not because herqualities blinded him to all other considerations, but in pleasantyielding to a temptation of his fancy, which made a lively picture ofmany desirable things, and flattered him into thinking that they werenot beyond his reach. For the present he could do nothing but wait, supporting his pose of placid martyrdom. Wait, and watch everyopportunity; there would arrive a moment when seeming recklessnessmight advance him far on the way to triumph. 

And yet he never for a moment regarded himself as a schemerendeavouring to compass vulgar ends by machination. He had theremarkable faculty of viewing himself in an ideal light, even whilstconscious that so many of his claims were mere pretence. Men such asClifford Marsh do not say to themselves, "What a humbug I am!" Whendriven to face their conscience, it speaks to them rather in this way:"You are a fellow of fine qualities, altogether out of the common wayof 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 foryour superiority if you did not wear a little tinsel, practise a fewharmless affectations. Some day your difficulties will be at an end, and then you can afford to show yourself in a simpler guise. " When helooked in the glass, Clifford admired himself without reserve; when hetalked freely, he applauded his own cleverness, and thought it the mostnatural thing that other people should do so. When he meditatedabandoning Madeline, his sincere view of the matter was that she hadproved herself unworthy: however sensible her attitude, a girl had noright to put such questions to her lover as she had done, to injure hisself-love. When he plotted with himself to engage Cecily's interest, hesaid that it was the course any lover would have pursued. And in theend he really persuaded himself that he was in love with her. 

Yet none the less he thought of Madeline with affection. He was piquedthat she made no effort to bring him back to her feet. To be sure, hermother's behaviour probably implied Madeline's desire ofreconciliation, but he wished her to make personal overtures; he wouldhave liked to see her approach him with humble eyes, not troublinghimself to debate how he should act in that event. With Mrs. Denyer hewas once more on terms of apparent friendliness, though he held noprivate dialogue with her; he was willing that she should suppose himgradually coming over to her views. Barbara and Zillah showedconstraint when he spoke with them, but this he affected not toperceive. Only with Madeline he did not converse. Her air ofunconcernedness at length proved too much for his patience, and so itcame about that Madeline received by post a letter addressed inClifford's hand. She took it to her bedroom, and broke the envelopewith agitation. 

"Your behaviour is heartless. Just when I am in deep distress, and needall possible encouragement in the grave struggle upon which I haveentered--for I need not tell you that I am resolved to remain anartist--you desert me, and do your best to show that you are glad atbeing relieved of all concern on my account. It is well for me that Isee the result of this test, but, I venture to think, not every womanwould have chosen your course. I shall very shortly leave Naples. Itwill no doubt complete your satisfaction to think of me toilingfriendless in London. Remember this as my farewell. --C. M. "

The next morning Clifford received what he expected, a reply, also sentby post. It was written in the clearest and steadiest hand, onsuperfine paper. 

"I am sorry you should have repeated your insult in a written form; Iventure 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 towhich 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 ofordinary acquaintances for the remaining time; the present state ofthings is both disagreeable and foolish. It will always seem to me avery singular thing that you should have continued to live in thishouse; 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 therefound Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with Madeline. The former lookedtowards 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, seatinghimself away from Madeline. 

"I'm sorry to hear that. "

"Mr. Marsh is very easily disturbed, " said Madeline, in a light tone ofmany possible meanings. 

"Yes, " admitted Clifford, leaning back and letting his head droop alittle; "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, Madelinetaking part in it in a way that showed her resolve to act as she hadrecommended in her note. Then Mrs. Lessingham rose and left the twotogether. Madeline seemed also about to move; she followed thedeparting lady with her eyes, and at length, as though adding a finalremark, said to Clifford:

"There are several things you have been so kind as to lend me that Imust return before you go, Mr. Marsh. I will make a parcel of them, anda servant shall take them to your room. 

"Thank you. "

Since the quarrel, Madeline had not worn her ring of betrothal, butthis was the first time she had spoken of returning presents. 

"I am sorry you have had news that disturbed you, " she continued, as ifin calm friendliness. "But I dare say it is something you will soonforget. In future you probably won't think so much of littleannoyances. "

"Probably not. "

She smiled, and walked away, stopping to glance at a picture before sheleft the room. Clifford was left with knitted brows and uneasy mind; hehad not believed her capable of this sedateness. For some reason, Madeline had been dressing herself with unusual care of late (theresult, in fact, of frequent observation of Cecily), and just now, ashe entered, it had struck him that she was after all very pretty, thatno one could impugn his taste in having formerly chosen her. Hisreference to her letter was a concession, made on the moment's impulse. Her rejecting it so unmistakably looked serious. Had she even ceased tobe jealous?

In the course of the afternoon, one of Mrs. Gluck's servants depositeda parcel in his chamber. When he found it, he bit his lips. Indeed, things looked serious at last. He passed the hours till dinner inrather comfortless solitude. 

But at dinner he was opposite Cecily, and he thought he had never seenher so brilliant. Perhaps the day in the open air--there was a freshbreeze--had warmed the exquisite colour of her cheeks and given hereyes an even purer radiance than of wont. The dress she wore was notnew to him, but its perfection made stronger appeal to his senses thanpreviously. 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 inthe offices of the meal? It pained him to look at Madeline and makecomparison. 

Moreover, Cecily met his glance, and smiled--smiled with adorablefrankness. From that moment he rejoiced at what had taken place to-day. It had left him his complete freedom. Good; he had given Madeline afinal chance, and she had neglected it. In every sense he was atliberty to turn his thoughts elsewhither, and now he felt that he hadeven 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 glancingover 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 hisjourney. "

"I'm not surprised. "

"Why?"

"Delay is one of his characteristics, isn't it?" returned the elderlady, with unaccustomed tartness. "A minor branch of the root ofinefficiency. "

"I am afraid so. "

Cecily laughed, and began to read aloud an amusing passage from thepaper. Her aunt put no further question; but after dinner sought Mrs. Bradshaw, and had a little talk on the subject. Mrs. Bradshaw allowedherself no conjectures; in her plain way she merely confirmed whatCecily had said, adding that Elgar had taken leave of them at therailway-station. 

"Possibly Mrs. Baske knew that her brother would be there?" surmisedMrs. 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 smiledacquiescence. "He has impressed me agree ably, " she continued, "butthere's a danger that he will never do justice to himself. "

"I don't put much faith in him myself, " said Mrs. Bradshaw, meaningnothing more by the phrase than that she considered Reuben ane'er-do-well. The same words would have expressed her lack ofconfidence in a servant subjected to some suspicion. 

Mrs. Lessingham was closely observant of her niece this evening, andgrew confirmed in distrust, in solicitude. Cecily was more than everunlike herself--whimsical, abstracted, nervous; she flushed at anunexpected sound, could not keep the same place for more than a fewminutes. Much before the accustomed hour, she announced her retirementfor the night. 

"Let me feel your pulse, " said Mrs. Lessingham, as if in jest, when thegirl 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 trustyou 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 inthe 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 sayingsomething 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 hadovercome her after much restless moving upon the pillow. Her face wasflushed; one of her hands, that on the coverlet, kept closing itselfwith a slight spasm. The visitor drew apart and looked about thechamber. Her eyes rested on a little writing-desk, where lay a directedenvelope. She looked at it, and found it was addressed to a Frenchservant of theirs in Paris, an excellent woman who loved Cecily, and towhom the girl had promised to write from Italy. The envelope wasclosed; but it could contain nothing of importance--was merely anindication of Cecily's abiding kindness. By this lay a small book, fromthe pages of which protruded a piece of white paper. Mrs. Lessinghamtook up the volume--it was Shelley--and found that the paper within itwas folded about a spray of maidenhair, and bore the inscription "Houseof Meleager Pompeii. Monday, December 8, 1878. " Over this theinquisitive lady mused, until a motion of Cecily caused her to restorethings rapidly to their former condition. 

A movement, and a deep sigh; but Cecily did not awake. Mrs. Lessinghamagain drew softly near to her, and, without letting the light falldirectly upon her face, looked at her for a long time. She whisperedfeelingly, "Poor girl! poor child!" then, with a sigh almost as deep asthat of the slumberer, withdrew. 

In the morning, Cecily was already dressed when a servant broughtletters to the sitting-room. There were three, and one of them, addressed to herself, had only the Naples postmark. She went back toher bedroom with it. 

After breakfast Mrs. Lessingham spoke for a while of news contained inher 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 thesentence. She held out the letter. Mrs. Lessingham found the followinglines:--

"DEAR CECILY, "I have, of course, returned to Naples, and I earnestly hope I may seeyou between ten and eleven to-morrow morning. I must see you alone. Youcannot 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 mether gaze steadily. 

"The meaning of this is plain enough, " said her aunt, with carefulrepression of feeling. "But I am at a loss to understand how it hascome about. "

"I cannot tell you, aunt. I cannot tell myself. "

Cecily's true accents once more. It was as though she had recovered allher natural self-command now that the revelation was made. The flushstill possessed her cheeks, but she had no look of embarrassment; shespoke in a soft murmur, but distinctly, firmly. 

"I am afraid that is only too likely, dear. Come and sit down, littlegirl, 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 aboutit?"

"That would not have been my usual behaviour, I hope. When did Ideceive 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, " saidthe other, in a tone of annoyance. 

"No; not in the sense you attach to the words. But, aunt, you arespeaking as if I _were_ a little girl, to be carefully watched at everystep. "

Mrs. Lessingham mused, looking absently at the letter. She paid no heedto 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 likethis. 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 nodesire to regard you as though we were a French aunt and niece talkingof 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 andyour position. You have no parents, unhappily, but you know that Mr. Mallard is legally appointed the guardian of your interests, and Itrust 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 toMr. Mallard, before making private appointments with you. "

"Aunt, you can see that this letter is written so as to allow of myshowing it to you. "

"I have noticed that, of course. It makes Mr. Elgar's way of proceedingseem still more strange to me. He is good enough to ask you to relievehim 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 necessarythat I should speak with Mr. Elgar; do not pain me by compelling me tosay more. Afterwards, he will wish to see you, I know. "

"Please to remember, dear--it astonishes me that you forget it--that Ihave a responsibility to Mr. Mallard. I have no legal charge of you. With every reason, Mr. Mallard may reproach me if I countenance what itis impossible for him to approve. "

Cecily searched the speaker's face. 

"Do you mean, " she asked gravely, "that Mr. Mallard willdisapprove--what I have done?"

"I can say nothing on that point. But I am very sure that he would notapprove of this meeting, if he could know what was happening. I mustcommunicate with him at once. Until he comes, or writes, it is yourduty, my dear, to decline this interview. Believe me, it is your duty. "

Mrs. Lessingham spoke more earnestly than she ever had done to herniece. Indeed, earnest speech was not frequent upon her lips when shetalked with Cecily. In spite of the girl's nature, there had neverexisted between them warmer relations than those of fondness andinterest on one side, and gentleness with respect on the other. Cecilywas well aware of this something lacking in their common life; she hadwished, not seldom these last two years, to supply the want, but foundherself unable, and grew conscious that her aunt gave all it was in herpower to bestow. For this very reason, she found it impossible to utterherself in the present juncture as she could have done to a mother--asshe could have done to Miriam; impossible, likewise, to insist on herheart's urgent desire, though she knew not how she should forbear it. To refuse compliance would have been something more than failure indutifulness; she would have felt it as harshness, and perhapsinjustice, to one with whom she involuntarily stood on terms ofceremony. 

"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 writeand to see him are the same thing. Surely you can forget yourself for amoment, 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, Iwill myself write a line to be given to Mr. Elgar when he calls. Ofcourse, you shall see what I write. "

Cecily turned away, and stood in struggle with herself. She had notforeseen a conflict of this kind. Surprise, and probably vexation, shewas prepared for; irony, argument, she was quite ready to face; but ithad not entered her mind that Mrs. Lessingham would invoke authority tooppose her. Such a step was alien to all the habits of theirintercourse, to the spirit of her education. She had deemed herself awoman, and free; what else could result from Mrs. Lessingham's methodof training and developing her? This disillusion gave a shock to herself-respect; she suffered from a sense of shame; with difficulty shesubdued resentment and impulses yet more rebellious. It was ignoble todebate in this way concerning that of which she could not yet speakformally with her own mind; to contend like an insubordinateschool-girl, when the point at issue was the dearest interest of herwomanhood. 

"I think, aunt, " she said, in a changed voice, speaking as though heropinion had been consulted in the ordinary way, "it will be better foryou to sec 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 hisrequest. You will tell him, if you please, just what has passed betweenus. If that does not seem consistent with your duty, or dignity, then Ihad rather you wrote. "

"Neither my duty nor my dignity is likely to suffer, Cecily, " repliedher aunt, with an ironical smile. "Mr. Elgar shall know the simplestate of the case. And I will forthwith write to Mr. Mallard. "

"Thank you. "

There was no further talk between them. Mrs. Lessingham sat down towrite. With the note-paper before her, and the pen in hand, she was along time before she began; she propped her forehead, and seemed lostin reflection. Cecily, who stood by the window, glanced towards herseveral times, and in the end went to her own room. 

Mrs. Lessingham's letter was not yet finished when a servant announcedElgar's arrival. He was at once admitted. On seeing who was to receivehim, he made an instant's pause before coming forward; there was merelya bow on both sides. 

Elgar knew well enough in what mood this lady was about to conversewith him. He did not like her, and partly, no doubt, because he haddiscerned her estimate of his character, his faculties. That she alonewas in the room gave him no surprise, though it irritated him andinflamed his impatience. He would have had her speak immediately and tothe 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 beenpossible, 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 certainof her sympathies. But those very sympathies enabled her to judge himwith singular accuracy, aided as she was by an outline knowledge of hispast. Her genuine affection for Cecily made her, now that the peril haddeclared itself, his strenuous adversary. For Cecily to marry ReubenElgar would be a catastrophe, nothing less. She was profoundlyconvinced of this, and the best elements of her nature came out in theresistance she was determined to make. 

A less worthy ground of vexation against Elgar might probably beattributed to her. Skilful in judging men, she had not the same insightwhere her own sex was concerned, and in the case of Cecily she wasmisled, or rather misled herself, with curious persistence. Possiblysome slight, vague fear had already touched her when she favoured Mrs. Spence with the description of her "system;" not impossibly she feltthe need of reassuring herself by making clear her attitude to onelikely to appreciate it. But at that time she had not dreamt of such asudden downfall of her theoretic edifice; she believed in its strength, and did not doubt of her supreme influence with Cecily. It was not tobe wondered at that she felt annoyed with the man who, at a touch, madethe elaborate structure collapse like a bubble. She imagined Mrs. Spence's remarks when she came to hear of what had happened, her finesmile to her husband. The occurrence was mortifying. 

"Miss Doran has put into my hands a letter she received from you thismorning, Mr. Elgar. "

Reuben waited. Mrs. Lessingham had not invited him to sit down; shealso 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 imposedupon her somewhat trying?"

Elgar was startled. Just as little as Cecily had he pondered thedetails of the situation; mere frenzy possessed him, and he acted asdesire bade. Had Cecily been embarrassed? Was she annoyed at his notproceeding with formality? He had never thought of her in the light ofconventional obligations, and even now could not bring himself to do so. 

"Did Miss Doran wish me to be told that?" he asked, bluntly, inunconsidered phrase. 

"Miss Doran's wish is, that no further step shall be taken by either ofyou 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 totell you that this is the result of my advice. Her own intention was todo as you request in this letter. "

"What harm would there have been in that, Mrs. Lessingham? Why mayn't Isee 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. Whymay I not see her?"

"For reasons which would be plain enough to any but a very thoughtlessyoung gentleman. I can say no more. "

Her caustic tone was not agreeable. Elgar winced under it, and had muchado 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 thesituation, and with a grinding of his teeth kept down the horrible painhe suffered. His only comfort was that Mallard would assuredly comepost-haste; he would arrive by to-morrow evening. But two days of thismisery! Mrs. Lessingham was gratified with his look as he departed; shehad supplied him with abundant matter for speculation, yet hadfulfilled her promise to Cecily. 

She finished her letter, then went to Cecily's room. The girl satunoccupied, and listened without replying. That day she took her mealsin private, scarcely pretending to eat. Her face kept its flush, andher hands remained feverishly hot. Till late at night she sat in thesame chair, now and then opening a book, but unable to read; she spokeonly 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 ancientsarcophagus 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 himwrite himself a miserable sinner; what he deemed himself in life, whatperchance his friends and neighbours deemed him, why not declare itupon the marble when he rested from all his virtues?

"Here lie I, Ross Mallard; who can say no good of myself, yet have aslittle 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 ona 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 atpresent. 

The quiet of the dim sanctuary was helpful to such self-communing. Herelished being alone again, and after an hour's brooding had recoveredat all events a decent balance of thought, a respite from madness inmelancholy. 

But he could not employ himself, could not even seek the relief ofbodily exertion; his mind grew sluggish, and threw a lassitude upon hislimbs. 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 withadjurations and sarcasms; body and soul were oppressed with uttermostfatigue, and for a time must lie torpid. Fortunately he was sure ofsleep to-night; the bell of the cathedral might clang its worst, andstill not rob him of the just oblivion. 

The next day he strayed into the hills, and there in solitude faced theenemy in his heart, bidding misery do its worst. In imagination hefollowed Reuben Elgar to Naples, saw him speed to Villa Sannazaro, where as likely as not he would meet Cecily. Mallard had no tangibleevidence of its being Reuben's desire to see Cecily, but he was nonethe less convinced that for no other reason had his companion setforth. And jealousy tormented him sorely. It was his first experienceof this cruellest passion: what hitherto had been only a name to him, and of ignoble sound, became a disease clutching at his vitals. Ittaught him fierceness, injustice, base suspicion, brutal conjecture; ittaught him that of which all these are constituents--hatred. 

But it did not constrain him to any unworthy action. The temptationthat passed through his mind when he looked from the balcony on thecarriage that was to convey Elgar, did not return--or only as a bitterdesire, impossible of realization. Distant from Naples he must remain, awaiting whatsoever might happen. 

Ah, bright, gentle, sweet-faced Cecily! Inconceivable to her thissuffering that lay upon her friend. How it would pain her if she knewof 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 becomforted!

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 gruffaffection, removal from the life to which she was accustomed, loneliness, his uncertain humours, his dubious reputation. How oftenmost he picture these results, and convince himself of theimpossibility of anything of the kind?

He knew her better than did Mrs. Lessingham; oh, far better! He haddetected in her deep eyes the sleeping passion, some day to awake withsuddenness and make the whole world new to her. He knew how far fromimpossible it was that Reuben Elgar should be the prince to break hercharmed slumber. There was the likeness and the unlikeness; common toboth that temperament of enthusiasm. On the one hand, Cecily with herunsullied maidenhood; and on the other, Elgar with his recklessexperiences--contrasts which so commonly have a mutual attraction. There was the singularity of their meeting after years, and seeing eachother in such a new light; the interest, the curiosity inevitablyresulting. What likelihood that any distrust would mingle with Cecily'swarmth of feeling, were that feeling once excited? He knew her too well. 

How Mrs. Lessingham regarded Elgar he did not know. He had noconfidence in that lady's discretion; he thought it not improbable thatshe would speak of Reuben to Cecily in the very way she should not, making him an impressive figure. Then again, what part was Mrs. Baskelikely to have in such a situation? Could she be relied upon to represent her brother unfavourably, with the right colour ofunfavourableness? Or was it not rather to be feared that the thought ofCecily's influence might tempt her to encourage what otherwise she musthave condemned? He retraced in memory that curious dialogue he had heldwith Miriam on the drive back from Baiae; could he gather from it anyhints of her probable behaviour?. .. . 

By a sudden revulsion of mind, Mallard became aware that in the longfit of brooding just gone by he had not been occupied with Cecily atall. Busying his thoughts with Mrs. Baske, he had slipped into a trainof meditation already begun on the evening in question, after the drivewith her. What was Mrs. Baske's true history? How had she come to marrythe man of whom Elgar's phrases had produced such a hateful image? Whatwas the state, in very deed, of her mind at present? What awaited herin the future?

It was curious that Mrs. Baske's face was much more recoverable by hismind's eye than Cecily's. In fact, to see Miriam cost him no effort atall; equally at will, he heard the sound of her voice. There were timeswhen Cecily, her look and utterance, visited him very clearly; but thiswas when he did not wish to be reminded of her. If he endeavoured tomake her present, as a rule the picturing faculty was irresponsive. 

Welcome reverie! If only he could continue to busy himself with idlespeculation concerning the strange young Puritan, and so find relieffrom the anguish that beset him. Suppose now, he set himself to imagineMiriam in unlikely situations. What if she somehow fell into poverty, was made absolutely dependent on her own efforts? Suppose she sufferedcruelly what so many women have to suffer--toil, oppression, solitude;what would she become? Not, he suspected, a meek martyr; anything butthat, Miriam Baske. And how magnificent to see her flash out intorevolt 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 herloving obstacle. Presumably she had never loved; her husband was out ofthe question. Would she pass her life without that experience? Onething 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 bya strong and somewhat rude fellow, a despiser of conventionalities, without religion, a man of brains and blood; one whose look couldoverwhelm her with tumultuous scorn, and whose hand, if need be, couldcrush her life out at a blow. Why not, however, a highly polishedgentleman, critical, keen of speech, deeply read, brilliant inconversation, at once man of the world and scholar? Might not that typehave power over her? In a degree, but not so decidedly as theintellectual brute. 

Pshaw! what brain-sickness was this! What was he fallen to! Yet it didwhat nothing else would, amused him for a few minutes in his pain. Herecurred 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 wouldin reality settle to some kind of work was a different question; but ofcourse he would come back, if it were only to say that he had kept hispromise, but found he must set off again to some place or other. Mallard dreaded his coming. News of some kind he would bring, andMallard's need was of silence. If he indeed remained here, the oldirritation would revive and go on from day to day. Impossible that theyshould live together long. 

It was pretty certain by what train he would journey from Naples toSalerno; easy, therefore, to calculate the probable hour of his arrivalat Amalfi. When that hour drew near, Mallard set out to walk a shortdistance along the road, to meet him. Unlike the Sorrento side of thepromontory, the mountains here rise suddenly and boldly out of the sea, towering to craggy eminences, moulded and cleft into infinite varietyof slope and precipice, bastion and gorge. Cut upon the declivity, often at vast sheer height above the beach, the road follows thecurving of the hills. Now and then it makes a deep loop inland, on thesides of an impassable chasm; and set in each of these recesses is alittle town, white-gleaming amid its orchard verdure, with quaint andmany-coloured campanile, with the semblance of a remote time. Far up onthe heights are other gleaming specks, villages which seem utterlybeyond 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 hecould see the white road-track miles away, and he strained his eyes inobserving it. Twice or thrice he was deceived; a carriage came towardshim, and with agitation he waited to see its occupants, only to bedisappointed by strange faces. 

There are few things more pathetic than persistency in hope due toignorance of something that has befallen beyond our ken. It is one ofthose instances of the irony inherent in human fate which move at onceto tears and bitter laughter; the waste of emotion, the involuntaryfolly, the cruel deception caused by limit of faculties--how theyconcentrate 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 atthe hotel. He got as far as the Capo d' Orso, the headland half-waybetween Amalfi and Salerno, and there sat down by the wayside to rest. From this point Salerno was first visible, in the far distance, betweenthe sea and the purple Apennines. 

Either Elgar was not coming, or he had lingered long between the twoportions of his journey. 

Mallard turned back; if the carriage came, it would overtake him. Heplodded slowly, the evening falling around him in still loveliness, fragrance from the groves of orange and lemon spread on every motion ofthe air. 

And if he did not come? That must have some strange meaning. In anycase, 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, forwhatever reason, did not even seek to justify or excuse himself, therecame upon Mallard a strong mood of scorn, which for some hours enabledhim to act as though all his anxiety were at an end. He set himself apiece of work; a flash of the familiar energy traversed his mind. Hebelieved that at length his degradation was over, and that, come whatmight, 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 everystruggle he had speedily overcome, and found in work the one unfailingresource. If he were robbed of this, what stay had life for himhenceforth? He could not try to persuade himself that his sufferingwould pass, sooner or later, and time grant him convalescence; theblackness ahead was too profound. He fell again into torpor, and letthe days go as they would; he cared not. 

But this morning brought him a letter. At the first glance he wassurprised 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 afteryour departure from Naples, but I think you will agree with me that Ihave no choice but to write of something that has this morning come tomy knowledge. You have no taste for roundabout phrases, so I will sayat once in plain words that Cecily and Mr. Elgar have somehow contrivedto fall in love with each other--or to imagine that they have done so, which, as regards results, unfortunately amounts to the same thing. Icannot learn by what process it came about, but I am assured by Cecily, in words of becoming vagueness, that they plighted troth, or some thingof the kind, yesterday at Pompeii. There was a party of four: Mr. AndMrs. Bradshaw, Cecily, and Mrs. Baske. At Pompeii they wereunexpectedly (so I am told) joined by Mr. Elgar--notwithstanding thathe had taken leave of us on Saturday, with the information that he wasabout to return to you at Amalfi, and there devote himself to literarywork of some indefinite kind. Perhaps you have in the meantime heardfrom him. This morning Cecily received a letter, in which he madeperemptory request for an inter view; she showed this to me. My dutywas plain. I declared the interview impossible, and Cecily gave way oncondition that I saw Mr. Elgar, told him why she herself did notappear, and forthwith wrote to you. Our young gentleman wasdisconcerted when he found that his visit was to be wasted on myuninteresting 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 poorchild is in a sad state, much disposed, I fear, to regard me as herruthless enemy, and like to fall ill if she be kept long in idlesuspense. Do you think it worth while to come to Naples? It is veryannoying that your time should be wasted by foolish children. I hadgiven Cecily credit for more sense. For my own part, I cannot thinkwith patience of her marrying Mr. Elgar; or rather, I cannot think ofit without dread. We must save her from becoming wise through bittersorrow, if it can in any way b" managed. I hope and trust that nothingmay happen to prevent your receiving this letter to-morrow, for I amvery 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 goto Casa Rolandi, but took a room in one of the musty hotels whichoverlook the port. When he felt sure that Mrs. Gluck's guests must havedined, 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 astate of nervousness. Cecily keeps her room, and looks ill; I haveseveral times been on the point of sending for the doctor, though itseemed absurd. "

Mallard seated himself without invitation; indeed, he had a difficultyin standing. 

"Hasn't she been out to-day?" he asked, in a voice which might havesignified selfish indifference. 

"Nor yesterday. Mrs. Spence was here this morning, but Cecily would notsee her. I made excuses, and of course said nothing of what was goingon. I asked the child if she would like to see Mrs. Baske, but sherefused. "

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 Ishould 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 theyhave 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 atPompeii on Monday. But, between ourselves, Mr. Mallard, I can't helpsuspecting that he had learnt from his sister the particulars of theexcursion. "

"You think it not impossible that Mrs. Baske connived at their meetingin 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, " saidMallard, bluntly. "But I didn't think Mrs. Baske was likely to aid herbrother 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 hashappened, and there's an end of it. The question is, what ought to bedone 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 bywhich 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 soonas conveniently may be?"

"That is another matter. They will have no consent of mine to anythingof the kind. "

"You relieve me. "

Mallard looked at her frowningly. 

"Miss Doran, " he continued, "will not marry Elgar with my consent untilshe 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 eachother--of course, under reason able restrictions. You cannot makeyourself a duenna of melodrama, Mrs. Lessingham. "

"Scarcely. But I think our stay at Naples may reasonably beshortened--unless, of course, Mr. Elgar leaves. "

"You take it for granted, I see, that Miss Doran will be guided by ourjudgment, " said Mallard, after musing on the last remark. 

"I have no fear of that, " replied Mrs. Lessingham with confidence, "ifit is made to appear only a question of postponement. This will be atrifle compared with my task of yesterday morning. You can scarcelyimagine how astonished she was at the first hint of opposition. "

"I can imagine it very well, " said the other, in his throat. "What elsecould be expected after--" He checked himself on the point of sayingsomething that would have revealed his opinion of Mrs. Lessingham's"system"--his opinion accentuated by unreasoning bitterness. "From allwe 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 toMr. Elgar's visits. "

"That is all I would say at present. I shall see Elgar tonight. He isstill 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. " Hewrote it on a leaf in his pocket-book. "I will see you again in a dayor 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 ofan hour since. The signor seemed not quite well, unhappily--saidOlimpia, the domestic, in her chopped Neapolitan. Mallard vouchsafed noreply. 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 lookeddirectly at his visitor, who--as if all the pain of the interview wereon 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 atall 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 mybehaviour to you. For days--since last Saturday--I have been littlebetter 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 hadrepeated this so often to himself, by way of palliation, that he hadcome to think it true. "It was not my fault that I couldn't when thatvisit was over. It happened that I saw Miss Doran alone--sat talkingwith her till her aunt returned. "

Mrs. Lessingham had made no mention of this little matter. Hearing ofit, Mallard ejaculated mentally, "Idiot!"

"It was all over with me. I broke faith with you--as I should have donewith any man; as I should have done if the lives of a hundred peoplehad depended on my coming. I didn't write, because I preferred not towrite 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 risksomething, 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 tonewith me. If a man falls in love, he thinks of nothing but how to gainhis end; I should think even you can take that for granted. My brokenpromise is a trifle in view of what caused it. "

"Again, in _your_ view. In mine it is by no means a trifle. Itdistinguishes you from honourable men, that's all; a point of somemoment, I should think, when your character is expressly underdiscussion. "

"You mean, of course, that I am not worthy of Cecily. I can't grant anysuch conclusion. "

"Let us leave that aside for the present, " said Mallard. "Will you tellme how it came to pass that you met Miss Doran and her companions atPompeii?"

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 herthat morning, when I was slinking about, and I compelled her to give meher help--sorely against her will. Don't think ill of her for it, Mallard. I frightened he! by my violent manner. I haven't seen hersince; she can't know what the result has been. None of them at Pompeiisuspected--only a moment of privacy; there's no need to say any moreabout it. "

Mallard mused over this revelation. He felt inclined to scorn Elgar formaking it. It affected him curiously, and at once took a place amonghis 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 tobe trusted, I know. "

"It's very unlikely that I should think of touching on the matter toyour sister. I shall make no promise. "

"Have you seen Cecily herself?" Elgar asked, leaving the point aside inhis eagerness to come to what concerned him more deeply. 

"No. "

"I have waited for your permission to visit her. Do you mean to refuseit?"

"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, youremember. Forgive me for treating you so ill. "

He held out his band cordially, and Mallard could not refuse it, thoughhe would rather have thrust his fingers among red coals than feel thathot pressure. 

"I believe I can be grateful, " pursued Elgar, in a voice that quiveredwith transport. "I will do my best to prove it. "

"Let us speak of things more to the point. What result do you foreseeof 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 herselfalone. "

"What delay do you think necessary?"

"Until she is of age, and her own mistress, " replied Mallard, withquiet decision. 

"Impossible! What need is there to wait all that time?"

"Why, there is this need, Elgar, " returned the other, more vigorouslythan he had yet spoken. "There is need that you should prove to thosewho desire Miss Doran's welfare that you are something more than ayoung fellow fresh from a life of waste and idleness and everythingthat demonstrates or tends to untrustworthiness. It seems to me that acouple of years or so is not an over-long time for this, all thingsconsidered. "

Elgar kept silent. 

"You would have seen nothing objectionable in immediate marriage?" saidMallard. 

"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 myhearing; but I find you in most things a man of your time. And itdoesn't seem to me that Mrs. Lessingham is exactly conventional in herviews. "

"You imagine yourself worthy of such a wife at present?"

"Plainly, I do. It would be the merest hypocrisy if I said anythingelse. If Cecily loves me, my love for her is at least as strong. If weare 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 mylanguage. In what am I inferior as a man to Cecily as a woman? Wouldyou have me snivel, and talk about my impurity and her angelicqualities? You know that you would despise me if I did--or any otherman who used the same empty old phrases. "

"I grant you that, " replied Mallard, deliberately. "I believe I am nomore superstitious with regard to these questions than you are, and Iwant to hear no cant. Let us take it on more open ground. Were CecilyDoran my daughter, I would resist her marrying you to the utmost of mypower--not simply because you have lived laxly, but because of myconviction 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 yourstability, 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 beingin the place of a parent to Cecily, am I doing my duty or not ininsisting that she shall not marry you hastily, that even in her owndespite she shall have time to study you and herself, that she shallonly take the irrevocable step when she clearly knows that it is doneon her own responsibility? You may urge what you like; I am not sofoolish as to suppose you capable of consideration for others in yourpresent state of mind. I, however, shall defend myself from the girl'sreproaches in after-years. There will be no marriage until she istwenty-one. "

A silence of some duration followed. Elgar sat with bent head, twistinghis moustaches. At length:

"I believe you are right, Mallard. Not in your judgment of me, but inyour 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 tobring myself to patience. "

Mallard sat unmoving. His legs were crossed, and he held his soft felthat crushed together in both his hands. Elgar glanced at him once ortwice, expecting him to speak, but the other was mute. 

"Your judgment of me, " Elgar resumed, "is harsh and unfounded. I don'tknow how you have formed it. You know nothing of what it means to me tolove such a girl as Cecily. Here I have found my rest. It supplies mewith no new qualities, but it strengthens those I have. You picture mebeing 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 yourprophecies. "

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 thoseseemed to me the probabilities. "

"Thank you for the small mercy, at all events, " said Elgar, with alaugh. 

"What do you intend to do?" Mallard proceeded to ask, changing hisposition. 

"I can make no plans yet. I have pretended to only too often. You haveno objection to my remaining here?"

"You must take your own course--with the understanding to which we havecome. "

"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 makeyourself 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. Mallardlingered, as though not sure that he had fulfilled his mission. In theend he went away abruptly. 

CHAPTER XII

ON THE HEIGHTS

In vain, at each meal, did Clifford Marsh await Cecily's appearance. Atrifling indisposition kept her to her room, was Mrs. Lessingham'sreply to sympathetic inquiries. Mr. And Mrs. Bradshaw, who wereseriously making their preparations for journeying northward, heldprivate talk concerning the young lady, and felt they would like tostay a week longer, just to see if their suspicions would be confirmed. Mrs. Denyer found it difficult to assume the becoming air when she putcivil questions to Mrs. Lessingham, for she was now assured that toMiss Doran was attributable the alarming state of things betweenClifford and Madeline; Marsh would never have been so intractable butfor this new element in the situation. Madeline herself on the otherhand, was a model of magnanimity; in Clifford's very hearing, she spokeof Cecily with tender concern, and then walked past her recreantadmirer with her fair head in a pose of conscious grace. 

Even Mr. Musselwhite, at the close of the second day, grew aware thatthe table lacked one of its ornaments. It was his habit now--a newhabit came as a blessing of Providence to Mr. Musselwhite--on passinginto 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 theless-known works of Silvio Pellico, and as Mr. Musselwhite approached, she looked up with an air of absorption. He was wont to beginconversation with the remark, flatteringly toned, "Reading Italian asusual, Miss Denyer?" but this evening a new subject had been suggestedto 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 shecould spare no more time. Mr. Musselwhite, dimly feeling that thistopic demanded no further treatment, racked his brains for somethingelse to say. He was far towards Lincolnshire when a rustle of the pagesunder Barbara's finger gave him a happy inspiration. 

"I don't know whether you would care to see English papers now andthen, Miss Denyer? I always have quite a number. The _Field_, forinstance, and--"

"You are very kind, I don't read much English, but I shall be glad tosee anything you like to bring me. "

Mrs. Denyer was not wholly without consolation in her troubles aboutClifford Marsh. 

On the following morning, as she and her daughters were going out, theycame face to face with a gentleman who was announcing to the servanthis wish to see Miss Doran. Naturally they all glanced at him. Would hebe admitted? With much presence of mind, Madeline exclaimed, --

"Oh dear, mamma! I have forgotten that letter. Please wait for me; Iwon't be a minute. "

And she disappeared, the others moving out on to the staircase. WhenMadeline 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, ahush after the music of low, impassioned voices. It was broken, yetscarcely broken, by the sound of lips touching lips--touching to partsweetly, 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 mydisadvantage--things that I cannot contradict if you ask me. "

"I care for nothing, Reuben. I am yours for ever and ever, hear what Imay, happen what may!"

"Don't call me by my hateful name, dearest. We will find some other, ifI 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 havehad the vulgarest Anglo-Saxon name than this Jewish one. Happily, Ineed have no fear in telling you that; _you_ are no Puritan. "

"As little as a girl could be. " She laughed in her happiness. "Have youthe 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 themeeting 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, andyou stood before me. I could almost believe that my longing had powerto 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 littledifficult, but he couldn't be harsh with me. I think it might do goodif he came to see me--in a day or two. "

"On what terms have you always been with him? How does he behave toyou?"

"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 weare excellent friends--or have been. Such a delightful day as we had atBaiae! 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 atPozzuoli, 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 thinkdifferently. 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 allbut 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 itshould be. "

She hid it against him. 

"But you don't love me for my face only? You will see others who havemore 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 himunderstand you. Let me speak to him for you. "

"Cecily. "

"Dearest?"

"Suppose he doesn't wish to understand me. Have you never thought, whenhe has pretended to treat you as a child, that there might be somereason 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 inearnest?"

Why could he not command his tongue? Why have suggested this to herimagination? 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 defendinghimself; he wished to imply that Mallard had a powerful reason forassailing his character. He had been convinced since last night thatMallard was embittered by jealousy, and he half credited the fear lestjealousy might urge to the use of any weapons against him; he wastempted by the satisfaction of putting Cecily on her guard againstinterested motives. But he should not have troubled her soul with suchsuspicions. He read on her face how she was pained, and her next wordproved his folly. 

"If you are right, I can never speak to him as I might have done. Italters 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; yetit will prevent me from looking honestly in his face, as I always havedone. "

"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 thatI love you. Seem to distrust me, that I may say it over and over; makeme believe you really doubt if I can be constant, just that I may hearwhat my heart says in its distress, and repeat it all to you. Be alittle unkind to me, that I may show how your unkindness would woundme, and may entreat you back into your own true self. You can donothing, say nothing, but I will make it afford new proofs of hew Ilove you. "

"I had rather you made yourself less dear to me. The time will be solong. How can I live through it?"

"Will it not help you a little to help me? To know that you are unhappywould make it so much longer to me, my love. "

"It will be hell to live away from you! I cannot make myself anotherman. 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 spentat a distance from you will be full of hideous misgivings. Rememberthat every one will be doing the utmost to part us. "

"Let them do the utmost twice over! You must have faith in me. Lookinto my eyes. Is there no assurance, no strength for you? Do they looktoo happy? That is because you are still here; time enough for sadnesswhen you are gone. Oh, you think too humbly of yourself! Having lovedyou, 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 canbear. "

As the Denyers were coming home, it surprised them to pass, at a littledistance from the house, Clifford Marsh in conversation with thegentleman who had called upon Miss Doran. Madeline, exercising her newprivilege of perfect _sang-froid_, took an opportunity not long afterto 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 askedme 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 whichtheir eyes had become accustomed; that supremacy of simple charm whichsome of them had recognized as English girlhood at its best, had givenplace to something less intelligible, less instant in itsattractiveness. Perhaps the climate of Naples was proving not wellsuited to her. 

After dinner, she and Mrs. Lessingham at once went to their privateroom. Cecily sat down to write a letter. When she moved, as if theletter 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 withoutoccupation?"

"I don't for a moment think he purposes that. "

"And yet it will certainly be the ease as long as he remains here--orwherever else we happen to be living. "

Mrs. Lessingham allowed her to ponder this for a few minutes. Then sheresumed the train of thought. 

"Have you had leisure yet to ask yourself, my dear, what use you willmake 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 thinkfor yourself to a greater extent than girls whose education has beenmore ordinary; you cannot take it ill if I remind you now of certainremarks I have made on Mr. Elgar lately, and remind you also that I amnot alone in my view of him. Don't fear that I shall say anythingunkind; but if you feel equal to a woman's responsibilities, you mustsurely exercise a woman's good sense. Let us say nothing more than thatMr. Elgar has fallen into habits of excessive indolence; doesn't itseem to you that you might help him out of hem?"

"I think he may not need help as you understand it, now. "

"My dear, he needs it perhaps five hundred times more than he didbefore. If you decline to believe me, I shall be only too muchjustified by your experience hereafter. "

"What would you have me do?"

"What must very soon occur to your own excellent wits, Cecily--for Iwon't give up all my pride in you. Mr. Elgar should, of course, go backto England, and do something that becomes him; he must decide what. Lethim have a few days with us in Capri; then go, and so far recommendhimself in our eyes. No one can make him see that this is what hisdignity--if nothing else--demands, except yourself. Think of it, dear. "

Cecily did think of it, long and anxiously. Thanks to Elgar, hermeditations had a dark background such as her own fancy would neverhave supplied. 

He knew not how sadly the image of him had been blurred in Cecily'smind, the man who lay that night in his room overlooking the port. Whether such ignorance were for his aid or his disadvantage, who shallventure to say?

To a certain point, we may follow with philosophic curiosity, step bystep, the progress of mental anguish, but when that point is passed, analysis loses its interest; the vocabulary of pain has exhausteditself, the phenomena already noted do but repeat themselves with morerapidity, with more intensity--detail is lost in the mere sense ofthroes. Perchance the mind is capable of suffering worse than thefiercest pangs of hopeless love combined with jealousy; one would notpretend to put a limit to the possibilities of human woe; but forMallard, at all events this night did the black flood of misery reachhigh-water mark. 

What joy in the world that does not represent a counter-balance ofsorrow? What blessedness poured upon one head but some other musttherefore lie down under malediction? We know that with the uttermostof happiness there is wont to come a sudden blending of troubloushumour. May it not be that the soul has conceived a subtle sympathywith that hapless one but for whose sacrifice its own elation wereimpossible?

CHAPTER XIII

ECHO AND PRELUDE

At Villa Sannazaro, the posture of affairs was already understood. WhenEleanor Spence, casually calling at the _pension_, found that Cecilywas unable to receive visitors, she at the same time learnt from Mrs. Lessingham to what this seclusion was due. The ladies had a singularlittle conversation, for Eleanor was inwardly so amused at this speedypractical comment on Mrs. Lessingham's utterances of the other day, that with difficulty she kept her countenance; while Mrs. Lessinghamherself, impelled to make the admission without delay, that she mightexhibit a philosophic acceptance of fact, had much ado to hide herchagrin beneath the show of half-cynical frankness that became a womanof the world. Eleanor--passably roguish within the limits of becomingmirth--acted the scene to her husband, who laughed shamelessly. Thencame explanations between Eleanor and Miriam. 

The following day passed without news, but on the morning after, Miriamhad a letter from Cecily; not a long letter, nor very effusive, buttelling all that was to be told. And it ended with a promise thatCecily would come to the villa that afternoon. This was communicated toEleanor. 

"Where's Mallard, I wonder?" said Spence, when his wife came to talk tohim. "Not, I suspect, at the old quarters, It would be like him to gooff somewhere without a word. Confound that fellow Elgar!"

"I'm half disposed to think that it serves Mr. Mallard right, " wasEleanor'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 hispainting. "

"If I thought so, my liking for him would diminish. I hope he istearing 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, thensaw Eleanor. Spence purposely kept away from home. 

Dante lay unread, as well as the other books which Eleanor placedinsidiously in her cousin's room. Letters lay unanswered--among themseveral relating to the proposed new chapel at Bartles. How did Miriamemploy 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 ofManchester. It stands a few yards back from the road. On one side, itis 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 littleuglier than itself. Its outlook, over the highway, is on to a tract ofcountry just being broken up by builders, beyond which a conglomerateof factories, with chimneys ever belching heavy fumes, closes the view;its rear windows regard a scrubby meadow, grazed generally bybroken-down horses, with again a limitary prospect of vast mills. 

Imagine a Sunday in this house. Half an hour later than on profanedays, Mrs. Elgar descends the stairs. She is a lady of middle age, slight, not ungraceful, handsome; the look of pain about her foreheadis partly habitual, but the consciousness of Sunday intensifies it. Shemoves without a sound. Entering the breakfast-room, she finds there twochildren, a girl and a boy, both attired in new-seeming garments whichare obviously stiff and uncomfortable. The little girl sits on anuneasy chair, her white-stockinged legs dangling, on her lap a largecopy 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. Thetable is very white, very cold, very uninviting. 

Ten minutes later appears the master of the house, shaven, also ingarments that appear now and uncomfortable, glancing hither and thitherwith preoccupied eyes. There is some talk in a low voice between thelittle girl and her mother; then the family seat themselves at tablesilently. Mr. Elgar turns a displeased look on the boy, and sayssomething in a harsh voice which causes the youngster to straightenhimself, curl his lip precociously, and thereafter preserve acountenance of rebellion subdued by fear. His father eats very little, speaks scarcely at all, but thinks, thinks-and most assuredly not ofsacred subjects. 

Breakfast over, there follows an hour of indescribable dreariness, until the neighbourhood begins to sound with the clanging of religiousbells. Mr. Elgar has withdrawn to a little room of his own, whereperhaps, he gives himself up to meditation on the duties of a Christianparent, though his incredulous son has ere now had a glimpse at thedoor, and observed him in the attitude of letter-writing. Mrs. Elgarmoves about silently, the pain on her brow deepening as chapel-timeapproaches. At length the boy and girl go upstairs to be "got ready, "which means that they indue other garments yet more uncomfortable thanthose they already wear. This process over, they descend again to thebreakfast-room, and again sit there, waiting for the dread moment ofdeparture. The boy is more rebellious than usual; he presently drumswith his feet, and even begins to whistle, very low, a popular air. Hissister looks at him, first with astonished reproach, then in dread. 

_Satis superque_. Again and again Miriam revived these images of thepast. And the more she thought of herself as a child, the less was shepleased with what her memory presented. How many instances came back toher of hypocrisy before her father or mother, hypocrisy which, strangely enough, she at the time believed a merit, though perfectlyaware of her own insincerity! How many a time had she suffered from therestraints imposed upon her, and then secretly allowed herselfindulgences, and then again persuaded herself that by severe attentionto formalities she blotted out her sin!

But the worst was when Cecily Doran came to live in the house. Cecilywas careless in religion, had been subjected to no proper severity, hadnot been taught to probe her con science. At once Miriam assumed anattitude of spiritual pride--the beginning of an evil which was tostrengthen its hold upon her through years. She would be an example tothe poor little heathen; she talked with her unctuously; she excitedherself, began to find a pleasure in asceticism, and drew thesusceptible girl into the same way. They would privately appointperiods of fasting, and at several successive meals irritate theirhunger by taking only one or two morsels; when faintness came uponthem, they gloried in the misery. 

And from that stage of youth survived memories far more painful thanthose of childhood. Miriam shut her mind against them. 

Her marriage came about in the simplest way; nothing easier tounderstand, granted these circumstances. The friends of the family werefew, and all people of the same religious sect, of the same commercialsphere. Miriam had never spoken with a young man whom she did not inher heart despise; the one or two who might possibly have been temptedto think of her as a desirable wife were repelled by her austerity. Shehad now a character to support; she had made herself known for severedevotion to the things of the spirit. In her poor little world shecould not submit to be less than pre-eminent, and only by the way ofreligion was pre-eminence to be assured. When the wealthy and piousmanufacturer sought her hand, she doubted for a while, but was in theend induced to consent by the reflection that not only would she befreer, but at the same time enjoy a greatly extended credit andinfluence. Her pride silenced every other voice. 

Religious hypocrisy is in our day a very rare thing; so little is to begained by it. To be sure, the vast majority of English people areconstantly guilty of hypocritical practices, but that, as a rule, ismere testimony to the rootedness of their orthodox faith. Mr. Elgar. Shutting himself up between breakfast and chapel to write businessletters--which he pre- or post-dated--was ignoble enough, but nottherefore a hypocrite. Had a fatal accident happened to one of hisfamily whilst he was thus employed, he would not have succeeded inpersuading his conscience that the sin and the calamity wereunconnected. His wife had never admitted a doubt of its being requiredby the immutable law of God that she should be sad and severe onSunday, that Reuben should be sternly punished for whistling on thatday, that little Miriam should be rewarded when she went through thelong services with unnatural stillness and demureness. Nor was Miriamherself a hypocrite when, mistress of Redbeck House, she began toestablish her reputation and authority throughout dissenting Bartles. 

Her instruction had been rigidly sectarian. Whatever she studied wasrepresented to her from the point of view of its relation toChristianity as her teachers understood it. The Christian faith wasalone of absolute significance; all else that the mind of man couldcontain was of more or less importance as more or less connected withthat single interest. To the time of her marriage, her outlook upon theworld was incredibly restricted. She had never read a book that wouldnot pass her mother's censorship; she had never seen a work of art; shehad never heard any but "sacred" music; she had never perused ajournal; she had never been to an entertainment--unless the name couldbe given to a magic-lantern exhibition of views in Palestine, or thelike. Those with whom she associated had gone through a similartraining, and knew as little of life. 

She had heard of "infidelity;" yes. Live as long as she might, shewould never forget one dreadful day when, in a quarrel with his mother, Reuben uttered words which signified hatred and rejection of all he hadbeen taught to hold divine Mrs. Elgar's pallid, speechless horror; thesevere chastisement inflicted on the lad by his father;--she couldnever look back on it all without sickness of heart. Thenceforth, herbrother and his wild ways embodied for her that awful thing, infidelity. At the age which Cecily Doran had now attained, Miriambelieved that there were only a few men living so unspeakably wicked asto repudiate Christianity; one or two of these, she had learnt from thepulpit, were "men of science, " a term which to this day fell on herears 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 supplyher with incentives to unworthy ambition. He was rich, and boasted ofit vulgarly; he was ignorant, and vaunted the fact, thanking Heaventhat for him the purity of religious conviction had never beenendangered by the learning that leads astray; he was proud ofpossessing a young and handsome wife, and for the first time evoked inher a personal vanity. Day by day was it--most needlessly--impressedupon 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 toset; 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 willscarcely bear dwelling upon, too repulsive, too heart-breaking; a fewwords of bitterness, of ruth, and there were an end of it. His deathwas like the removal of a foul burden that polluted her and graduallydragged her down. Nor was it long before she herself understood it inthis way, though dimly and uncertainly. She found herself looking onthings with eyes which somehow had a changed power of vision. Withremarkable abruptness, certain of her habits fell from her, and sheremembered them only with distaste, even with disgust. And one day shesaid to herself passionately that never would she wed again--never, never! She was experiencing for the first time in her life a form ofliberty. 

Not that her faith had received any shock. To her undeveloped mindevery tenet in which she had been instructed was still valid. This isthe point to note. Her creed was a habit of the intellect; she held itas she did the knowledge of the motions of the earth. She had neverreflected upon it, for in everything she heard or read thisintellectual basis was presupposed. With doctrinal differences herreasoning faculty was familiar, and with her to think of religion wasto 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. Shecame into frequent connection with her cousin Eleanor; she saw morethan hitherto of the Bradshaws' family life; she had businesstransactions; she read newspapers; she progressed slowly towards somepractical acquaintance with the world. 

Miriam knew the very moment when the thought of making great sacrificesto build a new chapel for Bartles had first entered her mind. One ofher girl friends had just married, and was come to live in theneighbourhood. The husband, Welland by name, was wealthier and of moresocial importance than Mr. Baske had been; it soon became evident thatMrs. Welland, who also aspired to prominence in religious life, wouldbe a formidable rival to the lady of Redbeck House. On the occasion ofsome local meeting, Miriam felt this danger keenly; she went home indark mood, and the outcome of her brooding was the resolve in question. 

She had not inherited all her husband's possessions; indeed, there fellto her something less than half his personal estate. For a time, thishad not concerned her; now she was beginning to think of itoccasionally with discontent, followed by reproach of conscience. Likereproach did she suffer for the jealousy and envy excited in her byMrs. Welland's arrival. A general uneasiness of mind was graduallyinduced, and the chapel-building project, with singular confusion ofmotives, represented to her at once a worldly ambition and a disciplinefor the soul. It was a long time before she spoke of it, and in theinterval she suffered more and more from a vague mental unrest. 

Letters were coming to her from Cecily. Less by what they containedthan by what they omitted, she knew that Cecily was undergoing a greatchange. Miriam put at length certain definite questions, and theanswers she received were unsatisfactory, alarming. The correspondencebecame 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 toconceive 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. Asceticimpulses returned, and by yielding to them she established a new causeof bodily weakness. And the more she suffered, the more intolerable toher grew the thought of resigning her local importance. Her pride, whenever irritated, showed itself in ways which exposed her to theridicule of envious acquaintances. At length Bartles was surprised withan announcement of what had so long been in her mind; a newspaperparagraph made known, as if with authority, the great and noble workMrs. Baske was about to undertake. For a day or two Miriam enjoyed theexcitement this produced--the inquiries, the felicitations, the reportsof gossip. She held her head more firmly than ever; she seemed of asudden to be quite re-established in health. 

Another day or two, and she was lying seriously ill--so ill that herdoctor summoned aid from Manchester. 

What a distance between those memories, even the latest of them, andthis room in Villa Sannazaro! Its foreign aspect, its brightness, itscomfort, the view from the windows, had from the first worked upon herwith subtle influences of which she was unconscious. By reason of herinexperience of life, it was impossible for Miriam to analyze her ownbeing, and note intelligently the modifications it underwent. Introspection meant to her nothing but debates held with conscience--atechnical conscience, made of religious precepts. Original reflection, independent of these precepts, was to her very simply a form of sin, aspecies of temptation for which she had been taught to prepare herself. With anxiety, she found herself slipping away from that firm groundwhence she was won't to judge all within and about her; more and moredifficult was it to keep in view that sole criterion in estimating thenovel impressions she received. To review the criterion itself wasstill beyond her power. She suffered from the conviction that trialsforeseen were proving too strong for her. Whenever her youth yielded tothe allurement of natural joys, there followed misery of penitence. Notthat Miriam did in truth deem it a sin to enjoy the sunshine and thebreath of the sea and the beauty of mountains (though such delightsmight become excessive, like any other, and so veil temptation), butshe felt that for one in her position of peril there could not be toostrict a watch kept upon the pleasures that were admitted. Hence shecould never forget herself in pleasure; her attitude must always bethat of one on guard. 

The name of Italy signified perilous enticement, and she was beginningto feel it. The people amid whom she lived were all but avowed scornersof her belief, and yet she was beginning to like their society. Everyletter she wrote to Bartles seemed to her despatched on a longerjourney than the one before; her paramount interests were fading, fading; she could not exert herself to think of a thousand matterswhich used to have the power to keep her active all day long. Thechapel-plans were hidden away; she durst not go to the place where theywould have met her eye. 

She suffered in her pride. On landing at Naples, she had imagined thather position among the Spences and their friends would not be greatlydifferent from that she had held at Bartles. They were not "religious"people; all the more must they respect her, feeling rebuked in herpresence. The chapel project would enhance her importance. How farotherwise had it proved! They pitied her, compassionated her lack ofknowledge, of opportunities. With the perception of this, there cameupon her another disillusion In classing the Spences with people whowere not "religious, " she had understood them as lax in the observanceof duties which at all events they recognized as such. By degrees shelearnt that they were very far from holding the same views as herselfconcerning religious obligation; they were anything butconscience-smitten in the face of her example. Was it, then, possiblethat persons who lived in a seemly manner could be sceptics, perhaps"infidels"? What of Cecily Doran? She had not dared to ask Cecily faceto face how far her disbelief went; the girl seemed to have no creedbut that of worldly delight. How had she killed her conscience in soshort a time? Obviously, her views were those of Mrs. Lessingham;probably those of Mr. Mallard. Were these people strange and dreadfulexceptions, or did they represent a whole world of which she had notsuspected the existence?

Yes, she was beginning to feel the allurement of Italy. Instead ofsitting turned away from her windows when musing, she often passed anhour with her eyes on the picture they framed, content to be idle, satisfied with form and colour, not thinking at all. Habits of personalidleness crept upon her; she seldom cared to walk, but found pleasurein the motion of a carriage, and lay back on the cushions, instead ofsitting quite upright as at first. She began to wish for music; thesound of Eleanor's piano would tempt her to make an excuse for goinginto the room, and then she would remain, listening. The abundantfruits of the season became a temptation to her palate; she liked tosee shops and stalls overflowing with the vineyard's delicious growth. 

She knew for the first time the seduction of books. From whatunutterable weariness had she been saved when she assented to Eleanor'sproposal and began to learn Italian! First there was the fear lest sheshould prove slow at acquiring, suffer yet another fall from herdignity; but this apprehension was soon removed. She had a brain, andcould use it; Eleanor's praise fell upon her ears delightfully. Thenthere was that little volume of English verse which Eleanor left on thetable; its name, "The Golden Treasury, " made her imagine it of areligious tone; she was undeceived in glancing through it. Poetry hadhitherto made no appeal to her; she did not care much for the littlebook. But one day Cecily caught it up in delight, and read to her forhalf an hour; she affected indifference, but had in reality learntsomething, and thereafter read for herself. 

The two large mirrors in her room had, oddly enough, no unimportantpart among the agencies working for her development. It was almostinevitable that, in moving about, she should frequently regard her ownfigure. From being something of an annoyance, this necessity at lengthwon attractiveness, till she gazed at herself far oftener than she needhave done. As for her face she believed it pas sable, perhaps rathermore than that; but the attire that had possessed distinction atBartles looked very plain, to say the least, in the light of her newexperience. 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 hadspent a day or two of alternate languor and irritableness, unable toattend to anything serious. Just now she had in her hand Cecily'sletter, the letter which told of what had happened. There was no reasonfor 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 ofall three. Afterwards they sat together, as usual, and Eleanor played. In one of the silences, Miriam turned to Spence and asked him if he hadseen 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 husbandcould reply. 

"I thought he might have spoken more freely to Edward. "

"Well, " answered Spence, "he is strongly of opinion that Reuben oughtto 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 herhimself?"

"Mallard isn't exactly the man for this delicate business, " saidSpence, smiling. 

Miriam glanced from him to Eleanor. She would have said no more, had itbeen in her power to keep silence; but an involuntary persistence, thesame in kind as that often manifested by questioning children--animpulsive feeling that the next query must elicit something which wouldsatisfy 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 husbandshowed that he left her to do so. 

"I understand. "

To which remark Eleanor, when Miriam was gone, attached theinterrogative, "I wonder whether she does?" The Spences did not feel itincumbent upon them to direct her in the matter; it were just as wellif she followed a mistaken clue. 

Two days later, Mrs. Lessingham and her niece, accompanied by ReubenElgar, departed for Capri. The day after that, Mr. And Mrs. Bradshaw invery deed said good-bye to Naples and travelled northwards. Theypurposed spending Christmas in Rome, and thence by quicker stages theywould return to the land of civilization. Spence went to the station tosee them off, and at lunch, after speaking of this and other things, hesaid to Miriam:

"Mallard wishes to see you. I told him I thought five o'clock thisafternoon would be a convenient time. "

Miriam assented, but not without betraying surprise and uneasiness. Subsequently she just mentioned to Eleanor that she would receive thevisitor in her own sitting-room. There, as five o'clock drew near, shewaited in painful agitation. What it was Mallard's purpose to say toher she could not with any degree of certainty conjecture. Had Reubentold him of the part she had played in connection with that eventfulday at Pompeii? What would be his tone? Did he come to ask forparticulars concerning her brother? Intend what he might, she dreadedthe interview. And yet--fact of which she made no secret toherself--she had rather he came than not. When it was a few minutespast five, and no foot had yet sounded in the corridor, all otherfeeling was lost in the misgiving that he might have changed his mind. Perhaps he had decided to write instead, and her heart sank at thethought. She felt an overpowering curiosity as to the way in which thisevent had affected the strange man. Reports were no satisfaction toher; she desired to see him and hear him speak. 

The footsteps at last! She trembled, went hot and cold, had a parchedthroat. Mallard entered, and she did not offer him her hand; perhaps hemight reject it. In consequence there was an absurdly formal bow onboth sides. 

"Please sit down, Mr. Mallard. "

She saw that he was looking at the "St. Cecilia, " but with whatcountenance her eyes could not determine. To her astonishment, he spokeof 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 didnot remove it until her temples throbbed and she cast down her eyes inhelpless abashment. 

"I have had a long letter from your brother, Mrs. Baske. It seems heposted it just before they left for Capri. I can only reply to it inone way, and it gives me so much pain to do so that I am driven to askyour help. He writes begging me to take another view of this matter, and permit them to be married before very long. The letter ispowerfully written; few men could plead their cause with such eloquenceand force. But it cannot alter my determination. I must reply brieflyand brutally. What I wish to ask you is, whether with sincerity you canurge my arguments upon your brother, and give me this assistance in themost 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 anumber of voices may possibly prevail, though one or two areineffectual. But--if you will forgive me my direct words--your voiceis, 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 withdifficulty she removed her eyes from it. Nor could she make reply tohim, 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 Ican prevent it, take place till Miss Doran is of age, are surely simpleand convincing enough; I can't suppose that it is necessary to insistupon 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 youotherwise would. That was all. "

"I am very willing to help you, " she replied, with carefully courteousvoice. 

"After all, I had rather we didn't put it in that way, " Mallardresumed, with a curious doggedness, as if her tone were distasteful tohim. "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 ofthis. " She paused; but, before Mallard had shown an intention to speak, added abruptly, "I should have thought that Miss Doran might have beentrusted to understand and respect your wishes. "

"Miss Doran knows my wishes, " he answered drily, "but I haven'tinsisted 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 beforeher my strongest arguments against her marrying Mr. Elgar. And if Idon't do that, it seems to me that it is better to let her know mywishes through Mrs. Lessingham. As you say, it is to be hoped she willunderstand and respect them. "

He rose from his chair. For some reason, Miriam could not utter thewords that one part of her prompted. She wished to assure him that shewould do her best with Reuben, but at the same time she resented hismode 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 beenso short; she wanted to hear him speak more freely. But her request, she knew, would be disregarded With an effort, she succeeded in holdingout her hand Mallard held it lightly for an instant. 

"I will write to him, " fell from her lips, when already he had turnedto 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 noend. 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 mymind, 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 toread it. The few lines of Cecily's writing which were enclosed, sheglanced over with careless eye; yet not with mere carelessness either, but as if something of aversion disinclined her to peruse themattentively. That sheet she at once laid aside; Reuben's note she stillheld in her hand, and kept re-reading it. 

She went to the window and looked over towards Capri. A slight mistsoftened its outlines this morning; it seemed very far away, on the dimborders of sea and sky. For a long time she had felt the luring charmof that island, always before her eyes, yet never more than a bluemountainous shape. Lately she had been reading of it, and her fancy, new to such picturings, was possessed by the mysterious dread of itshistory in old time, the grandeur of its cliffs, the loveliness of itsgreen hollows, and the wonder of its sea-caves. Her childhood had knownnothing of fairyland, and now, in this tardy awakening of theimaginative part of her nature, she thought sometimes of Capri much asa 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 whorecognize themselves as overmastered by temptation, and grow almostreckless in the sins they cannot resist. So long it was since she hadbeen able to attend the accustomed public worship, and now itssubstitute in the privacy of her room had become irksome. She blushedto be practising hypocrisy; the Spences were careful to refrain frominterfering with her to-day, and here, withdrawn from their sight, shepassed the hours in wearisome idleness--in worse than that. 

She could not look again at Cecily's letter. More; she could not lether eyes turn to Raphael's picture. But before the mirrors she pausedoften and long, losing herself in self regard. 

Early on the morrow, she drove down with Spence to Santa Lucia, andwent on board the Capri boat. There were few passengers, a handful ofGermans and an English family--father, mother, two daughters, and twosons Sitting apart, Miriam cast many glances at her country people, andnot without envy. They were comely folk, in the best English health, refined in bearing, full of enjoyment. Now and then a few words oftheir talk fell upon her ears, and it was merry, kindly, intimate talk, the fruit of a lifetime of domestic happiness. It made her think againof what her own home-life had been. Such companionship of parents andchildren was inconceivable in her experience. The girls observed her, and, she believed, spoke of her. Must she not look strange in theireyes? Probably they felt sorry for her, as an invalid whose countenancewas darkened by recent pain. 

The boat made first of all for Sorrento, where a few more persons cameon board. Miriam was by this time enjoying the view of the coast. Fromthis point she kept her gaze fixed on Capri. One more delay on thevoyage; the steamer stopped near the Blue Grotto, that such of thepassengers as wished might visit it before landing. Miriam kept herplace, and for the present was content to watch the little boats, asthey rocked for a few moments at the foot of the huge cliff and thensuddenly disappeared through the entrance to the cavern. When theEnglish family returned, she listened to their eager, wonderingconversation. 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 hotelwhere Mrs. Lessingham and her niece were staying. His own quarters wereelsewhere--at the Pagano, dear to artists. 

"Well, have you enjoyed the voyage? What did you think of Sorrento? Wewatched the steamer across from there; we were up on the road toAnacapri, yonder. You don't look so well as when I saw youlast--nothing like. "

He waited for no reply to his questions, and talked with nervousbrokenness. Seated in the carriage, he could not keep still from onemoment to the next. His eyes had the unquiet of long-continuedagitation, the look that results from intense excitement when it hasbecome 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 youover?"

Miriam had no resolve by which to guide herself. She knew notdistinctly why she had come to Capri. Her familiar self-reliance andcold disregard of anything but a few plain rules in regulating herconduct, were things of the past. She felt herself idly swayed byconflicting influences, unable even to debate what course she shouldtake; the one emotion of which she was clearly conscious was of sostrange and disturbing a kind that, so far from impelling her to act, it seemed merely to destroy all her customary motives and leave hersubject to the will of others. It was the return of weakness such ashad possessed her mind when she lay ill, when she was ceaselesslytroubled with a desire for she knew not what, and, unable to utter ithad no choice but to admit the suggestions and biddings of those whocared for her. She could not even resent this language of Reuben's, towhich formerly she would have opposed her unyielding pride; hisproximity infected her with nervousness, but at the same time made herflaccid before his energy. 

"He came and spoke to me about you, " she admitted. "But he left me todo as I saw fit. "

"After putting the case against me as strongly as it could be put. Iknow; you needn't tell me anything about the conversation. Let us leaveit till afterwards. --You see how this road winds, so that the inclinemay be gentle enough for carriages. There are stony little paths, justlike the beds of mountain streams, going straight down to the Marina. Ilost 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 asuddenness 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 wasnot much after one o'clock; all lunched together in private, talkingonly of Capri. Later they walked to the villa of Tiberius. Elgar keptup an appearance of light-hearted enjoyment; Cecily was less able todisguise her preoccupation. Mrs. Lessingham seemed to have accepted theinevitable. Her first annoyance having passed, she was submitting tothat personal charm in Elgar which all women sooner or later confessed;her behaviour to him was indulgent, and marked only with a very gentlereserve when he talked too much paradox. 

Elgar went to his hotel for dinner, and left the others to themselvesthrough the evening. The next day was given to wandering about theisland. On the return at sunset, Miriam and Reuben had a long talktogether, in which it was made manifest that the "plans" were just asvague as ever. Reuben had revived the mention of literary work, thatwas all, and proposed to make his head-quarters in Paris, in order thathe might not be too far from Cecily, who would, it was presumed, remainon the Continent. This evening he dined with the ladies. AfterwardsCecily played. When Miriam and Mrs. Lessingham chanced to be conversingtogether, Elgar stepped up to the piano, and murmured:

"Will you come out into the garden for a few minutes? There's a fullmoon; it's magnificent. "

Cecily let her fingers idle upon the keys, then rose and went to whereher aunt was sitting. There was an exchange of words in a low tone, andshe left the room. Elgar at once approached Mrs. Lessingham to takeleave of her. 

"The Grotta Azzurra to-morrow, " he said gaily. "Perhaps you won't careto go again? My grave sister will make a very proper chaperon. "

"Let us discuss that when to-morrow comes. Please to limit yourmoon-gazing to five minutes. "

"At the utmost. "

From the hotel garden opened a clear prospect towards Naples, which layas a long track of lights beyond the expanse of deep blue. The coastwas distinctly outlined against the far sky glowed intermittently thefire 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 thenight of Homer, the island-charm of the Odyssey. 

"Answer me quickly, Cecily; we have only a few minutes, and I want tosay 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 howyour aunt has changed--in appearance; her policy is to make me thinkthat she will be my friend when I am away. I can speak with certaintyafter observing her for so long; in reality she is as firm against meas ever. Don't you notice, too, something strange in Miriam'sbehaviour?"

"She is not like herself. "

"As unlike as could be. Mallard has influenced her strongly. Who knowswhat 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. TheSpences 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 theycan 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 mighthave gone straight from Naples, but I can't go now; every hour with youhas helped to make it impossible. In talking to your aunt and toMiriam, I have been consciously false. Come further this way, into theshadow. Who is over there?"

"Some one we don't know. "

Her voice had sunk to a whisper. Elgar led her by the hand into afurther recess of the garden; the hand was almost crushed between hisown as he continued:

"You must come with me, Cecily. We will go away together, and bemarried at once. "

She panted rather than breathed. 

"You must! I can't leave you! I had rather throw myself from theseCapri rocks than go away with more than two years of solitude beforeme. "

Cecily made no answer. 

"If you think, you will see this is best in every way. It will bekindest to poor Mallard, putting an end at once to any hopes he mayhave. "

"We can't be married without his consent, " Cecily whispered. 

"Oh yes; I can manage that. I have already thought of everything. Be upearly to-morrow morning, and leave the hotel at half-past seven, as ifyou were going for a walk. Neither your aunt nor Miriam will bestirring 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 boatready to take us over to Sorrento; we will drive to Castellamare, andthere take train direct for Caserta and onwards, so missing Naplesaltogether. You shall travel as my sister. We will go to London, and bemarried there. Of course you can't bring luggage, but what does thatmatter? We can stop anywhere and buy what things you need. I have quiteenough money for the present. "

"But think of the shock to them all!" she pleaded, trembling throughher frame. "How ill I should seem to repay their long kindness! I can'tdo this, my dearest; oh, I can't do this! I will see Mr. Mallard, as Iwished--"

"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 ofyou, 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 speakwith any one. Your love is very different from mine, or you couldn'thesitate a moment. "

"Let me think! I can't answer you to-night. "

"To-night, or never!--Oh yes, I understand well enough, all yourreasons for hesitating. It would mean relinquishing the wedding-dressand the carriages and all the rest of the show that delights women. Youare afraid of Mrs. Grundy crying shame when it is known that you havetravelled across Europe with me. You feel it will be difficult toresume your friendships afterwards. I grant all these things, but Ididn't think they would have meant so much to Cecily. "

"You know well that none of these reasons have any weight with me. Itis only in joking that you can speak of them. But the unkindness tothem all, dear! Think of it!"

"Why say 'to them all'? Wouldn't it be simpler to say 'the unkindnessto Mallard'?"

She looked up into his face. 

"Why does love make a man speak so bitterly and untruthfully? Nothingcould make me do _you_ such a wrong. "

"Because you are so pure of heart and mind that nothing but truth canbe upon your lips. If I were not very near madness, I could never speakso 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 nonebut conscientious motives; in that case, these people take uponthemselves to say what is good for us, what we may be allowed and whatnot; they treat us as children. Of course, it is all for _your_protection. I am not fit to be your husband, my beautiful girl! Tellme--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 yourstrength is greater than mine. "

"But they would remind you that you are an heiress. I have not made sogood a use of my own money as I might have done, and the likelihood isthat 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 theobjections, and all seem to be worthless. Yet there might be one more. You are very young--how I rejoice in knowing it, sweet flower!--perhapsyour love of me is a mere illusion. It ought to be tested by time; verylikely 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 ismistake, stubborn error. And are we to sacrifice two whole years, thebest 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 nightair from the sea. 

"You will come with me to-morrow?"

"I will. "

He sought her offered lips, and for a few instants their whispering inthe shadow ceased. Then he repeated rapidly the directions he hadalready given her. 

"Put on your warmest cloak; it will be cold on the water. Now I can saygood-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 faithfulto 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, onceat the gleaming crags, and passed again into gloom. 

"I think it very unlikely, " Mrs. Lessingham was saying to Miriam, inher pleasantest voice of confidence, "that Mr. Mallard will insist onthe 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 quieterand more sensible. In a few days I think your brother will have made uphis mind. "

"I hope so. "

"Cecily lost her head a little at first, but I see that her influenceis 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 shallhave quiet talk, What an odd man he is! How distinctly I could haveforeseen his action in these circumstances! And I know just how it willbe, as soon as things have got into a regular course again. Mr. Mallardhates disturbance and agitation. Of course he has avoided seeing Cecilyas 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 forthe first glimmer of dawn. Row unreal the world seemed to her! Shetried to link this present morning with the former days, but her lifehad lost its continuity; the past was past in a sense she had neverknown; and as for the future, it was like gazing into darkness thatthrobbed and flashed. It meant nothing to her to say that this wasCapri--that the blue waves and the wind of morning would presently bearher to Sorrento; the familiar had no longer a significance; herconsciousness was but a point in space and eternity. She had no regretof her undertaking, no fear of what lay before her, but a profoundsadness, as though the burden of all mortal sorrows were laid upon hersoul. 

At seven o'clock she was ready. A very few things that could be easilycarried she would take with her; her cloak would hide them. Now shemust wait for the appointed moment. It seemed to be very cold; sheshivered. 

A minute or two before the half-hour, she left her room silently. Onthe stairs a servant passed her, and looked surprised in giving the"Buon giorno. " She walked quickly through the garden, and was on thefirm road. At the place indicated stood Elgar beside the carriage, andwithout 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 thequay. 

Bitterly cold, but what a glorious sunrise! Against the flushed sky, those limestone heights of Capri caught the golden radiance and shonewondrously. The green water, gently swelling but unbroken, was likesome rarer element, too limpid for this world's shores. With laughterand merry talk between themselves, the boatmen hoisted their sail. 

And the gods sent a fair breeze from the west, and it smote upon thesail, and the prow cleft its track of foam, and on they sped over theback of the barren sea. 

CHAPTER XV

"WOLF!"

It was a case of between two stools, and Clifford Marsh did not likethe bump. From that dinner with Elgar he came home hilariouslydismayed; when his hilarity had evaporated with the wine that was itscause, dismay possessed him wholly. Miss Doran was not for him, and inthe meantime he had offended Madeline beyond forgiveness. With whatcountenance could he now turn to her again? Her mother would welcomehis surrender--and it was drawing on towards the day when submissioneven to his stepfather could no longer be postponed--but he suspectedthat Madeline's resolve to have done with him was strengthened byresentment of her mother's importunities. To be sure, it was some sortof consolation to know that if indeed he went his way for good, bitterness and regrets would be the result to the Denyer family, whohad no great facility in making alliances of this kind; in a few yearstime, Madeline would be wishing that she had not let her prideinterfere with a chance of marriage. But, on the other hand, there wasthe awkward certainty that he too would lament making a fool ofhimself. He by no means liked the thought of relinquishing Madeline; hehad not done so, even when heating his brain with contemplation ofCecily Doran. In what manner could he bring about between her andhimself a drama which might result in tears and mutual pardon?

But whilst he pondered this, fate was at work on behalf. On the daywhich saw the departure of the Bradshaws, there landed at Naples, fromAlexandria, a certain lean, wiry man, with shoulders that stoopedslightly, with grizzled head and parchment visage; a man who glancedabout him in a keen, anxious way, and had other nervous habits. Havingpassed the custom-house, he hired a porter to take his luggage--twoleather bags and a heavy chest, all much the worse for wear--to thatsame hotel at which Mallard was just now staying. There he refreshedhimself, and, it being early in the afternoon, went forth again, as ifon business; for decidedly he was no tourist. When he had occasion tospeak, his Italian was fluent and to the point; he conducted himself asone to whom travel and intercourse with every variety of men werelife-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 intothe room where sit Mrs. Denyer and her daughters. The sight of himcaused 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 hisforehead with a silk handkerchief. He was ominously grave. His eyesavoided 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 theelegant skirts of his wife and daughters; he looked at his shirt-cuffs, which were clean but frayed, and then gathered courage to lift his eyesas far as the dainty hands folded upon laps in show of patience. 

"Madeline, " he began, in a voice which was naturally harsh, but couldexpress 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 itwas something pleasant. "

His parchment cheek showed a distinct flush. The attempt to keep hiseyes on the girls was a failure; he seemed to be about to confess acrime. 

"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 havekept this from you, Heaven knows I would have done, but it is better totell you all plainly. "

Mrs. Denyer's brows were knitted; her lips were compressed in angryobstinacy; she would not look up from the floor. The girls glanced ather, then at one another. Barbara tried to put on a scepticalexpression, but failed; Madeline was sunk in trouble; Zillah showedsigns of tearfulness. 

"I can only hope, " Mr. Denyer continued, "that you don't owe very muchhere. I thought, after my last letter"--he seemed more abashed thanever--"you might have looked round for something a little--" He glancedat the ornaments of the room, but at the same time chanced to catch hiswife's eye, and did not finish the sentence. "But never mind that; timeenough now that the necessity has come. You know me well enough, Barbara, and you Maddy, and you, Zillah, my child, to be sure that Iwouldn't deny you anything it was in my power to give. But fortune'sgone against me this long time. I shall have to make a new start, newefforts. I'm going out to Vera Cruz again. "

He once more wiped his forehead, and took the opportunity to lookaskance 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 repliedapologetically, turning his look to the girls a gain. "After settlinghere, and paying the expenses of the journey, I shall have a littleleft, very little indeed. But I'm going to Vera Cruz on a distinctengagement, and I shall soon be able to send you something. I'm afraidyou had better go to Aunt Dora's again; I've heard from her lately, andshe has the usual spare rooms. "

The girls exchanged looks of dismay. The terrible silence was broken byZillah, who spoke in quavering accents. 

"Papa dear, I have made up my mind to get a place as a nurserygoverness. I shall very soon be able to do so. "

"And I shall do the same, papa--or something of the kind, " cameabruptly from Madeline. 

"You, Maddy?" exclaimed her father, who had received the youngestgirl's announcement with a look of sorrowful resignation, but wasshocked at the other's words. 

"I am no longer engaged to Mr. Marsh, " Madeline proceeded, casting downher eyes. "Please don't say anything, mamma. I have made up my mind. Ishall look for employment. "

Her father shook his head in distress. He had never enjoyed the controlor direction of his daughters, and his long absences during late yearshad 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 hisprivilege to toil that she might live in luxury; but his illusionsregarding her had received painful shocks, and it was to the girls thathe now sacrificed himself. Their intellect, their attainments, at oncefilled him with pride and made him humble in their presence. But forhis reluctance to impose restraints upon their mode of life, he mighthave avoided this present catastrophe; he had cried "Wolf!" indeed, inhis mild way, but took no energetic measures when he found his crydisregarded--all the worse for him now that he could postpone the evilday no longer. 

"You are the best judge of your own affairs, Madeline, " he replieddespondently. "I'm very sorry, my girl. "

"All I can say is, " exclaimed Mrs. Denyer, as if with dignifiedreticence, "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 tosuch 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. "Yourletters were plain enough, if we had chosen to pay any attention tothem. "

Her father looked up apprehensively, deprecating defence of himself atthe cost of family discord. But he was powerless to prevent thegathering storm. Mrs. Denyer gazed sternly at her recalcitrantdaughter, and at length discharged upon the girl's head all the wrathwith which this situation inspired her. Barbara took her mother's side. Zillah wept and sobbed words of reconciliation. The unhappy cause ofthe 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 ofwhom Mr. Denyer had spoken was his own sister, the wife of ahotel-keeper at Southampton. Some seven years ago, in a crisis of theDenyers' fate, she had hospitably housed them for several months, andwas now willing to do as much again, notwithstanding the arrogance withwhich Mrs. Denyer had repaid her. To the girls it had formerly matteredlittle where they lived; at their present age, it was far otherwise. The hotel was of a very modest description; society would become out ofthe question in such a retreat. Madeline and Zillah might choose, asthe less of two evils, the lot for which they declared themselvesready; but Barbara had no notion of turning governess. She shortly wentto her bedroom, and spent a very black hour indeed. 

They were to start to-morrow morning. With rage Barbara saw theinterdiction of hopes which were just becoming serious. Another monthof those after-dinner colloquies in the drawing-room, and who could saywhat point of intimacy Mr. Musselwhite might have reached. He wasgrowing noticeably more articulate; he was less absentminded. Oh, for amonth more!

This evening she took her usual place, and at length had the tormentinggratification of seeing Mr. Musselwhite approach in the usual way. Though sitting next to him at dinner, she had said nothing of whatwould 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 haveto leave Naples to-morrow; we are going to England. "

"Indeed? You don't say so! Really, I'm very sorry to hear that, MissDenyer. "

"I am sorry too--to have to leave Italy for such a climate at this timeof the year. " She shuddered. "But my father has just arrived fromAlexandria, 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. "Somany 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 withfriends at Southampton. "

"Indeed? How odd! I also have friends at Southampton. A son of SirEdward Mull; he married a niece of mine. "

Barbara could have cried with mortification. She muttered she knew notwhat. Then again came a blank in the dialogue. 

"I trust we may meet again, " was Mr. Musselwhite's next sentence. Itcost 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 broughtus 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 ithalf in recklessness. It affected Mr. Musselwhite strangely. Hiscountenance fell, and a twinge seemed to catch one of his legs; at thesame time it made him fluent. 

"I grieve to hear that, Miss Denyer; I grieve indeed. Your departurewould have been bad enough, but I really grieve to think you shouldhave cause of distress. "

"Thank you for your sympathy, Mr. Musselwhite. "

"But perhaps we may meet again in England, for all that? Will youpermit me to give you my London address--a--a little club that I belongto, and where my friends often send letters? I mean that I should be sovery 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 shouldbe 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 sendingit, when we arc settled. "

"Thank you so very much. " He looked up after long meditation. "I reallydo _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 becomeinteresting, felt her heart sink into unfathomable depths. She wentback to her bedroom and cried wretchedly for a long time. 

In consequence of private talk with his wife, when the family conclavehad broken up, Mr. Denyer went in search of Clifford Marsh. They hadmet only once hitherto, six months ago, when Mr. Denyer paid a flyingvisit to London, and had just time to make the acquaintance of hisprospective son-in-law. This afternoon they walked together for an hourabout the Chiaia, with the result that an understanding of some kindseemed 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 dinewith him at a restaurant. 

"The fact is, " he whispered to her, with a laugh, "my appearance is notquite up to the standard of your dinner-table. I'm rather too carelessabout these things; it's doubtful whether I possess a decent suit. Letus go and find a quiet corner somewhere--if a fashionable young ladywill do me so much honour. "

Through Madeline's mind there passed a suspicion, but arestaurant-dinner hit her taste, and she accepted the invitationreadily. Before long, they drove into the town. Perhaps in recognitionof 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 hisaffairs; and Madeline, who liked above all things to be respectfullytreated, entered into the subject with dutiful consideration. He showedher exactly how his misfortunes had accumulated, how this and thatproject had been a failure, what unadvised steps he had taken in fearof impending calamity Snugly seated at the little marble table, theygrew very confidential indeed. Mr. Denyer avowed his hope--the hopeever-retreating, though sometimes it had seemed within reach--of beingable some day to find rest for the sole of his foot, to settle downwith his family and enjoy a quiet close of life. Possibly thisundertaking at Vera Cruz would be his last exile; he explained it indetail, and dwelt on its promising aspects. Madeline felt compassionateand remorseful. 

Of her own intimate concerns no word was said, but it happenedstrangely enough, just as they had finished dinner, that Clifford Marshcame strolling into the restaurant. He saw them, and with expressionsof 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 coffeetogether. Clifford kept up a flow of characteristic talk, neverdirectly addressing Madeline, nor encountering her look. He referredcasually to his meeting with Mr. Denyer that afternoon. 

"I shall be going back myself very shortly. It is probable that therewill be something of a change in my circumstances; I may decide to giveup a few hours each day to commercial pursuits. It all depends on--onuncertain 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 toleave the restaurant, Mr. Denyer said that he must go to therailway-station, to make a few inquiries. There was no use inMadeline's going such a distance; would Clifford be so good as to seeher safely home? Madeline made a few objections--she would reallyprefer to accompany her father; she would not trouble Mr. Marsh--but inthe end she found herself seated by Clifford in a carriage, passingrapidly 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 isfor 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 courseof 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 ityourself no one ever shall. Whatever _you_ may do, I cannot breakfaith. You ought to know me better than to misinterpret a few foolishand hasty words, and appearances that had a meaning you should haveunderstood. The time has come now for putting an end to thosemisconceptions. "

"They no longer concern me. Please to speak of something else. "

"You must, at all events, understand my position before we part. Thismorning I was as firmly resolved as ever to risk everything, torenounce the aid of my relatives if it must be and face poverty for thesake 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 ofbusiness. 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 tobe 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 menow, in your anger. I consider the engagement as still existing betweenus, and, such being the ease, it is plainly my duty to take such stepsas will enable me to offer you a home. By remaining an artist, I shouldsatisfy one part of my conscience, but at the expense of all my betterfeelings; it might even be supposed--though, I trust, not by you--thatI made my helplessness an excuse for forgetting you when most youneeded kindness. I shall go back to England, and devote myself withenergy to the new task, however repulsive it may prove. Whether youthink of me or not, I do it for your sake; you cannot rob me of thatsatisfaction. Some day I shall again stand before you, and ask you forwhat you once promised. If then you refuse--well, I must bear the lossof 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 tohope anything from me. I almost believe you capable of saying, someday, that you took this step because I urged you to it. I have nointerest whatever in your future; our paths are separate. Let this bethe end of it. "

But it was very far from the end of it. When the carriage stopped atMrs. 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 fewminutes. 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 byside, 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 youare of distinguishing between truth and falsehood. How wretchedly Ihave been deceived in you!"

From upbraiding, he fell to lamentation. His life was wrecked; he hadlost his ideals; and all through her unworthiness. Then, as Madelinewas still unrelenting, he began to humble himself. He confessed hislevity; 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 heimplored her forgiveness, besought her to restore him to life byaccepting his unqualified submission. To part from her on such terms asthese meant despair; the consequences would be tragic. And when hecould go no further in amorous supplication, when she felt that herinjured pride had exacted the uttermost from his penitence, Madeline atlength relented. 

"Still, " she said, after his outburst of gratitude, "don't think that Iask you to become a man of business. You shall never charge me withthat. It is your nature to reproach other people when anything goeswrong 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 loseher, he would toil at any most ignoble pursuit, amply repaid by thehope 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 baybefore 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 andreceived 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 thanhis wont, Spence gave narrow attention to the handwriting on theenvelopes. He found Eleanor where he had left her a few minutes before, at the piano, busy with a difficult passage of Brahms. She looked roundin surprise, and on seeing the letters started up eagerly. 

"Do you know Elgar's hand?" Spence asked. "These two from London arehis, 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 findhim. "

"Occasionally--very occasionally--you lack tact, my husband. He wouldhardly care to open this and read it in our presence. "

"More than occasionally, my dear girl, you remind me of the woman whoseprice is above rubies. I'll go over and leave it for him at once. Justto show the male superiority, however, I shall be careful to make mywalk a few minutes longer than usual--a thing of which you would bequite incapable whilst the contents of Miriam's letter were unknown toyou. "

Alone again, Eleanor sent the letter to Miriam's room by a servant, andwith uncertain fingers broke the envelope of that addressed to herself. Already she had heard once from Mrs. Lessingham, who ten days ago leftNaples to join certain friends in Rome; the first hurried glance overthe present missive showed that it contained no intelligence. She hadscarcely begun to read it attentively, when the door opened and Miriamcame in. 

Her face was pale with agitation, and her eyes had the strangest lightin them; to one who knew nothing of the circumstances, she would haveappeared exultant. Eleanor could not but gaze at her intently. 

"From Reuben!"

"Yes. " Miriam suppressed her voice, and held out the sheet ofnote-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 ourdeparture was known, you must have understood that we had resolved toput an end to useless delay. We travelled to London as brother andsister, and to-day have become man and wife. The above will be ouraddress for a short time; we have not yet decided where we shallultimately live. 

"By this same post I write to Mallard, addressed to him at the villa. Ihope he has had the good sense to wait quietly for news. 

"Cecily sends her love to you--though she half fears that you willreject it. I cannot see why you should. We have done the only sensiblething, and of course in a month or two it will be just the same, toeverybody concerned, as if we had been married in the most foolish waythat respectability can contrive. Let us hear from you very soon, dearsister. We talk much of you, and hope to have many a bright day withyou yet--more genuinely happy than that we spent in tracking out oldTiberius. "

Eleanor looked up, and again was struck with the singular light in hercousin's eyes. 

"Well, it only tells us what we anticipated. Of course he made falsedeclarations. 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 herroom. 

At nine o'clock in the evening, the Spences, who sat alone, receivedthe foreseen visit from Mallard. They welcomed him silently. As he satdown, he had a smile on his face; he drew a letter deliberately fromhis pocket, and, without preface, began to read it aloud, still in adeliberate manner. 

"Let me first of all make a formal announcement. We have this morningbeen married by registrar's licence. We intend to live for a few weeksat this present address, where we have taken some furnished rooms untilbetter arrangements can be made. I lose no time in writing to you, forof course there is business between us that you will desire to transactas soon as may be. 

"In obtaining the licence, I naturally gave false information regardingCecily's age; this was an inevitable consequence of the step we hadtaken. You know my opinions on laws and customs: for the multitude theyare 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 isidle form. Personally, I could have wished to dispense with theabsurdity altogether, but, as things are, this involves an injustice toa woman. I told my falsehoods placidly, for they were meaningless in myeyes. I have the satisfaction of knowing that you cannot, withoutinconsistency, find fault with me. 

"And now I speak as one who would gladly be on terms of kindness withyou. You know me, Mallard; you must be aware how impossible it was forme to wait two years. As for Cecily, her one word, again and againrepeated on the journey, was, 'How unkind I shall seem to them!' and Iknow that it was the seeming disrespect to you which most of alldistressed her. For her sake, I make it my petition that you will letthe past be past. She cannot yet write to you, but is sad in thethought 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 wishCecily 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. Butcould 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 wasdiscussed, especially its second paragraph. Mallard was informed of thenote which Miriam had received. 

"I shall go to-morrow, " he said, "and 'transact my business. ' On thewhole, it might as well be done through lawyers, but I had better be inLondon. "

"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 Ishould?"

"No; but she might like to be assured that her brother won't beprosecuted for perjury. "

"Oh, set her mind at ease!"

"Show Mallard the letter from Mrs. Lessingham, " said Spence, with atwinkle 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 asto what form the news will take when it comes. The material interestsin question are enough to relieve us from anxiety. But I wish theywould be quick and communicate with us. 

"One reconciles one's self to the inevitable, and, for my own part, theresult of my own reflections is that I am something more thanacquiescent. After all, granted that these two must make choice of eachother, was it not in the fitness of things that they should act as theyhave done? For us comfortable folk, life is too humdrum; ought we notto be grateful to those who supply us with a strong emotion, and whoremind us that there is yet poetry in the world? I should apologize foraddressing such thoughts to _you_, dear Eleanor, for you have still theblessing of a young heart, and certainly do not lack poetry. I speakfor myself, and after all I am much disposed to praise these youngpeople for their unconventional behaviour. 

"What if our darkest anticipations were fulfilled? Beyond all doubtthey are now sincerely devoted to each other, and will remain so for atleast twelve months. Those twelve months will be worth a life-time oflevel satisfaction. We shall be poor creatures in comparison when weutter our 'Didn't I tell you so?'

"Whilst in a confessing mood, I will admit that I had formed rather adifferent idea of Cecily; I was disposed to think of her as the modernwoman who has put unreasoning passion under her feet, and thereforethis revelation was at first a little annoying to me. But I see nowthat my view of her failed by incompleteness. The modern woman need byno means be a mere embodied intellect; she will choose to enjoy as wellas to understand, and to enjoy greatly she will sacrifice all sorts ofthings that women have regarded as supremely important. Indeed, Icannot say that I am disappointed in Cecily; rightly seen, she hasjustified the system on which I educated her. My object was to teachher 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 aspossible; she has behaved independently and with sincerity. I reallyadmire her very much, and hope that her life may not fall below itsbeginning. 

"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 VillaSannazaro, your music and your talk. You and your husband have a greatplace in my heart; you are of the salt of the earth. Spare me a littleaffection, for I am again a lonely woman. "

This letter also was discussed, and its philosophy appreciated. Mallardspoke little; he had clasped his hands behind his head, and listenedmusingly. 

There was no effusion in the leave-taking, though it might be for along 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 andfell, broken occasionally by the voice of the nomenclator announcingnew arrivals, two ladies, seated in a recess, were exchangingconfidences. One was a novelist of more ability than repute; the otherwas 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 otheris uncommon, I believe. Do you see anything remarkable in her?"

"Well, she is rather more than pretty; and there's a certain clevernessin 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, youknow?"

"_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 fellinto most disreputable ways of life. Somebody was saying that he gothis 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 Hillopened its doors at ten o'clock, and until midnight there was no lackof company. Singular people, more or less; distinguished from societyproper by the fact that all had a modicum of brains. Some came fromluxurious homes, some from garrets. Visitors from Paris were frequent;their presence made a characteristic of the salon. This evening, forinstance, honour was paid by the hostess to M. _Amedeee_ Silvenoire, whose experiment in unromantic drama had not long ago gloriously failedat 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 withher 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 herand in the winter just past she had come upon Irene Delph copying atthe Louvre; the girl showed a good deal of talent but was hard beset bythe difficulty of living whilst she worked. In the spirit of hergenerous brother, Mrs. Lessingham persuaded the two to come and livewith her through the season; a room in the house was a studio forIrene, who took to portraits. Mrs. Delph, a timid woman whose nerveshad failed under her misfortunes, did not appear on formal occasionslike the present, but Irene was becoming an ornament of thedrawing-room. To be sure, but for her good looks and her artisticaptitude, she would not have been here-no reason, perhaps, for stintedpraise of her friend's generosity. 

An enjoyable thing to see Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with one ofher French guests. She threw off full fifteen years, and looked thirtyat most. Her handsome features had a vivid play of expression inharmony with the language she was speaking; her eyes were radiant asshe phrased a thought which in English would have required many wordsfor the--blunting of its point. M. Silvenoire, who--with the slightdisadvantage of knowing no tongue but his own--was making a study ofEnglish social life, found himself at ease this evening for the firsttime since he had been in London. Encouraged to talk his best, hefrankly and amusingly told Mrs. Lessingham of the ideas he had formedregarding conversation in the drawing-rooms of English ladies. 

"Civilization is spreading among us, " she replied, with a laugh. "Onceor twice it has been my privilege to introduce young Frenchmen, whowere studying our language, to English families abroad, and in thosecases I privately recommended to them a careful study of AnthonyTrollope's novels, that they might learn what is permissible inconversation and what is not. But here and there in London you willfind it possible to discuss things that interest reasonable beings. "

At the door sounded the name of "Mr. Biekerdike, " and there advancedtowards the hostess a tall, ugly young man, known by repute to all theEnglish people present. He was the author of a novel called "A Crown ofLilies, " which was much talked of just now, and excited no lessridicule than admiration, On the one hand, it was lauded for delicatepurity and idealism; on the other, it was scoffed at for artificialityand affected refinement. Mrs. Lessingham had met him for the first timea week ago. Her invitation was not due to approval of his book, but topersonal interest which the author moved in her; she was curious todiscover how far the idealism of "A Crown of Lilies" was a genuinefruit of the man's nature. Mr. Bickerdike's countenance did not promiseclarity of soul; his features were distinctly coarse, and the glance hethrew 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 thegirl, in wonder. 

"I could perfectly well, " murmured back Mrs. Travis, with a smile whichrevealed knowledge of humanity. 

"I pictured a very youthful man, with a face of effeminatebeauty--probably a hectic colour in his cheeks. "

"Such men don't write 'the novel of the season. ' This gentleman is veryshrewd; he gauges the public. Some day, if he sees fit, he will write abrutal book, and it will have merit. "

Mr. Bickerdike unfortunately did not speak French, so M. Silvenoire wasunable to exchange ideas with him. The Parisian, having learnt whatthis gentleman's claims were, regarded him through his _pince-nez_ witha subtle smile. But in a few moments he had something more interestingto 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 morelikely not. "

All the eyes in the room had one direction. Alike those who ingenuouslyadmired and those who wished to seem indifferent paid the homage ofobservation to Mrs. Elgar, as she stood exchanging greetings with thefriends who came forward. Yes, there was something more than attractivefeatures and a pleasant facility of speech. In Cecily were blended afresh loveliness and a grace as of maidenhood with the perfect charm ofwedded youth. The air about her was charged with something finer thanthe delicate fragrance which caressed the senses. One had but to hearher speak, were it only the most ordinary phrase of courtesy, and thatwonderful voice more than justified profound interest. Strangers tookher for a few years older than she was, not judging so much by her faceas the finished ease of her manners; when she conversed, it was hard tothink 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 atpainting, as it is. "

M. Silvenoire was bowing low, as Mrs. Lessingham presented him. To hisdelight, he heard his own language fluently, idiomatically spoken; heremarked, too, that Mrs. Elgar had a distinct pleasure in speaking it. She seated herself, and flattered him into ecstasies by the respectwith which she received his every word. She had seen it mentioned inthe _Figaro_ that a new play of his was in preparation; when was itlikely to be put on the stage? The theatre in London--of course, heunderstood that no one took it _au serieux_?

The Parisian could do nothing but gaze about the room, following hermovements, when their dialogue was at an end. Mon Dieu! And who, then, was Mr. Elgar? Might not one hope for an invitation to madame'sassemblies? A wonderful people, these English, after all. 

Mr. Bickerdike secured, after much impatience, the desiredintroduction. For reasons of his own, he made no mention of his earlieracquaintance with Elgar. Did she know of it? In any case she appearednot to, but spoke of things which did not interest Mr. Bickerdike inthe least. At length he was driven to bring forward the one subject onwhich he desired her views. 

"Have you, by chance, read my book, Mrs. Elgar?"

M. Silvenoire would have understood her smile; the Englishman thoughtit merely amiable, and prepared for the accustomed compliment. 

"Yes, I have read it, Mr. Bickerdike. It seemed to me a charminglywritten romance. "

The novelist, seated upon too low a chair, leaning forward so that hisknees and chin almost touched, was not in himself a very gracefulobject; 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 atlight 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 amusedtone. 

"In this ease it is a censure. You take the side of those who findfault with my idealism. "

"Not so; I simply form my own judgment. "

Mr. Bickerdike was nervous at all times in the society of a refinedwoman; Mrs. Elgar's quiet rebuke brought the perspiration to hisforehead, and made him rub his hands together. Like many a better man, he could not do justice to the parts he really possessed, save whensitting in solitude with a sheet of paper before him. Though he had aconfused perception that Mrs. Elgar was punishing him for forcing herto speak of his book, he was unable to change the topic and so win herapproval for his tact. In the endeavour to seem at ease, he becameblunt. 

"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 commonrealism of to-day. "

"I am willing to mean that. "

"But you will admit, Mrs. Elgar, that my mode of fiction has as much tosay for itself as that which you prefer?"

"In asking for one admission you take for granted another. That is alittle confusing. "

It was made sufficiently so to Mr. Bickerdike. He thrust out his longlegs, and exclaimed:

"I should be grateful to you if you would tell me what your view of thequestion really is--I mean, of the question at issue between the twoschools of fiction. "

"But will you first make clear to me the characteristics of the schoolyou represent?"

"It would take a long time to do that satisfactorily. I proceed on theassumption that fiction is poetry, and that poetry deals only with thenoble and the pure. "

"Yes, " said Cecily, as he paused for a moment, "I see that it wouldtake too long. You must deal with so many prejudices--such, forexample, as that which supposes 'King Lear' and 'Othello' to be poems. "

Mr. Bickerdike began a reply, but it was too late; Mrs. Lessingham hadapproached 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 amore reverent listener. 

It was not often that Cecily trifled in this way. As a rule, her mannerof speech was direct and earnest. She had a very uncommon habit oftelling the truth whenever it was possible; rather than utter smoothfalsehoods, she would keep silence, and sometimes when to do so was torun much danger of giving offence. Beautiful women have very differentways of using the privilege their charm assures them; Cecily chose tomake it a protection of her integrity. She was much criticized byacquaintances of her own sex. Some held her presumptuous, conceited, spoilt by adulation; some accused her of bad taste andblue-stockingism; some declared that she had no object but to win men'sadmiration and outshine women. Without a thought of such comments, shebehaved as was natural to her. Where she felt her superiority, she madeno pretence of appearing femininely humble. Yet persons like Mrs. Delph, who kept themselves in shadow and spoke only with simplekindness, knew well how unassuming Cecily was, and with what deferenceshe spoke when good feeling dictated it. Or again, there was her mannerwith 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 aquarter of an hour this evening, looking her very brightest and talkingin her happiest vein, yet showing all the time her gratitude for whatshe learnt from his conversation. 

It was nearly twelve o'clock when Mrs. Travis, who had made one or twocareless efforts to draw near to Cecily, succeeded in speaking a wordaside 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 bedriving 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 leaveof 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 Englandyet. In the autumn they are going to Greece, then for the winter toSicily. "

"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 minutesthey were seated in the brougham. 

Mrs. Travis had a face one could not regard without curiosity. It wasnot beautiful in any ordinary sense, but strange and striking and richin suggestiveness. In the chance, flickering light that entered thecarriage, she looked haggard, and at all times her thinness and pallorgive her the appearance of suffering both in body and mind. Hercomplexion was dark, her hair of a rich brown; she had very large eyes, which generally wandered in an absent, restless, discontented way. Ifshe smiled, it was with a touch of bitterness, and her talk was wont tobe caustic. Cecily had only known her for a few weeks, and did not feelmuch drawn to her, but she compassionated her for sorrows known andsuspected. Though only six and twenty, Mrs. Travis had been marriedseven years, and had had two children; the first died at birth, thesecond was carried off by diphtheria. Her husband Cecily had neverseen, but she heard disagreeable things of him, and Mrs. Travis herselfhad dropped hints which signified domestic unhappiness. 

After a minute or two of silence, Cecily was beginning to speak on someindifferent 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 ofstanding for the first time face to face with one of the sternermiseries of life. 

"I did it once before, " pursued the other, "two years ago. Then I wasfoolish enough to be wheedled back again. That shan't happen this time. "

"Have you really no choice but to do this?" Cecily asked, with muchearnestness. 

"Oh, I could have stayed if I had chosen. He doesn't beat me. I have asmuch of my own way as I could expect. Perhaps you'll think meunreasonable. A Turkish woman would. "

Cecily sat mute. She could not but resent the harsh tone in which shewas addressed, in spite of her pity. 

"It's only that I suffer in my self-respect--a little, " Mrs. Traviscontinued. "Of course, this is no reason for taking such a step, exceptto those who have suffered in the same way. Perhaps you would like tostop the carriage and let me leave you?"

"Your suffering makes you unjust to me, " replied Cecily, muchembarrassed by this strange impulsiveness. "Indeed I sympathize withyou. 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 everyindignity from her husband?"

"Surely not. On the contrary, I think there are some indignities whichno wife _ought_ to bear. "

"I'm glad to hear that. I had a feeling that you would think in thisway, and that's why I wanted to talk to you. Of course you have onlythe evidence of my word for believing me. "

"I can see that you are very unhappy, and the cause you name is quitesufficient. "

"In one respect, I am very lucky. I have a little money of my own, andthat enables me to go and live by myself. Most women haven't thisresource: many are compelled to live in degradation only for want ofit. I should like to see how many homes would be broken up, if allwomen were suddenly made independent in the same way that I am. How Ishould enjoy that! I hate the very word 'marriage'!"

Cecily averted her face, and said nothing. After a pause, her companioncontinued in a calm voice:

"You can't sympathize with that, I know. And you are comparing myposition 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 Iheard 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 winninghim back to faithfulness. My husband happens to be the average man, andthe 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, andthere's no good in making the world ugly for you as long as it can seemrosy. "

"Please don't use that word, " said Cecily, with emphasis. It annoyedher to be treated as immature in mind. "I am the last person to takerosy views of life. But there is something between the distrust towhich 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 stillbefore 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 morephilosophy; she lets things take their course, just turning her eyesaway. "

"That is ignoble, hateful!" exclaimed Cecily. 

"So I think, but women as a rule don't. At all events, they are contentto 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 askedpresently. 

"Come whenever you feel you would like to, " Cecily answered, rousingherself from reverie. 

The house in which Mrs. Travis now lived was a quarter of an hour'sdrive beyond that of the Elgars; she would have alighted and walked, making nothing of it, but of course Cecily could not allow this. Thecoachman was directed to make the circuit. When Cecily reached home, itwas after one o'clock. 

CHAPTER II

THE PROPRIETIES DEFENDED

The house was in Belsize Park. Light shone through the blind of one ofthe upper windows, but the rest of the front was lifeless. Cecily'sring at the bell sounded distinctly; it was answered at once by amaid-servant, who said that Mr. Elgar was still in the library. Havingspoken a few words, ending with a kind good night, Cecily passedthrough the hall and opened the library door. 

A reading-lamp made a bright sphere on the table, but no one sat withinits rays. After a fruitless glance round the room, Cecily called herhusband's name. There was a sound of moving, and she saw that Reubenwas on a sofa which the shadow veiled. 

"Have you been asleep?" she asked merrily, as she approached him. 

He stood up and stretched himself, muttering. 

"Why didn't you go to bed, poor boy? I'm dreadfully late; I went out ofmy way to take some one home. "

"Who was that?" Elgar inquired, coming forward and seating himself onthe corner of the writing-table. 

"Mrs. Travis. She has come to stay with friends at Hampstead. But tobed, to bed! You look like Hamlet when he came and frightened Ophelia. Have you had an evil dream?"

"That's the truth; I have. "

"What about?"

"Oh, a stupid jumble. " He moved the lamp-shade, so that the light fellsuddenly full upon her. "Why have you made such friends all at oncewith Mrs. Travis?"

"How is your headache?"

"I don't know--much the same. Did she ask you to take her home?"

"Yes, she did--or suggested it, at all events. "

"Why has she come to Hampstead?"

"How can I tell, dear? Put the lamp out, and let us go. "

He sat swinging his leg. The snatch of uncomfortable sleep had left himpale and swollen-eyed, and his hair was tumbled. 

"Who was there to-night?"

"Several new people. Amedee Silvenoire--the dramatist, you know; aninteresting man. He paid me the compliment of refraining fromcompliments on my French. Madame Jacquelin, a stout and very plainwoman, who told us anecdotes of George Sand; remind me to repeat themto-morrow. And Mr. Bickerdike, the pillar of idealism. "

"Bickerdike was there?" Elgar exclaimed, with an air of displeasure. 

"He didn't refer to his acquaintance with you. I wonder why not?"

"Did you talk to the fellow?"

"Rather pertly, I'm afraid. He was silly enough to ask me what Ithought of his book, though I hadn't mentioned it. I put on my superiorair and snubbed him; it was like tapping a frog on the head each timeit pokes up out of the water. He will go about and say what aninsufferable person that Mrs. Elgar is. "

Reuben was silent for a while. 

"I don't like your associating with such people, " he said suddenly. "Iwish you didn't go there. It's all very well for a woman like your auntto gather about her all the disreputable men and women who claim to beof some account, but they are not fit companions for you. I don't likeit at all. "

She looked at him in astonishment, with bewildered eyes, that were onthe verge of laughter. 

"What _are_ you talking about, Reuben?"

"I'm quite serious. " He rose and began to walk about the room. "And itsurprised me that you didn't think of staying at home this evening. Isaid nothing, because I wanted to see whether it would occur to youthat you oughtn't to go alone. "

"How should such a thing occur to me? Surely I am as much at home inaunt's house as in my own? I can hardly believe that you mean what yousay. "

"You will understand it if you think for a moment. A year ago youwouldn't have dreamt of going out at night when I stayed at home. Butyou find the temptation of society irresistible. People admire you andtalk about you and crowd round you, and you enjoy it--never mind whothe people are. Presently we shall be seeing your portrait in theshop-windows. I noticed what a satisfaction it was to you when yourname was mentioned among the other people in that idiotic societyjournal. "

Cecily laughed, but not quite so naturally as she wished it to sound. 

"This is too absurd Your dream has unsettled your wits, Reuben. Howcould I imagine that you had begun to think of me in such a light? Youused to give me credit for at least average common sense. I can't talkabout it; I am ashamed to defend myself. "

He had not spoken angrily, but in a curiously dogged tone, with awkwardemphasis, as if struggling to say what did not come naturally to hislips. Still walking about, and keeping his eyes on the floor, hecontinued in the same half-embarrassed way:

"There's no need for you to defend yourself. I don't exactly mean toblame you, but to point out a danger. "

"Forgetting that you degrade my character in doing so. "

"Nothing of the kind, Cecily. But remember how young you are. You knowvery little of the world, and often see things in an ideal light. It isyour tendency to idealize. You haven't the experience necessary to awoman who goes about in promiscuous society. "

Cecily knitted her brows. 

"Instead of using that vague, commonplace language--which I neverthought to hear from _you_--I wish you would tell me exactly what youmean. What things do I see in an ideal light? That means, I suppose, that I am childishly ignorant of common evils in the world. Youcouldn't speak otherwise if I had just come out of a convent. And, indeed, you don't believe what you say. Speak more simply, Reuben. Saythat you distrust my discretion. "

"To a certain extent, I do. "

"Then there is no more to be said, dear. Please to tell me in futureexactly what you wish me to do, and what to avoid. I will go to schoolto your prudence. "

The clock ticked very loudly, and, before the silence was again broken, chimed half-past one. 

"Let me give you an instance of what I mean, " said Elgar, again seatinghimself on the table and fingering his watch-chain nervously. "You havebeen making friends with Mrs. Travis. Now, you are certainly quiteignorant of her character. You don't know that she left home not longago. "

Cecily asked in a low voice:

"And why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because I don't choose to talk with you about such disagreeablethings. "

"Then I begin to see what the difficulty is between us. It is not I whoidealize things, but you. Unless I am much mistaken, this is the commonerror of husbands--of those who are at heart the best. They wish theirwives to remain children, as far as possible. Everything 'disagreeable'must be shunned--and we know what the result often is. But I hadsupposed all this time that you and I were on other terms. I thoughtyou regarded me as not quite the everyday woman. In some things it iscertain you do; why not in the most important of all? Knowing that Iwas likely to see Mrs. Travis often, it was your duty to tell me whatyou knew of her. "

Elgar kept silence. 

"Now let me give you another version of that story, " Cecily continued. "To-night she has been telling me about herself. She says that she lefthome because her husband was unfaithful to her. I think the reasonquite sufficient, and I told her so. But there is something more. Shehas again been driven away. She has come to live at Hampstead becauseher home is intolerable, and she says that nothing will ever induce herto return. "

"And this has been the subject of your conversation as you drove back?Then I think such an acquaintance is very unsatisfactory, and it mustcome to an end. "

"Please to tell me why you spoke just now as if Mrs. Travis were toblame. "

"I have heard that she was. "

"Heard from whom?"

"That doesn't matter. There's a doubt about it, and she's no companionfor you. "

"As you think it necessary to lay commands on me, I shall of courseobey you. But I believe Mrs. Travis is wronged by the rumours you haveheard; I believe she acted then, and has done now, just as it behovedher to. "

"And you have been encouraging her?"

"Yes, on the assumption that she told me the truth. She asked if shemight come and see me, and I told her to do so whenever she wished. Ineedn't say that I shall write and withdraw this invitation. "

Elgar hesitated before replying. 

"I'm afraid you can't do that. You have tact enough to end theacquaintance gradually. "

"Indeed I have not, Reuben. I either condemn her or pity her; I can'tshuffle contemptibly between the two. "

"Of course you prefer to pity her!" he exclaimed impatiently. "Therecomes in the idealism of which I was speaking. The vulgar woman'sinstinct would be to condemn her; naturally enough, you take theopposite course. You like to think nobly of people, with the resultthat more often than not you will be wrong. You don't know the world. "

"And I am very young; pray finish the formula. But why do you prefer totake the side of 'the vulgar woman' of whom you speak? I see that youhave no evidence against Mrs. Travis; why lean towards condemnation?"

"Well, I'll put it in another way. A woman who lives apart from herhusband is always amid temptations, always in doubtful circumstances. Friends who put faith in her may, of course, keep up their intimacy;but a slight acquaintance, and particularly one in your position, willget harm by associating with her. This is simple and obvious enough. "

"If you knew for certain that she was blameless, you would speak in thesame way?"

"If it regarded you, I should. Not if Mrs. Lessingham were in question. "

"That is a distinction which repeats your distrust. We won't say anymore about it. I will bear in mind my want of experience, and in futurenever act without consulting you. "

She moved towards the door. 

"You are coming?"

"Look here, Ciss, you are not so foolish as to misunderstand me. When Isaid that I distrusted your discretion, I meant, of course, that youmight innocently do things which would make people talk about you. There is no harm in reminding you of the danger. "

"Perhaps not; though it would be more like yourself to scorn people'stalk. "

"That is only possible if we chose to go back to our life of solitude. I'm afraid it wouldn't suit you very well now. "

"No; I am far too eager to see my name in fashionable lists. Has notall my life pointed to that noble ambition?"

She regarded him with a smile from her distance, a smile that trembleda little about her lips, and in which her clear eyes had small part. Elgar, without replying, began to turn down the lamp. 

"This is what has made you so absent and uneasy for the last week ortwo?" Cecily added. 

The lamp was extinguished

"Yes, it is, " answered Elgar's voice in the darkness. "I don't like thecourse things have been taking. "

"Then you were quite right to speak plainly. Be at rest; you shall haveno more anxiety. "

She opened the door, and they went upstairs together. In the bedroomCecily found her little boy sleeping quietly; she bent above him for afew moments, and with soft fingers smoothed the coverlet. 

There was no further conversation between them--except that Cecily justmentioned the news her aunt had received from Mrs. Spence. 

At breakfast they spoke of the usual subjects, in the usual way. Elgarhad his ride, amused himself in the library till luncheon, lolled aboutthe drawing-room whilst Cecily played, went to his club, came back todinner, --all in customary order. Neither look nor word, from him orCecily, made allusion to last night's incident. 

The next morning, when breakfast was over, he came behind his wife'schair and pointed to an envelope she had opened. 

"What strange writing! Whose is it?"

"From Mrs. Travis. "

He moved away, and Cecily rose. As she was passing him, he said:

"What has she to say to you?"

"She acknowledges the letter I sent her yesterday morning, that's all. "

"You wrote--in the way you proposed?"

"Certainly. "

He allowed her to pass without saying anything more. 

CHAPTER III

GRADATION

During the first six months of her wedded life, Cecily wrote from timeto time in a handsomely-bound book which had a little silver lock toit. She was then living at the seaside in Cornwall, and Reubenoccasionally went out for some hours with the fishers, or took a longsolitary ride inland, just to have the delight of returning to his homeafter a semblance of separation; in his absence, Cecily made aconfidant of the clasped volume. On some of its fair pages were verses, written when verse came to her more easily than prose, but read noteven to him who occasioned them. A passage or two of the unrhymedthoughts, with long periods of interval, will suggest the course of hermental history. 

"I have no more doubts, and take shame to myself for those I everentertained. Presently I will confess to him how my mind was tossed andtroubled on that flight from Capri; I now feel able to do so, and tomake of the confession one more delight. It was impossible for me notto be haunted by the fear that I had yielded to impulse, and actedunworthily of one who could reflect. I had not a doubt of my lover, butthe foolish pride which is in a girl's heart whispered to me that I hadbeen too eager--had allowed myself to be won too readily; that I shouldhave been more precious to him if more difficulty had been put in hisway. Would it not have been good to give him proof of constancy throughlong months of waiting? But the secret was that I dreaded to lose him. I reproached him for want of faith in my steadfastness; but just aswell he might have reproached me. It was horrible to think of his goingback into the world and living among people of whom I knew nothing. Iknew in some degree what his life had been; by force of passionate loveI understood, or thought I understood him; and I feared most ignobly. 

"And I was putting myself in opposition to all those older and moreexperienced people. How could I help distrusting myself at times? I sawthem all looking coldly and reproachfully at me. Here again my pridehad something to say. They would smile among themselves, and tell eachother that they had held a mistakenly high opinion of me. That was hardto bear. I like to be thought much of; it is delicious to feel thatpeople respect me, that they apply other judgments to me than to girlsin general. Mr. Mallard hurt me more than he thought in pretending--Ifeel sure he only pretended--to regard my words as trivial. How itrejoices me that there are some things I know better than my husbanddoes! I have read of women liking to humble themselves, and in a way Ican understand it; I do like to _say_ that he is far above me--oh! andI mean it, I believe it; but the joy of joys is to see him look at mewith admiration. I rejoice that I have beauty; I rejoice that I haveread much, and can think for myself now and then, and sometimes say athing 'that every one would not think of. Suppose I were an uneducatedgirl, not particularly good-looking, and a man loved me; well, in thatcase perhaps the one joy would be mere worship of him and intensegratitude--blind belief in his superiority to every other man thatlived. But then Reuben would never have loved me; he must havesomething to admire, to stand a little in awe of. And for this veryreason, perhaps I feel such constant--self-esteem, for that is the onlyword. ". .. 

"All the doubts and fears are over. I acted rightly, and because Iobeyed my passion. The poets are right, and all the prudent people onlygrovel in their worldly wisdom. It may not be true for every one, butfor me to love and be loved, infinitely, with the love that conquerseverything, is the sole end of life. It is enough; come what will, iflove remain nothing else is missed. In the direst poverty, we should beas much to each other as we are now. If he died, I would live only toremember the days I passed with him. What folly, what a crime, it wouldhave been to waste two years, as though we were immortal!

"I never think of Capri but I see it in the light of a magnificentsunrise. Beloved, sacred island, where the morning of my life indeedbegan! No spot in all the earth has beauty like yours; no name of anyplace sounds to me as yours does!"

"I know that our life cannot always be what it is now. This is a longhoneymoon; we do not walk on the paths that are trodden by ordinarymortals; the sky above us is not the same that others see as they goabout their day's business or pleasure. By what process shall we fallto the common existence? We have all our wants provided for; there isno need for my husband to work that he may earn money, no need for meto take anxious thought about expenses; so that we are tempted tobelieve that life will always be the same. That cannot be; I am not soidle as to hope it. 

"He certainly has powers which should be put to use. We have talkedmuch of things that he might possibly do, and I am sure that beforelong his mind will hit the right path. I am so greedy of happiness thateven what we enjoy does not suffice me; I want my husband todistinguish himself among men, that I may glory in his honour. Yesterday he told me that my own abilities exceeded his, and that I wasmore likely to make use of them; but in this case my ambition takes ahumble form. Even if I were sure that I could, say, write a good book, I would infinitely prefer him to do it and receive the reward of it. Ilike him to _say_ such things, but in fact he must be more than I. Do Ineed a justification of the love I bear him? Surely not; that would bea contradiction of love. But it is true that I would gladly have himjustify to others my belief in his superiority. 

"And yet--why not be content with what is well? If _he_ could remainso; but will he? We have a long life before us, and I know that itcannot be all honeymoon. "

"I have been reading a French novel that has made me angry--in spite ofmy better sense. Of course, it is not the first book of the kind that Ihave read, but it comes home to me now. What right has this author tosay that no man was ever absolutely faithful? It is a commonplace, buthow can any one have evidence enough to justify such a statement? Ishall not speak of it to Reuben, for I don't care to think long aboutit. Does that mean, I wonder, that I am afraid to think of it?

"Well, f had rather have been taught to read and think abouteverything, than be foolishly ignorant as so many women are. ThisFrench author would laugh at my confidence, but I could laugh back athis narrow cynicism. He knows nothing of love in its highest sense. Iam firm in my optimism, which has a very different base from that ofignorance. 

"This does not concern me; I won't occupy my mind with it; I won't readany more of the cynics. My husband loves me, and I believe his loveincapable of receiving a soil. If ever I cease to believe that, timeenough then to be miserable and to fight out the problem. "

The end of the six months found them still undecided as to where theyshould fix a permanent abode. In no part of England had either of themrelatives or friends whose proximity would be of any value. Cecilyinclined towards London, feeling that there only would her husband findincentives to exertion; but Reuben was more disposed to settlesomewhere on the Continent. He talked of going back to Italy, living inFlorence, and--writing something new about the Renaissance. Cecilyshook her head; Italy she loved, and she had seen nothing of it northof Naples, but it was the land of lotus-eaters. They would go thereagain, but not until life had seriously shaped itself. 

Whilst they talked and dreamed, decision came to them in the shape ofMrs. Lessingham. Without warning, she one day presented herself attheir lodgings, having come direct from Paris. Her spirits weredelightful; she could not have behaved more graciously had thismarriage been the one desire of her life. The result of her privatetalk with Cecily was that within a week all three travelled down toLondon; there they remained for a fortnight, then went on to Paris. Mrs. Lessingham's quarters were in Rue de Belle Chasse, and the Elgarsfound a suitable dwelling in the same street. 

Their child was born, and for a few months all questions were postponedto that of its health and Cecily's. The infant gave a good deal oftrouble, was anything but robust; the mother did not regain herstrength speedily. The first three months of the new year were spent atBordighera; then came three months of Paris; then the family returnedto England (without Mrs. Lessingham), and established themselves in thehouse in Belsize Park. 

The immediate effect of paternity upon Elgar was amusing. Hisself-importance visibly increased. He spoke with more gravity; whateverstep he took was seriously considered; if he read a newspaper, it waswith an air of sober reflection. 

"This is the turning-point in his life, " Cecily said to her aunt. "Heseems to me several years older; don't you notice it? I am quite surethat as soon as things are in order again he will begin to work. "

And the prophecy seemed to find fulfilment. Not many days after theirtaking possession of the English home, Reuben declared a project thathis mind had been forming. It was not, to be sure, thoroughlyfashioned; its limits must necessarily be indeterminate until fixed bylong and serious study; but what he had in view was to write a historyof the English mind in its relation to Puritanism. 

"I have a notion, Ciss, that this is the one thing into which I canthrow all my energies. The one need of my intellectual life is to deala savage blow at the influences which ruined all my early years. Youcan't look at the matter quite as I do; you don't know the fiercehatred with which I am moved when I look back. If I am to do literarywork at all, it must be on some subject which deeply concerns me--memyself, as an individual. I feel sure that my bent isn't to fiction; Iam not objective enough. But I enjoy the study of history, and I have agood deal of acuteness. If I'm not mistaken, I can make a brilliantbook, a book that will excite hatred and make my name known. "

They were sitting in the library, late at night. As usual when he wasstirred, Reuben paced up and down the room and gesticulated. 

"Do you mean it to be a big book!" Cecily asked, after reflection. 

"Not very big. I should have French models before me, rather thanEnglish. "

"It would take you a long time to prepare. "

"Two or three years, perhaps. But what does that matter? I shall work agood deal at the British Museum. It will oblige me to be away from youa good deal, but--"

"You mustn't trouble about that. I have my own work. If your morningsare regularly occupied, I shall be able to make flied plans of studythere are so many things I want to work at. "

"Capital! It's high time we came to that. And then, you know, you mightbe able to give me substantial help--reading, making notes, and soon--if you cared to. "

Cecily smiled. 

"Yes, if I care to. --But hasn't the subject been dealt with already?"

"Oh, of course, in all sorts of ways. But not in _my_ way. No man everwrote about it with such energy of hatred as I shall bring to the task. "

Cecily was musing. 

"It won't be a history in the ordinary sense, " she said. "You will makeno pretence of historic calm and impartiality. "

"Not I, indeed! My book shall be cited as a splendid example of _odiumantitheologicum_. There are passages of eloquence rolling in my mind!And this is just the time for such a work. Throughout intellectualEngland, Puritanism is dead; but we know how vigorously it survivesamong the half-educated classes. My book shall declare the emancipationof all the better minds and be a help to those who are strugglingupwards. It will be a demand, also, for a new literature, free from theabsurd restraints that Puritanism has put upon us. All the youngerwriters will rally about me. It shall be a 'movement. ' The name of mybook shall be a watchword. "

They talked about it till one in the morning. 

For several weeks Elgar was constantly at the Museum. He readprodigiously; he brought home a great quantity of notes; every nightCecily and he talked over his acquisitions, and excited themselves. Butthe weather grew oppressively hot, and it was plain that they could notcarry out the project of remaining in town all through the autumn. Already Reuben was languishing in his zeal, when little Clarence had asudden and alarming illness. As soon as possible, all went off to theseaside. 

Since his work had begun, Reuben's interest in the child had fallenoff. Its ailments were soon little more than an annoyance to him;Cecily perceived this, and seldom spoke on the subject. The fact of thesudden illness affording an opportunity for rest led him to expressmore solicitude than he really felt, but when the child got back intoits normal state, Reuben was more plainly indifferent to it than ever. He spoke impatiently if the mother's cares occupied her when he wishedfor her society. 

"A baby isn't a rational creature, " he said once. "When he is oldenough to begin to be educated, that will be a different thing. Atpresent he is only a burden. Perhaps you think me an unfatherly brute?"

"No; I can understand you quite well. I should very often be impatientmyself if I had no servants to help me. "

"What a horrible thought! Suppose, Ciss, we all of a sudden losteverything, and we had to go and live in a garret, and I had to getwork as a clerk at five-and-twenty shillings a week. How soon should wehate the sight of each other, and the sound of each other's voices?"

"It might come to that, " replied Cecily, with half a smile. "Perhaps. "

"There's no doubt about it. "

Cecily remembered something she had written in the book with the silverlock--a book which had not been opened for a long time. 

"I used to think nothing could bring that about. And I am not sure yet. "

"I should behave like a ruffian. I know myself well enough. "

"I think that would kill my love in time. "

"Of course it would. How can any one love what is not lovable?"

"Yet we hear, " suggested Cecily, "of wretched women remaining devotedto husbands who all but murder them now and then. "

"You are not so foolish as to call _that_ love! That is mereunreasoning and degraded habit--the same kind of thing one may find ina dog. "

"Has love anything to do with reason, Reuben?"

"As I understand it, it has everything to do with reason. Animalpassion has not, of course; but love is made of that with somethingadded. Can my reason discover any argument why I should not love you? Iwon't say that it might not, some day, and then my love would by somuch be diminished. "

"You believe that reason is free to exercise itself, where love is inpossession?"

"I believe that love can only come when reason invites. Of course, weare talking of love between men and women; the word has so many senses. In this highest sense, it is one of the rarest of things. How manywives and husbands love each other? Not one pair in five thousand. Inthe average pair that have lived together as long as we have, there isnot only mutual criticism, but something even of mutual dislike. Thatmakes love impossible. Habit takes its place. "

"Happily for the world. "

"I don't know. Perhaps so. It is an ignoble necessity; but then, theworld largely consists of ignoble creatures. "

Cecily reflected often on this conversation. Was there any significancein such reasonings? It gave her keen pleasure to hear Reuben maintainsuch a view, but did it mean anything? If, in meditating about him, shediscovered characteristics of his which she could have wished tochange, which in themselves were certainly not lovable, had she in thatmoment ceased to love him, in love's highest sense?

But in that case love might be self-deception. In that case, perfectlove was impossible save as a result of perfect knowledge. 

What part had reason in the impulses which possessed her from her firstmeeting with Reuben in Italy, unless that name were given to theworking of mysterious affinities, afterwards to be justified byexperience?

Cecily had been long content to accept love as an ultimate fact of herbeing. But it was not Reuben's arguments only that led her to ponderits nature and find names for its qualities. By this time she hadbecome conscious that her love as a wife was somehow altered, modified, since she had been a mother. The time of passionate reveries was goneby. She no longer wrote verses. The book was locked up and kept hidden;if ever she resumed her diary, it must be in a new volume, for thatother was sacred to an undivided love. It would now have been mere idlephrasing, to say that Reuben was all in all to her. And she could notthink of this without some sadness. 

To the average woman maternity is absorbing. Naturally so, for theaverage woman is incapable of poetical passion, and only too glad tofind something that occupies her thoughts from morning to night, arelief from the weariness of her unfruitful mind. It was not to beexpected that Cecily, because she had given birth to a child, should ofa sudden convert herself into a combination of wet and dry nurse, afterthe common model. The mother's love was strong in her, but it could notdestroy, nor even keep in long abeyance, those intellectual energieswhich characterized her. Had she been constrained to occupy herselfceaselessly with the demands of babyhood, something more thanimpatience would shortly have been roused in her: she would haverebelled against the conditions of her sex; the gentle melancholy withwhich she now looked back upon the early days of marriage would havebecome a bitter protest against her slavery to nature. Thesepossibilities in the modern woman correspond to that spirit in themodern man which is in revolt against the law of labour. Picture ReubenElgar reduced to the necessity of toiling for daily bread--that is tosay, brought down from his pleasant heights of civilization to the dullplain where nature tells a man that if he would eat he must first sweatat the furrow; one hears his fierce objurgations, his haughty railingagainst the gods. Cecily did not represent that extreme type of womanto whom the bearing of children has become in itself repugnant; but shewas very far removed from that other type which the world at largestill makes its ideal of the feminine. With what temper would she haveheard the lady in her aunt's drawing-room, who was of opinion that sheshould "stay at home and mind the baby"? Education had made her anindividual; she was nurtured into the disease of thought This child ofhers showed in the frail tenure on which it held its breath how unfitthe mother was for fulfilling her natural functions. Both parentsseemed in admirable health, yet their offspring was a poor, delicate, nervous creature, formed for exquisite sensibility to every evil oflife. Cecily saw this, and partly understood it; her heart was heavythrough the long anxious nights passed in watching by the cradle. 

When they returned to London, Reuben at first made a pretence ofresuming his work. He went now and then to the reading-room, and athome shut himself up in the study; but he no longer voluntarily talkedof his task. Cecily knew what had happened; the fatal lack ofperseverance had once more declared itself. For some weeks sherefrained from inviting his confidence, but of necessity they spoketogether at last. Reuben could no longer disguise the ennui under whichhe was labouring. Instead of sitting in the library, he loitered aboutthe drawing-room; he was often absent through the whole day, and Cecilyknew that he had not been at the Museum. 

"I'm at a stand-still, " he admitted, when the opportunity came. "Idon't see my way so clearly as at first. I must take up some othersubject for a time, and rest my mind. "

They had no society worth speaking of. Mrs. Lessingham had suppliedthem with a few introductions, but these people were now out of town. Earlier in the year neither of them had cared to be assiduous indischarging social obligations, with the natural result that littlenotice was taken of them in turn. Reuben had resumed two or three ofhis old connections; a bachelor acquaintance now and then came to dine;but this was not the kind of society they needed. Impossible for themto utter the truth, and confess that each other's companionship was nolonger all-sufficient. Had Reuben been veritably engaged in seriouswork, Cecily might have gone on for a long time with her own studiesbefore she wearied for lack of variety and friendly voices; as it was, the situation became impossible. 

"Wouldn't you like to belong to a club?" she one day asked. 

And Reuben caught at the suggestion. Not long ago, it would have causedhim to smile rather scornfully. 

Cecily had lost her faith in the great militant book on Puritanism. Thinking about it, when it had been quite out of her mind for a fewdays, she saw the project in a light of such absurdity that, in spiteof herself, she laughed. It was laughter that pained her, like a sob. No, that was not the kind of work for him. What was?

She would think rather of her child and its future. If Clarencelived--if he lived--she herself would take charge of his education forthe first years. She must read the best books that had been written onthe training of children's minds; everything should be smoothed for himby skilful methods. There could be little doubt that he would prove aquick child, and the delight of watching his progress! She imagined hima boy of ten, bright, trustful, happy; he would have no nearer friendthan his mother; between him and her should exist limitless confidence. But a firm hand would be necessary; he would exhibit traits inheritedfrom his father--

Cecily remembered the day when she first knew that she did not wish himto be altogether like his father. Perhaps in no other way could shehave come to so clear an understanding of Reuben's character--at allevents, of those parts of it which had as yet revealed themselves intheir wedded life. She thought of him with an impartiality which hadtill of late been impossible. And then it occurred to her: Had the samechange come over his mind concerning her? Did he feel secretdissatisfactions? If he had a daughter, would he say to himself that inthis and that he would wish her not to resemble her mother?

About once in three months they received a letter from Miriam, addressed always to Cecily. She was living still with the Spences, andstill in Italy. Her letters offered no explanation of this singularfact; indeed, they threw as little light as was possible on the stateof her mind, so brief were they, and so closely confined to statementsof events. Still, it was clear that Miriam no longer shrank from thestudy of profane things. Of Bartles she never spoke. 

Mrs. Spence also wrote to Cecily, the kind of letter to be expectedfrom her, delightful in the reading and pleasant in the memory. But shesaid nothing significant concerning Miriam. 

"Would they welcome us, if we went to see them?" Cecily asked, onecheerless day this winter--it was Clarence's birthday. 

"You can't take the child, " answered Reuben, with some discontent. 

"No; I should not dare to. And it is just as impossible to leave himwith any one. In another year, perhaps. "

Mrs. Lessingham occasionally mentioned Miriam in her letters, andalways with a jest. "I strongly suspect she is studying Greek. Is she, perchance, the author of that delightful paper on 'Modern Paganism, ' inthe current _Fortnightly_? Something strange awaits us, be sure ofthat. "

The winter dragged to its end, and with the spring came Mrs. Lessinghamherself. Instantly the life of the Elgars underwent a complete change. The vivacious lady from Paris saw in the twinkling of an eye howmatters stood; she considered the situation perilous, and set to workmost efficaciously to alter it. With what result, you are aware. Thefirst incident of any importance in the new life was that which hasalready been related, yet something happened one day at the Academy ofwhich it is worth while speaking. 

Cecily had looked in her catalogue for the name of a certain artist, and had found it; he exhibited one picture only. Walking on through therooms with her husband, she came at length to the number she had inmind, and paused before it. 

"Whose is that?" Reuben inquired, looking at the same picture. 

"Mr. Mallard's, " she answered, with a smile, meeting his eyes. 

"Old Mallard's? Really? I was wondering whether he had anything thisyear. "

He seemed to receive the information with genuine pleasure. A little toCecily's surprise, for the name was never mentioned between them, andshe had felt uneasy in uttering it. The picture was a piece ofcoast-scenery in Norway, very grand, cold, desolate; not at all likelyto hold the gaze of Academy visitors, but significant enough for thefew who see with the imagination. 

"Nobody looks at it, you notice, " said Elgar, when they had stood onthe spot for five minutes. 

"Nobody. "

Yet as soon as they had spoken, an old and a young lady came in frontof them, and they heard the young lady say, as she pointed to Mallard'scanvas:

"Where is that, mamma?"

"Oh, Land's End, or some such place, " was the careless reply. "_Do_just look at that _sweet_ little creature playing with the dog! Look atits collar! And that ribbon!"

Reuben turned away and muttered contemptuous epithets; Cecily cast ahaughty and angry glance at the speaker. They passed on, and for thepresent spoke no more of Mallard; but Cecily thought of him, and wouldhave liked to return to the picture before leaving. There was a man who_did_ something, and something worth the doing. Reuben must have had athought not unlike this, for he said, later in the same day:

"I am sorry I never took up painting. I believe I could have madesomething of it. To a certain extent, you see, it is a handicraft thatany man may learn; if one can handle the tools, there's always theincentive to work and produce. By-the-bye, why do you never drawnowadays?"

"I hold the opinion of Miss Denyer--I wonder what's become of her, poorgirl?--that it's no use 'pottering. ' Strange how a casual word canaffect one. I've never cared to draw since she spoke of my 'pottering. '"

This day was the last on which Reuben was quite his wonted self. Cecily, who was not studying him closely just now, did not for a whileobserve any change, but in the end it forced itself upon her attention. She said nothing, thinking it not impossible that he was againdissatisfied with the fruitlessness of his life, and had been made tofeel it more strongly by associating with so many new people. Any signof that kind was still grateful to her. 

She knew now how amiss was her interpretation. The truth she could notaccept as she would have done a year ago; it would then have seemedmore than pardonable, as proving that Reuben's love of her could drivehim into grotesque inconsistencies. But now she only felt it an injury, and in sitting down to write her painful letter to Mrs. Travis, sheacted for the first time in deliberate resentment of her husband'sconduct. 

When the reply from Mrs. Travis instructed him in what had been done, Reuben left the house, and did not return till late at night. Cecilystayed at home, idle. Visitors called in the afternoon, but shereceived no one. After her solitary dinner, she spent weary hours, nowin one room, now in another, unable to occupy herself in any way. Ateleven o'clock she went down to the library, resolving to wait therefor Reuben's return. 

She heard him enter, and heard the servant speaking with him. He cameinto the room, closed the door, sauntered forwards, his hands in hispockets. 

"Why didn't you tell me you would be away all day?" Cecily asked, without stress of remonstrance. 

"I didn't know that I should be. "

He took his favourite position on the corner of the table Examininghim, Cecily saw that his face expressed ennui rather than activedispleasure; there was a little sullenness about his lips, but theknitting of his brows was not of the kind that threatens tempest. 

"Where have you been, dear?"

"At the Museum, the club, and a music-hall. "

"A music-hall?" she repeated, in surprise. 

"Why not? I had to get through the time somehow. I was in a surlytemper; if I'd come home sooner, I should have raged at you. Don't sayanything to irritate me, Ciss; I'm not quite sure of myself yet. "

"But I think the raging would have been preferable; I've had thedreariest day I ever spent. "

"I suppose some one or other called?"

"Yes, but I didn't see them. You have made me very uncertain of howlought to behave. I thought it better to keep to myself till we had cometo a clearer understanding. "

"That is perversity, you know. And it was perversity that led you towrite in such a way to Mrs. Travis. "

"You are quite right. But the provocation was great. And after all Idon't see that there is much difference between writing to her that shemustn't come, and giving directions to a servant that she isn't to beadmitted. "

"You said in the letter that _I_ had forbidden it?"

"Yes, I did. "

"And so made me ridiculous!" he exclaimed petulantly. 

"My dear, you _were_ ridiculous. It's better that you should see itplainly. "

"The letter will be shown to all sorts of people. Your aunt will seeit, of course. You are ingenious in revenging yourself. "

Cecily bent her head, and could not trust herself to speak. All day shehad been thinking of this, and had repented of her foolish haste. Yetconfession of error was impossible in her present mood. 

"As you make such a parade of obedience, " he continued, with increasinganger, "I should think it would be better to obey honestly. I neversaid that I wished you to break with her in this fashion. "

"Anything else would be contemptible. I can't subdue myself to that. "

"Very well; then to be logical you must give up society altogether. Itdemands no end of contemptible things. "

"Will you explain to me why you think that letter will make youridiculous?"

Reuben hesitated. 

"Is it ridiculous, " she added, "for a man to forbid his wife toassociate with a woman of doubtful character?"

"I told you distinctly that I had no definite charge to bring againsther. Caution would have been reasonable enough, but to act as you haverepresented me is sheer Philistinism. "

"Precisely. And it _was_ Philistinism in you to take the matter as youdid. Be frank with me. Why should you wish to have a name for liberalthinking among your acquaintances, and yet behave in private like themost narrow of men?"

"That is your misrepresentation. Of course, if you refuse to understandme--"

He broke off, and went to another part of the room. 

"Shall I tell you what all this means, Reuben?" said Cecily, turningtowards him. "We have lived so long in solitude, that the commoncircumstances of society are strange and disturbing to us. Solitarypeople are theoretical people. You would never have thought offorbidding me to read such and such a book, on the ground that it tookme into doubtful company; the suggestion of such intolerance would havemade you laugh scornfully. You have become an idealist of a curiouskind; you like to think of me as an emancipated woman, and yet, when Ihave the opportunity of making my independence practical, you showyourself alarmed. I am not sure that I understand you entirely; Ishould be very sorry to explain your words of the other night in thesense they would bear on the lips of an ordinary man. Can't you help meout of this difficulty?"

Reuben was reflecting, and had no reply ready. 

"If there is to be all this difference between theory and practice, "Cecily continued, "it must either mean that you think otherwise thanyou speak, or else that I have shown myself in some way veryuntrustworthy. You say you have been angry with me; I have felt bothangry and deeply hurt. Suppose you had known certainly that Mrs. Traviswas not an honourable woman, even then it was wrong to speak to me asyou did. Even then it would have been inconsistent to forbid me to seeher. You put yourself and me on different levels. You make me yourinferior--morally your inferior. What should you say if I began to warnyou against one or other of the men you know--if I put on a stern face, and told you that your morals were in danger?"

"Pooh! what harm can a man take?"

"And pray what harm can a woman take, if her name happens to be CecilyElgar?"

She drew herself up, and stood regarding him with superbself-confidence. 

"Without meaning it, you insult me, Reuben. You treat me as a vulgarhusband treats a vulgar wife. What harm to me do you imagine? Don't letus deal in silly evasions and roundabout phrases. Do you distrust myhonour? Do you think I can be degraded by association? What womanliving has power to make me untrue to myself?"

"You are getting rhetorical, Cecily. Then at this rate I should _never_be justified in interfering?"

"In interfering with mere command, never. "

"Not if I saw you going to destruction?"

She smiled haughtily. 

"When it comes to that, we'll discuss the question anew. But I see thatyou think it possible. Evidently I have given proof of some dangerousweakness. Tell me what it is, and I shall understand you better. "

"I'm afraid all this talk leads to nothing. You claim an independencewhich will make it very difficult for us to live on the old terms. "

"I claim nothing more than your own theories have always granted. "

"Then practice shows that the theories are untenable, as in manyanother case. "

"You refuse me the right to think for myself. "

"In some things, yes. Because, as I said before, you haven't experienceenough to go upon. "

Cecily cast down her eyes. She forced herself to keep silence untilthat rush of indignant rebellion had gone by. Reuben looked at heraskance. 

"If you still loved me as you once did, " he said, in a lower voice, "this would be no hardship. Indeed, I should never have had to uttersuch words. "

"I still do love you, " she answered, very quietly. "If I did not, Ishould revolt against your claim. But it is too certain that we nolonger live on the old terms. "

They avoided each other's eyes, and after a long silence left the roomwithout again speaking. 

CHAPTER IV

THE DENYERS IN ENGLAND

"There!" said Mrs. Denyer, laying money on the table. "There are yourwages, up to the end of April--notwithstanding your impertinence to methis morning, you see. Once more I forgive you. And new get on withyour work, and let us have no more unpleasantness. "

It was in the back parlour of a small house at Hampstead, a roomscantily furnished and not remarkably clean. Mrs. Denyer sat at thetable, some loose papers before her. She was in mourning, but stillfresh of complexion, and a trifle stouter than when she lived atNaples, two years and a half ago. Her words were addressed to adomestic (most plainly, of all work), who without ceremony gathered thecoins up in both her hands, counted them, and then said with decision:

"Now I'm goin', mum. "

"Going? Indeed you are not, my girl! You don't leave this house withoutthe due notice. "

"Notice or no notice, I'm a-goin', " said the other, firmly. "I neverthought to a' got even this much, an' now I've got it, I'm a-goin'. It's wore me out, has this 'ouse; what with--"

The conflict lasted for a good quarter of an hour, but the domestic wasto be shaken neither with threats nor prayers. Resolutely did sheascend to her bedroom, promptly did she pack her box. Almost beforeMrs. Denyer could realize the disaster that had befallen, her house wasservantless. 

She again sat in the back parlour, gazing blankly at the table, whenthere came the sound of the house-door opening, followed by a lighttread in the passage. 

"Barbara!" called Mrs. Denyer. 

Barbara presented herself. She also wore mourning, genteel butinexpensive. Her prettiness endured, but she was pale, and had achronic look of discontent. 

"Well, now, what do you think has happened? Shut the door. I paidCharlotte the wages, and the very first thing she did was to pack andgo!"

"And you mean to say you let her? Why, you must be crazy!"

"Don't speak to me in that way!" cried her mother, hotly. "How could Iprevent her, when she was determined? I did my utmost, but nothingcould induce her to stay. Was ever anything so distracting? The veryday after letting our rooms! How are we to manage?"

"I shall have nothing to do with it. The girl wouldn't have gone if I'dbeen here. You must manage how you can. "

"It's no use talking like that, Barbara. You're bound to wait upon Mrs. Travis until we get another girl. "

"I?" exclaimed her daughter. "Wait on her yourself! I certainly shalldo nothing of the kind. "

"You're a bad, cruel, undutiful girl!" cried Mrs. Denyer, her face onfire. "Nether of your sisters ever treated me as you do. You're theonly one of the family that has never given the least help, and you'rethe only one that day by day insults me and behaves with heartlessselfishness! I'm to wait on the lodger myself, am I? Very well! I willdo so, and see if anything in the world will shame you. She shall know_why_ I wait on her, be sure of that!"

Barbara swept out of the room, and ascended the stairs to the secondfloor. Here again she heard her name called, in a soft voice andinterrogatively in reply, she entered a small bedroom, sayingimpatiently:

"What is it, Mad?"

It was seen at the first glance that this had long been a sick-chamber. The arrangement of the furniture, the medicine-bottles, the appliancesfor the use of one who cannot rise from bed, all told their story. Theair had a peculiar scent; an unnatural stillness seemed to pervade it. Against the raised white pillow showed a face hardly less white. 

"Isn't it provoking, Barbara?" said the invalid, without moving in theleast. "Whatever shall you do?"

"As best we can, I suppose. I've to turn cook and housemaid andparlour-maid, now. Scullery-maid too. I suppose I shall clean the stepsto-morrow morning. "

"Oh, but you must go to the registry-office the very first thing. Don'tupset yourself about it. If you can just manage to get that lady'sdinner. "

"It's all very well for you to talk! How would _you_ like to _wait_ onpeople, like a girl in a restaurant?"

"Ah, if only I could!" replied Madeline, with a little laugh that washeart-breaking. "If only I could!"

In a month it would be two years since Madeline stood and walked likeother people; live as long as she might, she would never rise from herbed. It came about in this way. Whilst the Denyers were living in thesecond-class hotel at Southampton, and when Mr. Denyer had been gone toVera Cruz some five months, a little ramble was taken one day in a partof the New Forest. Madeline was in particularly good spirits; she hadsucceeded in getting an engagement to teach some children, and her workwas to begin the next day. In a frolic she set herself to jump over afallen tree; her feet slipped on the dry grass beyond, and she fellwith her back upon the trunk. 

This was pleasant news to send to her father! With him things weregoing as well as he had anticipated, and before long he was able tomake substantial remittances, but his letters were profoundly sad. In ayear's time, the family quitted Southampton and took the house atHampstead; with much expense and difficulty Madeline was removed. Mrs. Denyer and Barbara were weary of provincial life, and considerednothing in their resolve to be within reach of London amusements. Zillah was living as governess with a family in Yorkshire. 

They had been settled at Hampstead three weeks, when informationreached them that Mr. Denyer was dead of yellow fever. 

On the day when this news came, the house received no less important avisitor than Mr. Musselwhite. Long ago, Mrs. Denyer had written to himfrom Southampton, addressing her letter to the club in London of whichhe had spoken; she had received a prompt reply, dated from rooms inLondon, and thenceforth the correspondence was established. But Mr. Musselwhite never spoke of coming to Southampton; his letters endedwith "Sincere regards to Miss Denyer and the other young ladies, " butthey contained nothing that was more to the point. He wrote about theweather chiefly. Arrived in London, Mrs. Denyer at once sent aninvitation, and to her annoyance this remained unanswered. To-day theexplanation was forthcoming; Mr. Musselwhite had been on a journey, andby some mistake the letter had only come into his hands when hereturned. He was most gentlemanly in his expressions of condolementwith the family in their distress; he sat with them, moreover, muchlonger than was permissible under the circumstances by the code ofsociety. And on going, he begged to be allowed to see themfrequently--that was all. 

Barbara could not control herself for irritation; Mrs. Denyer wasindignant. Yet, after all, was it to be expected that the visitorshould say or do more on such an occasion as this? In any case, he knewwhat their position was; all had been put before him, as though he werea member of the family. If they succeeded in obtaining whatever Mr. Denyer had died possessed of, it would certainly be nothing more than aprovision for the present. When they spoke of taking a lodger for theirfirst floor, Mr. Musselwhite agreed that this was a good thought, whilst shaking his gentlemanly head over the necessity. 

He came again and again, always sadly sympathetic. He would sit in thedrawing-room for an hour, pulling his whiskers and moustachesnervously, often glancing at Barbara, making the kindest inquiriesconcerning Madeline, for whom he actually brought flowers. On one ofthese occasions, he told them that his brother the baronet was veryill, down at the "place in Lincolnshire. " And after mentioning this, hefell into abstraction. 

As for Madeline, she still received letters from Clifford Marsh. Onfirst hearing of the accident, Clifford at once came to Southampton;his distress was extreme. But it was useless for him to remain, andbusiness demanded his return to Leeds. Neither he nor Madeline was yetaware of the gravity of what had happened; they talked of recovery. Before long Madeline knew how her situation was generally regarded, butshe could not abandon hope; she was able to write, and not a word inher letters betrayed a doubt of the possibility that she might yet bewell again. Clifford wrote very frequently for the first year, with agreat deal of genuine tenderness, with compassion and encouragement. Never mind how long her illness lasted, let her be assured of hisfidelity; no one but Madeline should ever be his wife. A considerablepart of his letters was always occupied with lamentation over thecursed fate that bound him to the Philistines, though he took care torepeat that this was the result of his own choice, and that he blamedno one--unless it were his gross-minded step-father, who had driven himto such an alternative. These bewailings grew less vehement as hisletters became shorter and arrived at longer intervals; there began tobe a sameness in the tone, even in the words. When his yearly holidaycame round, he promised to visit Southampton, but after all never didso. What was the use? he wrote. It only meant keener misery to both. Instead of coming south, he had gone into Scotland. 

And Madeline no longer expressed a wish to see him. Her own lettersgrew shorter and calmer, containing at length very little aboutherself, but for the most part news of family affairs. Every now andthen Clifford seemed to rouse himself to the effort of repeating hisprotestations, of affirming his deathless faith; but as a rule he wroteabout trifles, sometimes even of newspaper matters. So did the secondyear of Madeline's martyrdom come to its close. 

Quarrelling incessantly, Mrs. Denyer and Barbara prepared the lodger'sdinner between them. This Mrs. Travis was not exacting; she hadstipulated only for a cutlet, or something of the kind, with twovegetables, and a milk pudding. Whatever was proposed seemed to suither. The Denyers knew nothing about her, except that she was able torefer them to a lady who had a house in Mayfair; her husband, she said, was abroad. She had brought a great deal of luggage, including books tothe number of fifty or so. 

When the moment for decision came, Barbara snatched up the folded whitetable-cloth, threw it with knives, forks, and plates upon a tray, andascended to the lodger's sitting-room. Her cheeks were hot; her eyesflashed. She had donned the most elegant attire in her possession, hadmade her hair magnificent. Her knock at the door was meant to be adeclaration of independence; it sounded peremptory. 

Mrs. Travis was in an easy-chair, reading. She looked up absently; thensmiled. 

"Good evening, Miss Denyer. How close it has been again!"

"Very. I must ask you to excuse me, Mrs. Travis, if I do these thingsrather awkwardly. At a moment's notice, we have lost the servant whoseduty it was. "

"Oh, I am only sorry that you should have the trouble. Let us lay thetable together. I've done it often enough for myself. No, that's thewrong side of the cloth. I'll put these things in order, whilst you gofor the rest. "

Barbara looked at Mrs. Travis with secret disdain. The girl's naturewas plebeian; a little arrogance would have constrained her to respect, however she might have seemed to resent it. This good-naturedindifference made her feel that her preparations were thrown away. Shewould have preferred to see herself as a martyr. 

When dinner was over and the table being cleared, Mrs. Travis spoke ofMadeline. 

"Does she sleep well at night?"

"Never till very late, " replied Barbara. 

"Does she like to be read to?"

"Oh yes--reading of certain kinds. I often read Italian poetry to her. "

Mrs. Travis had not now to learn for the first time of the family'ssuperior attainments; it had been Mrs. Denyer's care to impress uponher that they were no ordinary letters of lodgings. Indeed, said Mrs. Denyer, they were rather _depaysees_' here in England; they had so longbeen accustomed to the larger intellectual atmosphere of Continentalcentres. "The poor girls pine for Italy; they have always adored Italy. My eldest daughter is far more Italian than English. "

"Well, I don't read Italian, " said Mrs. Travis to Barbara, "but ifEnglish would do, I should really like to sit with her for an hoursometimes. I never sleep myself if I go to bed before midnight. Do youthink she would care for my company?"

"I am sure she would be grateful to you, " answered Barbara, who feltthat she might now exhibit a little politeness. 

"Then please ask her if I may come to-night. "

This request was readily granted, and at about half-past nine Mrs. Travis went into the sick-chamber, taking in her hand a volume ofBrowning. Madeline had not yet seen the lodger; she returned hergreeting in a murmur, and examined her with the steady eyes of one whomgreat suffering has delivered from all petty embarrassments. Her facewas not so calm as when Barbara came to speak to her in the afternoon;lines of pain showed themselves on her forehead, and her thin lips werecompressed. 

"It's very good of you to come, " she said, when Mrs. Travis had taken aseat by the bed. "But please don't read anything to-night. I don't feelthat I could take any interest. It is so sometimes. "

"Naturally enough. But do you feel able to talk?"

"Yes; I had rather talk. Can you tell me something quite new anddifferent from what I'm accustomed to hear? Do you know any countrywhere I haven't been?"

"I haven't travelled much. Last autumn I was in Iceland for a fewweeks; would you care to hear of that?"

"Very much. Just talk as if you were going over it in your memory. Don't mind if I close my eyes; I shan't be asleep; it helps me toimagine, that's all. "

Mrs. Travis did as she was asked. Now and then Madeline put a question. When at length there came a pause, she said abruptly:

"I suppose it seems dreadful to you, to see me lying here like this?"

"It makes me wish I had it in my power to relieve you. "

"But does it seem dreadful? Could you bear to imagine yourself in thesame case? I want you to tell me truthfully. I'm not an uneducatedgirl, you know; I can think about life and death as people do nowadays. "

Mrs. Travis looked at her curiously. 

"I can imagine positions far worse, " she answered. 

"That means, of course, that you could not bear to picture yourself inthis. But it's strange how one can get used to it. The first year Isuffered horribly--in mind, I mean. But then I still had hope. I havenone now, and that keeps my mind calmer. A paradox, isn't it? It'salways possible, you know, that I may feel such a life unendurable atlast, and then I should hope to find a means of bringing it to an end. For instance, if we become so poor that I am too great a burden. Ofcourse I wouldn't live in a hospital. I don't mean I should be tooproud, but the atmosphere would be intolerable. And one really needn'tlive, after one has decided that it's no use. "

"I don't know what to say about that, " murmured Mrs. Travis. 

"No; you haven't had the opportunity of thinking it over, as I have. Ican imagine myself reaching the point when I should not care to havehealth again, even if it were offered me. I haven't come to that yet;oh no! To-night I am feeling dreadfully what I have lost--not like Iused to, but still dreadfully. Will you tell me something aboutyourself? What kind of books do you like?"

"Pretty much the same as you do, I should fancy. I like to know whatnew things people are discovering, and how the world looks to clevermen. But I can't study; I have no perseverance. I read the reviews agood deal. "

"You'd never guess the last book I have read. It lies on the chest ofdrawers there--a treatise on all the various kinds of paralysis. Theword 'paralysis' used to have the most awful sound to me; now I'm sofamiliar with it that it has ceased to be shocking and becomeinteresting. What I am suffering from is called _paraplegia_; that'swhen the lower half of the body is affected; it comes from injury ordisease of the spinal cord. The paralysis begins at the point in thevertebral column where the injury was received. But it tends to spreadupward. If it gets as far as certain nerves upon which the movements ofthe diaphragm depend, then you die. I wonder whether that will be mycase?"

Mrs. Travis kept her eyes on the girl during this singular littlelecture; she felt the fascination which is exercised by strange mentalphenomena. 

"Do you know Italy?" Madeline asked, with sudden transition. 

"I have travelled through it, like other tourists. "

"You went to Naples?"

"Yes. "

"If I close my eyes, how well I can see Naples! Now I am walkingthrough the Villa Nazionale. I come out into the Largo Vittoria, wherethe palm-trees are--do you remember? Now I might go into theChiatamone, between the high houses; but instead of that I'll turn downinto Via Caracciolo and go along by the sea, till I'm opposite theCastel dell' Ovo. Now I'm turning the corner and coming on to SantaLucia, where there are stalls with shells and ices and fish. I cansmell the Santa Lucia. And to think that I shall never see it again, never again. --Don't stay any longer now, Mrs. Travis. I can't talk anymore. Thank you for being so kind. "

In a week's time it had become a regular thing for Mrs. Travis to spendan hour or two daily with Madeline. Their conversation was suitableenough to a sick-chamber, yet strangely unlike what is wont to pass insuch places. On Madeline's side it was thoroughly morbid; on that ofher visitor, a curious mixture of unhealthy speculation and purefeeling. Mrs. Travis was at first surprised that the suffering girlnever seemed to think of ordinary religion as a solace. She herself hadno fixity of faith; her mind played constantly with creeds of negation;but she felt it as an unnatural thing for one of Madeline's age toprofess herself wholly without guidance on so dark a journey. Andpresently she began to doubt whether the profession were genuine. Thecharacteristic of the family was pretence and posing; Mrs. Denyer andBarbara illustrated that every time they spoke. Not impossibly Madelinedid but declare the same tendency in her rambling and quasi-philosophictalk. She was fond of warning Mrs. Travis against attributing to herthe common prejudices of women. And yet, were it affectation, then thehabit must be so inextricably blended with her nature as to have becomein practice a genuine motive in the mind's working. Madeline wouldspeculate on the difference between one of her "culture" in thecircumstances and the woman who is a slave of tradition; and a momentafter she would say something so profoundly pathetic that it broughttears to her companion's eyes. 

Mrs. Travis never spoke of her personal affairs; Madeline could supplyno food for the curiosity of her mother and sister when they questionedher about the long private conversations. The lodger received novisitors, and seldom a letter. In the morning she went out for an hour, generally towards the heath; occasionally she was from home until lateat night. About the quality of the attendance given her she was whollyindifferent; in spite of frequent inconveniences, she made her weeklypayments without a word of dissatisfaction. She had a feweccentricities of behaviour which the Denyers found it difficult toreconcile with the refinement of her ordinary conduct. Once or twice, when the servant went into her sitting-room the first thing in themorning, she was surprised to find Mrs. Travis lying asleep on thecouch, evidently just as she had come home the previous night, exceptthat her bonnet was removed. It had happened, too, that when some onecame and knocked at her door during the day, she vouchsafed no answer, and yet made the sound of moving about, as if to show that she did notchoose to be disturbed, for whatever reason. 

The household went its regular way. Mrs. Denyer sat in her wonted idledignity, or scolded the hard-driven maid-of-all-work, or quarrelledfiercely with Barbara. Barbara was sullen, insolent, rebellious againstfate, by turns. Up in the still room lay poor Madeline, seldom visitedby either of the two save when it was necessary. All knew that theposition of things had no security; before long there must come acrisis worse than any the family had yet experienced. Unless, indeed, that one hope which remained to them could be realized. 

One afternoon at the end of July, mother and daughter were sitting overtheir tea, lamenting the necessity which kept them in London when theeternal fitness of things demanded that they should be preparing fortravel. They heard a vehicle draw up before the house, and Barbara, making cautious espial from the windows, exclaimed that it was Mr. Musselwhite. 

"He has a lot of flowers, as usual, " she added, scornfully, watchinghim as he paid the cabman. "Go into the back room, mamma. Let's sayyou're not at home to-day. Send for the teapot, and get some more teamade. "

There came a high-bred knock at the front door, and Mrs. Denyerdisappeared. 

Mr. Musselwhite entered with a look and bearing much graver than usual. He made the proper remarks, and gave Barbara the flowers for her sisterthen seated himself, and stroked his moustache. 

"Miss Denyer, " he began, when Barbara waited wearily for the familiartopic, "my brother, Sir Grant, died a week ago. "

"I am very grieved to hear it, " she replied, mechanically, at onceabsorbed in speculation as to whether this would make any change thatconcerned her. 

"It was a long and painful illness, and recovery was known to beimpossible. Yet I too cannot help grieving. As you know, we had notseen much of each other for some years, but I had the very highestopinion of Sir Grant, and it always gave me pleasure to think of him asthe head of our family. He was a man of great abilities, and a kindman. "

"I am sure he was--from what you have told me of him. "

"My nephew succeeds to the title and the estate; he is now Sir RolandMusselwhite. I have mentioned him in our conversations. He is aboutthirty-four, a very able man, and very kind, very generous. "

There was a distinct tremor in his voice; he pulled his moustachevigorously. Barbara listened with painful eagerness. 

"If you will forgive me for speaking of my private circumstances, MissDenyer, I should like to tell you that for some years I have enjoyedonly a very restricted income; a bachelor's allowance--really itamounted to nothing more than that. In consequence of that, my life hasbeen rather unsettled; I scarcely knew what to do with myself, in fact;now and then time has been rather heavy on my hands. You may havenoticed that, for I know you are observant. "

He waited for her to say whether she had or had not observed thispeculiarity in him. 

"I have sometimes been afraid that was the case, " said Barbara. 

"I quite thought so. " He smiled with gratification. "But now--if I mayspeak a little longer of these personal matters--all that is altered, and by the very great kindness, the generosity, of my nephew SirRoland. Sir Roland has seen fit to put me in possession of an incomejust three times what I have hitherto commanded. This does not, MissDenyer, make me a wealthy man; far from it. But it puts certain thingswithin my reach that I could not think of formerly. For instance, Ishall be able to take a modest house, either in the country, or here inone of the suburbs. It's my wish to do so. My one great wish is tosettle down and have something to--to occupy my time. "

Barbara breathed a faint approval. 

"You may wonder, Miss Denyer, why I trouble you with these details. Perhaps I might be pardoned for doing so, if I spoke with--with adesire for your friendly sympathy. But there is more than that in mymind. The day is come, Miss Denyer, when I am able to say what I wouldgladly have said before our parting at Naples, if it had beenjustifiable in me. That is rather a long time ago, but the feeling Ithen had has only increased in the meanwhile. Miss Denyer, I desirehumbly to ask if you will share with me my new prosperity, such as itis?"

The interview lasted an hour and a quarter. Mrs. Denyer panted withimpatience in the back parlour. Such an extended visit could not buthave unusual significance. On hearing the door of the other room open, she stood up and listened. But there was no word in the passage, noaudible murmur. 

The front door closed, and in two ticks of the clock Barbara cameheadlong into the parlour. With broken breath, with hysterical laughingand sobbing, she made known what had happened. It was too much for her;the relief of suspense, the absolute triumph, were more than she couldsupport with decency. Mrs. Denyer shed tears, and embraced her daughteras if they had always been on the fondest terms. 

"Go up and tell Maddy!"

But, as not seldom befalls, happiness inspired Barbara with a delicacyof feeling to which as a rule she was a stranger. 

"I don't like to, mamma. It seems cruel. "

"But you can't help it, my dear; and she must know tomorrow if notto-day. "

So before long Barbara went upstairs. She entered the room softly. Madeline had her eyes fixed on the ceiling, and did not move them asher sister approached the bed. 

"Maddy!"

Then indeed she looked at the speaker, and with surprise, so unwontedwas this tone on Barbara's lips. Surprise was quickly succeeded by asmile. 

"I know, Barbara; I understand. "

"What? How can you?"

"I heard a cab drive up, and I heard a knock at the door. 'That's Mr. Musselwhite, ' I thought. He has been here a long time, and now Iunderstand. You needn't tell me. "

"But there's a good deal to tell that you can't have found out, quickas you are. "

And she related the circumstances. Madeline listened with her eyes onthe ceiling. 

"We shall be married very soon, " Barbara added; "as soon as a house canbe chosen. Of course it must be in London, or very near. We shall gosomewhere or other, and then, very likely, pay a formal visit to the'place in Lincolnshire. ' Think of that! Sir Roland seems a good sort ofman; he will welcome us. Think of visiting at the 'place inLincolnshire'! Isn't it all like a dream?"

"What will mamma do without you?"

"Oh, Zillah is to come home. We'll see about that. "

"I suppose he forgot to bring me some flowers today?"

"No But I declare I forgot to bring them up. I'll fetch them at once. "

She did so, running downstairs and up again like a child, with a jumpat the landings. The flowers were put in the usual place. Madelinelooked at them, and listened to her sister's chatter for five minutes. Then she said absently:

"Go away now, please. I've heard enough for the present. "

"You shall have all sorts of comforts, Maddy. "

"Go away, Barbara. "

The sister obeyed, looking back with compassion from the door. Sheclosed it softly, and in the room there was the old perfect stillness. Madeline had let her eyelids fall, and the white face against the whitepillows was like that of one dead. But upon the eyelashes therepresently shone a tear; it swelled, broke away, and left a track ofmoisture. Poor white face, with the dark hair softly shadowing itstemples! Poor troubled brain, wearying itself in idle questioning ofpowers that heeded not!

CHAPTER V

MULTUM IN PARVO

Elgar's marriage had been a great success. For a year and a half, foreven more than that, he had lived the fullest and most consistent lifeof which he was capable; what proportion of the sons of men can lookback on an equal span of time in their own existence and say the sameof it?

Life with Cecily gave predominance to all the noblest energies in hisnature. He loved with absolute sincerity; his ideal of womanhood wasfor the time realized and possessed; the vagrant habit of his sensesseemed permanently subdued; his mind was occupied with high admirationsand creative fancies; in thought and speech he was ardent, generous, constant, hopeful. A happy marriage can do no more for man than makeunshadowed revelation of such aspiring faculty as he is endowed withal. It cannot supply him with a force greater than he is born to; even asthe happiest concurrence of healthful circumstances cannot give morestrength to a physical constitution than its origin warrants. At thisperiod of his life, Reuben Elgar could not have been more than, withCecily's help, he showed himself. Be the future advance orretrogression, he had lived the possible life. 

Whose the fault that it did not continue? Cecily's, if it wereblameworthy to demand too much; Elgar's, if it be wrong to learn one'sown limitations. 

His making definite choice of a subject whereon to employ his intellectwas at one and the same time a proof of how far his development hadprogressed and a warning of what lay before him. However chaotic thematerial in which he proposed to work, however inadequate his powers, it was yet a truth that, could he execute anything at all, it would besomething of the kind thus vaguely contemplated. His intellect wascombative, and no subject excited it to such activity as this ofHebraic constraint in the modern world. Elgar's book, supposing him tohave been capable of writing it, would have resembled no other; itwould have been, as he justly said, unique in its anti-dogmaticpassion. It was quite in the order of things that he should propose towrite it; equally so, that the attempt should mark the end of hishappiness. 

For all that she seemed to welcome the proposal with enthusiasm, Cecily's mind secretly misgave her. She had begun to understand Reuben, and she foresaw, with a certainty which she in vain tried to combat, how soon his energy would fail upon so great a task. Impossible toadmonish him; impossible to direct him on a humbler path, where hemight attain some result. With Reuben's temperament to deal with, thatwould mean a fatal disturbance of their relations to each other. Thatthe disturbance must come in any case, now that he was about to provehimself, she anticipated in many a troubled moment, but would not letthe forecast discourage her. 

Elgar knew how his failure in perseverance affected her; he looked forthe signs of her disappointment, and was at no loss to find them. Itwas natural to him to exaggerate the diminution of her esteem; heattributed to her what, in her place, he would himself have felt; hesoon imagined that she had as good as ceased to love him. He could notbear to be less in her eyes than formerly; a jealous shame stung him, and at length made him almost bitter against her. 

In this way came about his extraordinary outbreak that night whenCecily had been alone to her aunt's. Pent-up irritation drove him intothe extravagances which to Cecily were at first incredible. He couldnot utter what was really in his mind, and the charges he made againsther were modes of relieving himself. Yet, as soon as they had oncetaken shape, these rebukes obtained a real significance of their own. Coincident with Cecily's disappointment in him had been the suddenexhibition of her pleasure in society. Under other circumstances, hiswife's brilliancy among strangers might have been pleasurable to Elgar. His faith in her was perfect, and jealousy of the ignobler kind camenot near him. But he felt that she was taking refuge from the dulnessof her home; he imagined people speaking of him as "the husband of Mrs. Elgar;" it exasperated him to think of her talking with clever men whomust necessarily suggest comparisons to her. 

He himself was not the kind of man who shines in company. He had neverbeen trained to social usages, and he could not feel at ease in anydrawing-room but his own. The Bohemianism of his early life had evengiven him a positive distaste for social obligations and formalities. Among men of his own way of thinking, he could talk vigorously, and asa rule keep the lead in conversation; but where restraint in phrase wasneedful, he easily became flaccid, and the feeling that he did not showto advantage filled him with disgust. So there was little chance of hisever winning that sort of reputation which would have enabled him toaccompany his wife into society without the galling sense of playing aninferior _role_. 

In the matter of Mrs. Travis, he was conscious of his ownarbitrariness, but, having once committed himself to a point of view, he could not withdraw from it. He had to find fault with his wife andher society, and here was an obvious resource. Its very obviousnessshould, of course, have warned him away, but his reason for attackingMrs. Travis had an intimate connection with the general causes of hisdiscontent. Disguise it how he might, he was simply in the position ofa husband who fears that his authority over his wife is weakening. Mrs. Travis, as he knew, was a rebel against her own husband--no matter thecause. She would fill Cecily's mind with sympathetic indignation; theeffect would be to make Cecily more resolute in independence. Added tothis, there was, in truth, something of that conflict betweentheoretical and practical morality of which his wife spoke. Itdeveloped in the course of argument; he recognized that, whilst havingall confidence in Cecily, he could not reconcile himself to herassociating with a woman whose conduct was under discussion. The morehe felt his inconsistency, the more arbitrary he was compelled to be. Motives confused themselves and harassed him. In his present mood, thedanger of such a state of things was greater than he knew, and of quiteanother kind than Cecily was prepared for. 

"What is all this about Mrs. Travis?" inquired Mrs. Lessingham, with asmile, when she came to visit Cecily. Reuben was out, and the ladiessat alone in the drawing-room. 

Cecily explained what had happened, but in simple terms, and withoutmeaning to show that any difference of opinion had arisen between herand Reuben. 

"You have heard of it from Mrs. Travis herself?" she asked, inconclusion. 

"Yes. She expressed no resentment, however; spoke as if she thought ita little odd, that was all. But what has Reuben got into his head?"

"It seems he has heard unpleasant rumours about her. "

"Then why didn't he come and speak to me? She is absolutely blameless:I can answer for it. Her husband is the kind of man-- Did you ever readFielding's 'Amelia'? To be sure; well, you understand. I much doubtwhether she is wise in leaving him; ten to one, she'll go back again, and that is more demoralizing than putting up with the other indignity. She has a very small income of her own, and what is her life to be?Surely you are the last people who should abandon her. That is the kindof thing that makes such a woman desperate. She seems to have made asort of appeal to you. I am but moderately in her confidence, and Ibelieve she hasn't one bosom friend. It's most fortunate that Reubentook such a whim. Send him to me, will you?"

Cecily made known this request to her husband, and there followedanother long dialogue between them, the only result of which was toincrease their mutual coldness. Cecily proposed that they should atonce leave town, instead of waiting for the end of the season; in thisway all their difficulties would be obviated. Elgar declined theproposal; he had no desire to spoil her social pleasures. 

"That is already done, past help, " Cecily rejoined, with the first noteof bitterness. "I no longer care to visit, nor to receive guests. "

"I noticed the other day your ingenuity in revenging yourself. "

"I say nothing but the simple truth. Had you rather I went out andenjoyed myself without any reference to your wishes?"

"From the first you made up your mind to misunderstand me, " saidReuben, with the common evasion of one who cannot defend his course. 

Cecily brought the dispute to an end by her silence. The next morningReuben went to see Mrs. Lessingham, and heard what she had to say aboutMrs. Travis. 

"What is your evidence against her?" she inquired, after a littlebanter. 

"Some one who knows Travis very well assured me that the fault was notall on his side. "

"Of course. It is more to the point to hear what those have to say whoknow his wife, Surely you acted with extraordinary haste. "

With characteristic weakness, Elgar defended himself by detailing thecourse of events. It was not he who had been precipitate, but Cecily;he was never more annoyed than when he heard of that foolish letter. 

"Go home and persuade her to write another, " said Mrs. Lessingham. "Lether confess that there was a misunderstanding. I am sure Mrs. Traviswill accept it. She has a curious character; very sensitive, and veryimpulsive, but essentially trustful and warm-hearted. You should haveheard the pathetic surprise with which she told me of Cecily's letter. "

"I should rather have imagined her speaking contemptuously. "

"It would have been excusable, " replied the other, with a laugh. "Andvery likely that would have been her tone had it concerned any oneelse. But she has a liking for Cecily. Go home, and get this foolishmistake remedied, there's a good boy. "

Elgar left the house and walked eastward, into Praed Street. As hewalked, he grew less and less inclined to go home at once. He could notresolve how to act. It would be a satisfaction to have done withdiscord, but he had no mind to submit to Cecily and entreat her to apeace. 

He walked on, across Edgware Road, into Marylebone Road, absorbed inhis thoughts. Their complexion became darker. He found a perversesatisfaction in picturing Cecily's unhappiness. Let her suffer alittle; she was causing _him_ uneasiness enough. The probability wasthat she derided his recent behaviour; it had doubtless sunk him stillmore in her estimation. The only way to recover his lost ground was tobe as open with her as formerly, to confess all his weaknesses andfoolish motives; but his will resisted. He felt coldly towards her; shewas no longer the woman he loved and worshipped, but one who hadasserted a superiority of mind and character, and belittled him tohimself. He was tired of her society--the simple formula whichsufficiently explains so many domestic troubles. 

He would have lunch somewhere in town; then see whether he feltdisposed to go home or not. 

In the afternoon he loitered about the Strand, looking at portraits inshop-windows and at the theatre-doors. Home was more, instead of less, repugnant to him. He wanted to postpone decision; but if he returned toCecily, it would be necessary to say something, and in his present moodhe would be sure to make matters worse, for he felt quarrelsome. Howabsurd it was for two people, just because they were married, to liveperpetually within sight of each other! Wasn't it Godwin who, onmarrying, made an arrangement that he and his wife should inhabitseparate abodes, and be together only when they wished? The onlyrational plan, that. Should he take train and go out of town for a fewdays? If only he had some one for company; but it was wearisome tospend the time in solitude. 

To aggravate his dulness, the sky had clouded over, and presently itbegan to rain. He had no umbrella. Quite unable to determine whither heshould go if he took a cab, he turned aside to the shelter of anarchway. Some one was already standing there, but in his abstraction hedid not know whether it was man or woman, until a little cough, twiceor thrice repeated, made him turn his eyes. Then he saw that hiscompanion was a girl of about five-and-twenty, with a pretty, good-natured face, which wore an embarrassed smile. He gazed at herwith a look of surprised recognition. 

"Well, it really _is_ you!" she exclaimed, laughing and looking down. 

"And it is really _you_!"

They shook hands, again examining each other. 

"I thought you didn't mean to know me. "

"I hadn't once looked at you. But you have changed a good deal. "

"Not more than you have, I'm sure. "

"And what are you doing? You look much more cheerful than you used to. "

"I can't say the same of you. "

"Have you been in London all the time?"

"Oh no. Two years ago I went back to Liverpool, and had a place therefor nearly six months. But I got tired of it. In a few days I'm goingto Brighton; I've got a place in a restaurant. Quite time, too; I'vehad nothing for seven weeks. "

"I've often thought about you, " said Elgar, after a pause. 

"But you never came to see how I was getting on. "

"Oh, I supposed you were married long since. "

She laughed, and shook her head. 

"You are, though, I suppose?" she asked. 

"Not I!"

They talked with increasing friendliness until the rain stopped, thenwalked away together in the direction of the City. 

About dinner-time, Cecily received a telegram. It was from her husband, and informed her that he had left town with a friend for a day or two. 

This was the first instance of such a proceeding on Reuben's part. Fora moment, it astonished her. Which of his friends could it be? But whenthe surprise had passed, she reflected more on his reasons forabsenting himself, and believed that she understood them. He wished topunish her; he thought she would be anxious about him, and so come toadopt a different demeanour when he returned. Ever so slight asuspicion of another kind occurred to her once or twice, but she had nodifficulty in dismissing it. No; this was merely one of his tactics inthe conflict that had begun between them. 

And his absence was a relief. She too wanted to think for a while, undisturbed. When she had seen the child bed and asleep, she movedabout the house with a strange sense of freedom, seeming to breathemore naturally than for several days. She went to the piano, and playedsome favourite pieces, among them one which she had learnt long ago inParis. It gave her a curiously keen pleasure, like a revival of hergirlhood; she lingered over it, and nursed the impression. Then sheread a little--not continuously, but dipping into familiar books. Itwas holiday with her. And when she lay down to rest, the sense of beingalone was still grateful. Sleep came very soon, and she did not stirtill morning. 

On the third day Elgar returned, at noon. She heard the cab thatbrought him. He lingered in the hall, opened the library door; thencame to the drawing-room, humming an air. His look was as different ascould be from that she had last seen on his face; he came towards herwith his pleasantest smile, and first kissed her hand, then embracedher in the old way. 

"You haven't been anxious about me, Ciss?"

"Not at all, " she replied quietly, rather permitting his caresses thanencouraging them. 

"Some one I hadn't met for several years. He was going down toBrighton, and persuaded me to accompany him. I didn't writebecause--well, I thought it would be better if we kept quite apart fora day or two. Things were getting wrong, weren't they?"

"I'm afraid so. But how are they improved?"

"Why, I had a talk with your aunt about Mrs. Travis. I quite believe Iwas misled by that fellow that talked scandal. She seems very much tobe pitied, and I'm really sorry that I caused you to break with her. "

Cecily watched him as he spoke, and he avoided her eyes. He was holdingher hands and fondling them; now he bent and put them to his lips. Shesaid nothing. 

"Suppose you write to her, Ciss, and say that I made a fool of myself. You're quite at liberty to do so. Tell her exactly how it was, and askher to forgive us. "

She did not answer immediately. 

"Will you do that?"

"I feel ashamed to. I know very well how _I_ should receive such aletter. "

"Oh, you! But every one hasn't your superb arrogance!" He laughed. "Andit's hard to imagine you in such a situation. "

"I hope so. "

"Aunt tells me that the poor woman has very few friends. "

"It's very unlikely that she will ever make one of me. I don't see howit is possible, after this. "

"But write the letter, just to make things simpler if you meetanywhere. As a piece of justice, too. "

Not that day, but the following, Cecily decided herself to write. Shecould only frame her excuse in the way Reuben had suggested;necessarily the blame lay on him. The composition cost her a long time, though it was only two pages of note-paper; and when it was despatched, she could not think without hot cheeks of its recipient reading it Shedid not greatly care for Mrs. Travis's intimacy, but she did desire toremove from herself the imputation of censoriousness. 

There came an answer in a day or two. 

"I was surprised that you (or Mr. Elgar) should so readily believe illof me, but I am accustomed to such judgments, and no longer resentthem. A wife is always in the wrong; when a woman marries, she shouldprepare herself for this. Or rather, her friends should prepare her, asshe has always been kept in celestial ignorance by their care. Pray letus forget what has happened. I won't renew my request to be allowed tovisit you; if that is to be, it will somehow come to pass naturally, inthe course of time. If we meet at Mrs. Lessingham's, please let usspeak not a word of this affair. I hate scenes. "

In a week's time, the Elgars' life had resumed the course it heldbefore that interruption--with the exception that Reuben, as often asit was possible, avoided accompanying his wife when she went from home. His own engagements multiplied, and twice before the end of July hespent Saturday and Sunday out of town. Cecily made no close inquiriesconcerning his employment of his time; on their meeting again, healways gave her an account of what he had been doing, and she readilyaccepted it. For she had now abandoned all hope of his doing seriouswork; she never spoke a word which hinted regret at his mode of life. They were on placid terms, and she had no such faith in anything betteras would justify her in endangering the recovered calm. 

It became necessary at length to discuss what they should do withthemselves during the autumn. Mrs. Lessingham was going with friends tothe Pyrenees. The Delphs would take a short holiday in Sussex; Irenecould not spare much time from her work. 

"I don't care to be away long myself, " Reuben said, when Cecilymentioned this. "I feel as if I should be able to get on with myPuritanic pursuits again when we return. "

Cecily looked at him, to see if he spoke in earnest. In spite of hisjesting tone, he seemed to be serious, for he was pacing the floor, hishead bent as if in meditation. 

"Make your own plans, " was her reply. "But we won't go into Cornwall, Ithink. "

"No, not this year. "

They spent a month at Eastbourne. Some agreeable people whom they wereaccustomed to meet at Mrs. Lessingham's had a house there, and suppliedthem with society. Towards the end of the month, Reuben grew restlessand uncertain of temper; he wandered on the downs by himself, and whenat home kept silence. The child, too, was constantly ailing, and itscry irritated him. 

"The fact of the matter is, " he exclaimed one evening, "I don't feelaltogether well! I ought to have had more change than this. If I goback and settle to work, I shall break down. "

"What kind of change do you wish for?" Cecily asked. 

"I should have liked to take a ramble in Germany, or, Norway--some newpart. But nothing of that is possible. Clarence makes slaves of us. "

Cecily reflected. 

"There's no reason why he should hinder you from going. "

"Oh, I can't leave you alone, " he returned impatiently. 

"I think you might, for a few weeks--if you feel it necessary. I don'tthink Clarence ought to leave the seaside till the middle of September. The Robinsons will be here still, you know. "

He muttered and grumbled, but in the end proposed that he should goover by one of the Harwich boats, and take what course happened toattract him. Cecily assented, and in a few hours he was ready to bidher good-bye. She had said that it wasn't worth while going with him tothe station, and when he gave her the kiss at starting she keptperfectly tranquil. 

"You're not sorry to get rid of me, " he said, with a forced laugh. 

"I don't wish you to stay at the expense of your health. "

"I hope Clarence mayn't damage yours. These sleepless nights aretelling on you. "

"Go. You'll miss the train. "

He looked back from the door, but Cecily had turned away. 

He was absent for more than six weeks, during which he wrote frequentlyfrom various out-of-the-way places on the Rhine. On returning, he foundCecily in London, very anxious about the child, and herself lookingvery ill. He, on the other hand, was robust and in excellent spirits;in a day or two he began to go regularly to the British Museum--to say, at all events, that he went there. And so time passed to the year's end. 

One night in January Reuben went to the theatre. He left Cecily sittingin the bedroom, by the fireside, with Clarence on her lap. For severalweeks the child had been so ill that Cecily seldom quitted it. 

Three hours later she was sitting in the same position, still bentforward, the child still on her lap. But no movement, no cry everclaimed her attention. Tears had stained her face, but they no longerfell. Holding a waxen little hand that would never again caress her, she gazed at the dying fire as though striving to read her destiny. 

CHAPTER VI

AT PAESTUM

The English artist had finished his work, and the dirty little inn atPaestum would to-day lose its solitary guest. 

This morning he rose much later than usual, and strolled out idly intothe spring sunshine, a rug thrown over his shoulder. Often plucking aflower 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 takea view of the temples, always with eye of grave meditation. At oneelevated point, he stood for several minutes looking along the road toSalerno. 

March rains had brought the vegetation into luxurious life; fern, acanthus, brambles, and all the densely intermingled growths that coverthe ground about the ruins, spread forth their innumerable tints ofgreen. Between shore and mountains, the wide plain smiled in itsdesolation. 

At length he went up into the Temple of Neptune, spread the rug on aspot where he had been accustomed, each day at noon, to eat his salameand drink his Calabrian wine, and seated himself against a column. Herehe could enjoy a view from both ends of the ruin. In the one directionit was only a narrow strip of sea, with the barren coast below, and thecloudless sky above it; in the other, a purple valley, rising far awayon the flank of the Apennines; both pictures set between Doric pillars. He lit a cigar, and with a smile of contented thought abandoned himselfto the delicious warmth, the restful silence. Within reach of his handwas a fern that had shot up between the massive stones; he gentlycaressed its fronds, as though it were a sentient creature. Or his eyesdwelt upon the huge column just in front of him--now scanning itssuperb proportions, now enjoying the hue of the sunny-goldentravertine, now observing the myriad crevices of its time-eatensurface, the petrified forms of vegetable growth, the little pinksnails 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 convincehimself that his freedom was proof against memories revived on the veryground where he had suffered so intensely. He had put aside repeatedinvitations from the Spences, because of the doubt whether he couldtrust himself within sight of the Mediterranean. Liberty fromoppressive thought he had long recovered; the old zeal for labour wasso strong in him that he found it difficult to imagine the mood inwhich he had bidden good-bye to his life's purposes. But there wasalways the danger lest that witch of the south should again overcomehis will and lull him into impotence of vain regret. For such a longtime he had believed that Italy was for ever closed against him, thatthe old delights were henceforth converted into a pain which memorymust avoid. At length he resolved to answer his friends' summons, andmeet them on their return from Sicily. They had wished to have him withthem in Greece, but always his departure was postponed; habits ofsolitude and characteristic diffidence kept him aloof as long aspossible. 

Evidently, his health was sound enough. He had loitered about thefamiliar places in Naples; he took the road by Pompeii to Sorrento, andover the hills to Amalfi; and at each step he could smile withcontemptuous pity for the self which he had outlived. More than that. When he came hither three years ago, it was with the intention of doingcertain definite work; this purpose he now at last fulfilled, thuscompleting his revenge upon the by-gone obstacles, and reinstatinghimself in his own good opinion, as a man who did that which he sethimself to do. At Amalfi he had made a number of studies which would beuseful; at Paestum he had worked towards a picture, such a one as hadfrom 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, andfor poets, who can turn their suffering into song. But to him it meantonly hindrance. Because he had been a prey to frantic desires, did helook upon earth's beauty with a clearer eye, or was his hand endowedwith subtler craft? He saw no reason to suppose it. The misery of thosefirst months of northern exile--his battling with fierce winds on seaand moorland and mountain, his grim vigils under stormy stars--had itgiven him new strength? Of body perhaps; otherwise, he might have spentthe time with decidedly more of satisfaction and profit. 

Let it be accepted as one of the unavoidable ills ofhumanity--something that has to be gone through, like measles. But ithad come disagreeably late. No doubt he had to thank the monastichabits of his life that it assailed him with such violence. That he hadendured it, therein lay the happy assurance that it would not againtrouble 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 overhe tried to rejoice at the circumstances which had made his desirevain. Herein he went a little beyond sincerity; yet there werearguments which, at all events, fortified his wish to see thateverything was well. It was not mere perversity that in the beginninghad warned him against thinking of Cecily as a possible wife for him. Had she betrayed the least inclination to love him, such considerationswould have gone to the winds; he would have called the gods to witnessthat the one perfect woman on the earth was his. But the fact of herpassionate self-surrender to Reuben Elgar, did it not prove that thepossibilities of her nature were quite other than those which couldhave assured _his_ happiness? To be sure, so young a girl is liable towretched errors--but of that he would take no account; against that heresolutely closed his mind. From Edward Spence he heard that she wasdelighting herself and others in a London season. Precisely; thisjustified his forethought; for this she was adapted. But as his wifenothing of the kind would have been within her scope. He knew him selftoo well. His notion of married life was inconsistent with that kind ofpleasure. As his wife, perhaps she would have had no desire save to fitherself to him. Possibly; but that again was a reflection not to beadmitted. He had only to deal with facts. Sufficient that he couldthink of her without a pang, that he could even hope to meet her againbefore long. And, best of all, no ungenerous feeling ever tempted himto wish her anything but wholly happy. 

Stretched lazily in the Temple of Neptune, he once or twice looked athis watch, as though the hour in some way concerned him. How it did wasat length shown. He heard voices approaching, and had just time to riseto his feet before there appeared figures, rising between the columnsof the entrance against the background of hills. He moved forward, abright smile on his face. The arrivals were Edward Spence, with hiswife and Mrs. Baske. 

All undemonstrative people, they shook hands much as if they had partedonly 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 hadso much improved that, if anything, she looked younger; certainly herface had more distinct beauty. Reserve and conscious dignity were stillits characteristics--these were inseparable from the mould of feature;but her eyes no longer had the somewhat sullen gleam which had beenwont to harm her aspect, and when she smiled it was without the hint ofdisdainful reticence. Yet the smile was not frequent; her lips had anhabitual melancholy, and very often she knitted her brows in anexpression of troubled thought. Whilst the others were talking withMallard, she kept slightly in the rear, and seemed to be occupied inexamining the different parts of the temple. 

In attire she was transformed. No suggestion now of the lady fromprovincial England. She was very well, because most fittingly, dressed;neither too youthfully, nor with undue disregard of the fact that shewas still young; a travelling-costume apt to the season and the country. 

"They speak much of Signor Mal-lard at the osteria, " said Spence. "Yourdeparture afflicts them, naturally, no doubt. Do you know whether anyother Englishman ever braved that accommodation?"

A country lad appeared, carrying a small hamper, wherein the party hadbrought their midday meal from Salerno. 

"Why did you trouble?" said Mallard. "We have cheese and salame inabundance. "

"So I supposed, " Spence replied, drily. "I recall the quality of both. Also the _vino di Calabria_, which is villanously sweet. Show us whatpoint of view you chose. "

For an hour they walked and talked. Miriam alone was almost silent, butshe paid constant attention to the ruins. Mallard heard her saysomething to Eleanor about the difference between the columns of themiddle temple and those of the so-called Basilica; three years ago, such a remark would have been impossible on her lips, and when heglanced at her with curiosity, she seemed conscious of his look. 

They at length opened the hamper, and seated themselves near the spotwhere Mallard had been reclining. 

"There's a smack of profanity in this, " said Spence. "The least we cando is to pour a libation to Poseidon, before we begin the meal. "

And he did so, filling a tumbler with wine arid solemnly emptying halfof it on to the floor of the _cella_. Mallard watched the effect onMrs. Baske; she met his look for an instant and smiled, then relapsedinto thoughtfulness. 

The only other visitors to-day were a couple of Germans, who lookedlike artists and went about in enthusiastic talk; one kept dealing theother severe blows on the chest, which occasionally made the recipientstagger--all in pure joy and friendship. They measured some of thecolumns, and in one place, for a special piece of observation, thesmaller man mounted on his companion's shoulders. Miriam happened tosee them whilst they were thus posed, and the spectacle struck her withsuch 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 intoeach other's eyes with frank, hearty merriment. Miriam speedilycontrolled herself, and there came a flush to her cheeks. 

"You may laugh, " said Spence, observing them, "but when did you see twoEnglishmen abroad who did themselves so much honour?"

"True enough, " replied Mallard. "One supposes that Englishmen withbrains are occasionally to be found in Italy, but I don't know wherethey hide themselves. "

"You will meet one in Rome in a few days, " remarked Eleanor, "if you goon 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 toMiriam, but without speaking. He saw her stoop to pick up a piece ofstone; presently another. She glanced at him. 

"Bits of Paestum, " he said, smiling; "perhaps of Poseidonia. Look atthe field over there, where the oxen are; they have walled it in withfragments 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, sheheld 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, andsmiled 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'sbaggage was brought out and put into the carriage. They drove acrossthe silent plain towards Salerno. In a pause of his conversation withSpence, Mallard drew Miriam's attention to the unfamiliar shape ofCapri, 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 spentthere--incessant pouring rain. "

"No; we had perfect weather. "

At Salerno they caught a train which enabled them to reach Naples latein the evening. Mallard accompanied his friends to their hotel, anddined with them. As he and Spence were smoking together afterwards, thelatter communicated some news which he had reserved for privacy. 

"By-the-bye, we hear that Cecily and her aunt are at Florence, and arecoming to Rome next week. "

"Elgar with them?" Mallard asked, with nothing more than friendlyinterest. 

"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 achange 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, Ishall be glad to see her. But I should have preferred to meet them bothtogether. 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 theresults 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 comevery 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 thistime is in itself significant. Where does she propose to live when youare 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 Chelseaagain, and she is very welcome to share it with us if she likes. Ithink it is certain she won't go back to Lancashire; and the notion ofher 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 sheis no longer a precisian. She has read a great deal; most of it readingof a very substantial kind. Not at all connected with religion; itwould be a mistake to suppose that she has been going in for a courseof modern criticism, and that kind of thing. The Greek and Latinauthors she knows very fairly, in English or French translations. Whatwould our friend Bradshaw say? She has grappled with whole libraries ofsolid historians. She knows the Italian poets Really, no common case ofa 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, whenwe are in interesting places, she rather likes to show herknowledge--of course we encourage her to do so. A blessed form ofvanity, compared with certain things one remembers!"

"She looks as if she had by no means conquered peace of mind, " observedMallard, after another silence. 

"I don't suppose she has. I don't even know whether she's on the way toit. "

"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. 

CHAPTER VII

LEARNING AND TEACHING

Easter was just gone by. The Spences had timed their arrival in Rome soas to be able to spend a few days with certain friends, undisturbed bybell-clanging and the rush of trippers, before at length returning toEngland. Their hotel was in the Babuino. Mallard, who was uncertainabout his movements during the next month or two, went to quarters withwhich he was familiar in the Via Bocca di Leone. He brought his Paestumpicture to the hotel, but declined to leave it there. Mallard wasdeficient in those properties of the showman which are so necessary toan artist if he would make his work widely known and sell it forsubstantial sums; he hated anything like private exhibition, anddreaded an offer to purchase from any one who had come in contact withhim by way of friendly introduction. 

"I'm not satisfied with it, now I come to look at it again. It'snothing but a rough sketch. "

"But Seaborne will be here this afternoon, " urged Spence. "He will begrateful if you let him see it. "

"If he cares to come to my room, he shall. "

Miriam made no remark on the picture, but kept looking at it as long asit was uncovered. The temples stood in the light of early morning, awonderful, indescribable light, perfectly true and rendered with greatskill. 

"Is it likely to be soon sold?" she asked, when the artist had gone offwith his canvas. 

"As likely as not, he'll keep it by him for a year or two, till hehates it for a few faults that no one else can perceive or be taught tounderstand, " was Mr. Spence's reply. "I wish I could somehow becomepossessed of it. But if I hinted such a wish, he would insist on mytaking it as a present. An impracticable fellow, Mallard. He suspects Iwant to sell it for him; that's why he won't leave it. And if Seabornegoes to his room, ten to one he'll be received with growls of surlyindependence. "

This Mr. Seaborne was a man of letters. Spence had made hisacquaintance in Rome a year ago; they conversed casually in Piale'sreading-room, and Seaborne happened to say that the one Englishlandscape-painter who strongly interested him was a little-known man, Ross Mallard. His own work was mostly anonymous; he wrote for one ofthe quarterlies and one of the weekly reviews. He was a little youngerthan Mallard, whom in certain respects he resembled; he had much thesame way of speaking, the same reticence with regard to his own doings, even a slight similarity of feature, and his life seemed to be rather alonely one. 

When the two met, they behaved precisely as Spence predicted theywould--with reserve, almost with coldness. For all that, Seaborne paida visit to the artist's room, and in a couple of hours' talk theyarrived at a fair degree of mutual understanding. The next day theysmoked together in an odd abode occupied by the literary man near Portodi Ripetta, and thenceforth were good friends. 

The morning after that, Mallard went early to the Vatican. He ascendedthe Scala Regia, and knocked at the little red door over which iswritten, "Cappella Sistina. " On entering, he observed only a gentlemanand a young girl, who stood in the middle of the floor, consultingtheir guide-book; but when he had taken a few steps forward, he saw alady come from the far end and seat herself to look at the ceilingthrough an opera-glass. It was Mrs. Baske, and he approached whilst shewas still intent on the frescoes. The pausing of his footstep close toher caused her to put down the glass and regard him. Mallard noticedthe sudden change from cold remoteness of countenance to pleasedrecognition. The brightening in her eyes was only for a moment; thenshe smiled in her usual half-absent way, and received him formally. 

"You are not alone?" he said, taking a place by her as she resumed herseat. 

"Yes, I have come alone. " And, after a pause, she added, "We don'tthink it necessary always to keep together. That would becomeburdensome. I often leave them, and go to places by myself. "

Her look was still turned upwards. Mallard followed its direction. 

"Which of the Sibyls is your favourite?" he asked. 

At once she indicated the Delphic, but without speaking. 

"Mine too. "

Both fixed their eyes upon the figure, and were silent. 

"You have been here very often?" were Mallard's next words. 

"Last year very often. "

"From genuine love of it, or a sense of duty?" he asked, examining herface. 

She considered before replying. 

"Not only from a sense of duty, though of course I have felt that. Idon't _love_ anything of Michael Angelo's, but I am compelled to lookand study. I came here this morning only to refresh my memory of one ofthose faces"--she pointed to the lower part of the Last Judgment--"andyet the face is dreadful to me. "

She found that he was smiling, and abruptly she added the question:

"Do you love that picture?"

"Why, no; but I often delight in it. I wouldn't have it always beforeme (for that matter, no more would I have the things that I love). Agreat work of art may be painful at all times, and sometimesunendurable. "

"I have learnt to understand that, " she said, with something ofhumility, which came upon Mallard as new and agreeable. "But--it is notlong since that scene represented a reality to me. I think I shallnever see it as you do. "

Mallard wished to look at her, but did not. 

"I have sometimes been repelled by a feeling of the same kind, " heanswered. "Not that I myself ever thought of it as a reality, but Ihave felt angry and miserable in remembering that a great part of theworld does. You see the pretty girl there, with her father. I noticedher awed face as I passed, and heard a word or two of the man's, whichtold me that from them there was no question of art. Poor child! Ishould have liked to pat her hand, and tell her to be good and have nofear. "

"Did Michael Angelo believe it?" Miriam asked diffidently, when she hadglanced with anxious eyes at the pair of whom he spoke. 

"I suppose so. And yet I am far from sure. What about Dante? Haven'tyou sometimes stumbled over his grave assurances that this and that didreally befall him? Putting aside the feeble notion that he was adeluded visionary, how does one reconcile the artist's management ofhis poem with the Christian's stem faith? In any case, he was more poetthan Christian when he wrote. Milton makes no such claims; he merelyprays for the enlightenment of his imagination. "

Miriam turned from the great fresco, and again gazed at the Sibyls andProphets. 

"Do the Stanze interest you?" was Mallard's next question. 

"Very little, I am sorry to say. They soon weary me. "

"And the Loggia?"

"I never paid much attention to it. "

"That surprises me. Those little pictures are my favourites of allRaphael's work. For those and the Psyche, I would give everything else. "

Miriam looked at him inquiringly. 

"Are you again thinking of the subjects?" he asked. 

"Yes. I can't help it. I have avoided them, because I knew howimpossible it was for me to judge them only as art. "

"Then you have the same difficulty with nearly all Italian pictures?"

She hesitated; but, without turning her eyes to him, said at length:

"I can't easily explain to you the distinction there is for me betweenthe Old Testament and the New. I was taught almost exclusively out ofthe Old--at least, it seems so to me. I have had to study the New formyself, and it helps rather than hinders my enjoyment of pictures takenfrom it. The religion of my childhood was one of bitterness andviolence and arbitrary judgment and hatred. "

"Ah, but there is quite another side to the Old Testament--those partsof it, at all events, that are illustrated up in the Loggia. Will youcome up there with me?"

She rose without speaking. They left the chapel, and ascended thestairs. 

"You are not under the impression, " he said, with a smile, as theywalked side by side, "that the Old Testament is responsible for thosehorrors we have just been speaking of?"

"They are in _that_ spirit. My reading of the New omits everything ofthe kind. "

"So does mine. But we have no justification. "

"We can select what is useful to us, and reject what does harm. "

"Yes; but then--"

He did not finish the sentence, and they went into the pictured Loggia. Here, choosing out his favourites, Mallard endeavoured to explain allhis joy in them. He showed her how it was Hebrew history made into aseries of exquisite and touching legends; he dwelt on the sweet, idyllic treatment, the lovely landscape, the tender idealismthroughout, the perfect adaptedness of gem-like colouring. 

Miriam endeavoured to see with his eyes, but did not pretend to bewholly successful. The very names were discordant to her ear. 

"I will buy some photographs of them to take away, " she said. 

"Don't do that; they are useless. Colour and design are hereinseparable. "

They stayed not more than half an hour; then left the Vatican together, and walked to the front of St. Peter's in silence. Mallard looked athis watch. 

"You are going back to the hotel?"

"I suppose so. "

"Shall I call one of those carriages?--I am going to have a walk on tothe Janiculum. "

She glanced at the sky. 

"There will be a fine view to-day. "

"You wouldn't care to come so far?"

"Yes, I should enjoy the walk. "

"To walk? It would tire you too much. "

"Oh no!" replied Miriam, looking away and smiling. "You mustn't think Iam what I was that winter at Naples. I can walk a good many miles, andonly feel better for it. "

Her tone amused him, for it became something like that of a child inself-defence when accused of some childlike incapacity. 

"Then let us go, by all means. "

They turned into the Borgo San Spirito, and then went by the quietLongara. Mallard soon found that it was necessary to moderate hisswinging stride. He was not in the habit of walking with ladies, and hefelt ashamed of himself when a glance told him that his companion wasput to overmuch exertion. The glance led him to observe Miriam's gait;its grace and refinement gave him a sudden sensation of keen pleasure. He thought, without wishing to do so, of Cecily; her matchless, maidenly charm in movement was something of quite another kind. Mrs. Baske trod the common earth, yet with, it seemed to him, a dignity thatdistinguished her from ordinary women. 

There had been silence for a long time. They were alike in the customof forgetting what had last been said, or how long since. 

"Do you care for sculpture?" Mallard asked, led to the inquiry by histhoughts of form and motion. 

"Yes; but not so much as for painting. "

He noticed a reluctance in her voice, and for a moment was quiteunconscious of the reason for it. But reflection quickly explained herslight embarrassment. 

"Edward makes it one of his chief studies, " she added at once, lookingstraight before her. "He has told me what to read about it. "

Mallard let the subject fall. But presently they passed a yoke of oxendrawing a cart, and, as he paused to look at them, he said:

"Don't you like to watch those animals? I can never be near themwithout stopping. Look at their grand heads, their horns, theirmajestic movement! They always remind me of the antique--of splendidpower fixed in marble, These are the kind of oxen that Homer saw, andVirgil. "

Miriam gazed, but said nothing. 

"Does your silence mean that you can't sympathize with me?"

"No. It means that you have given me a new way of looking at a thing;and I have to think. "

She paused; then, with a curious inflection of her voice, as though shewere not quite certain of the tone she wished to strike, whetherplayful or sarcastic:

"You wouldn't prefer me to make an exclamation?"

He laughed. 

"Decidedly not. If you were accustomed to do so, I should not beexpressing my serious thoughts. "

The pleasant mood continued with him, and, a smile still on his face, he asked presently:

"Do you remember telling me that you thought I was wasting my life onfutilities?"

Miriam flushed, and for an instant he thought he had offended her. Buther reply corrected this impression. 

"You admitted, I think, that there was much to be said for my view. "

"Did I? Well, so there is. But the same conviction may be reached byvery different paths. If we agreed in that one result, I fancy it wasthe sole and singular point of concord. "

Miriam inquired diffidently:

"Do you still think of most things just as you did then?"

"Of most things, yes. "

"You have found no firmer hope in which to work?"

"Hope? I am not sure that I understand you. "

He looked her in the face, and she said hurriedly:

"Are you still as far as ever from satisfying yourself? Does your workbring you nothing but a comparative satisfaction?"

"I am conscious of having progressed an inch or two on the way ofinfinity, " Mallard replied. "That brings me no nearer to an end. "

"But you _have_ a purpose; you follow it steadily. It is much to beable to say that. "

"Do you mean it for consolation?"

"Not in any sense that you need resent, " Miriam gave answer, a littlecoldly. 

"I felt no resentment. But I should like to know what sanction of alife's effort you look for, now? We talked once, perhaps you remember, of one kind of work being 'higher' than another. How do you think nowon that subject?"

She made delay before saying:

"It is long since I thought of it at all. I have been too busy learningthe simplest things to trouble about the most difficult. "

"To learn, then, has been _your_ object all this time. Let me questionyou in turn. Do you find it all-sufficient?"

"No; because I have begun too late. I am doing now what I ought to havedone when I was a girl, and I have always the feeling of beingbehindhand. "

"But the object, in itself, quite apart from your progress? Is itenough to study a variety of things, and feel that you make someprogress towards a possible ideal of education? Does this suffice toyour life?"

She answered confusedly:

"I can't know yet; I can't see before me clearly enough. "

Mallard was on the point of pressing the question, but he refrained, and shaped his thought in a different way. 

"Do you think of remaining in England?"

"Probably I shall. "

"You will return to your home in Lancashire?"

"I haven't yet determined, " she replied formally. 

The dialogue seemed to be at an end. Unobservant of each other, theyreached the Via Crucis, which leads up to S. Pietro in Montorio. Arrived at the terrace, they stood to look down on Rome. 

"After all, you are tired, " said Mallard, when he had glanced at her. 

"Indeed I am not. "

"But you are hungry. We have been forgetting that it is luncheon-time. "

"I pay little attention to such hours. One can always get something toeat. "

"It's all very well for people like myself to talk in that way, " saidMallard, with a smile, "but women have orderly habits of life. "

"For which you a little despise them?" she returned, with grave facefixed on the landscape. 

"Certainly not. It's only that I regard their life as wholly differentfrom my own. Since I was a boy, I have known nothing of domesticregularity. "

"You sometimes visit your relatives?"

"Yes. But their life cannot be mine. It is domestic in such a degreethat it only serves to remind me how far apart I am. "

"Do you hold that an artist cannot live like other people, in thehabits of home?"

"I think such habits are a danger to him. He _may_ find a home, if fateis exceptionally kind. "

Pointing northwards to a ridged hill on the horizon, he asked inanother voice if she knew its name. 

"You mean Mount Soracte?"

"Yes. You don't know Latin, or it would make you quote Horace. "

She shook her head, looked down, and spoke more humbly than he had everyet heard her. 

"But I know it in an English translation. "

"Well, that's more than most women do. "

He said it in a grudging way. The remark itself was scarcely civil, buthe seemed all at once to have a pleasure in speaking roughly, inreminding her of her shortcomings. Miriam turned her eyes in anotherquarter, and presently pointed to the far blue hills just seen betweenthe Alban and the Sabine ranges. 

"Through there is the country of the Volsci, " she said, in a subduedvoice. "Some Roman must have stood here and looked towards it, in dayswhen Rome was struggling for supremacy with them. Think of all thathappened between that day and the time when Horace saw the snow onSoracte; and then, of all that has happened since. "

He watched her face, and nodded several times. They pursued thesubject, and reminded each other of what the scene suggested, point bypoint. Mallard felt surprise, though he showed none. Cecily, standinghere, would have spoken with more enthusiasm, but it was doubtfulwhether she would have displayed Miriam's accuracy of knowledge. 

"Well, let us go, " he said at length. "You don't insist on walkinghome?"

"There is no need to, I think. I could quite well, if I wished. "

"I am going to run through a few of the galleries for a morning or two. I wonder whether you would care to come with me to-morrow?"

"I will come with pleasure. "

"That is how people speak when they don't like to refuse a troublesomeinvitation. "

"Then what am I to say? I spoke the truth, in quite simple words. "

"I suppose it was your tone; you seemed too polite. "

"But what is your objection to politeness?" Miriam asked naively. 

"Oh, I have none, when it is sincere. But as soon as I had asked you, Ifelt afraid that I was troublesome. "

"If I had felt that, I should have expressed it unmistakably, " shereplied, in a voice which reminded him of the road from Baiae to Naples. 

"Thank you; that is what I should wish. "

Having found a carriage for her, and made an appointment for themorning, he watched her drive away. 

A few hours later, he encountered Spence in the Piazza Colonna, andthey went together into a _caffe_. Spence had the news that Mrs. Lessingham and her niece would arrive on the third day from now. Theirstay would be of a fortnight at longest. 

"I met Mrs. Baske at the Vatican this morning, " said Mallard presently, as he knocked the ash off his cigar. "We had some talk. "

"On Vatican subjects?"

"Yes. I find her views of art somewhat changed. But sculpture stillalarms her. "

"Still? Do you suppose she will ever overcome that feeling? Are youwholly free from it yourself? Imagine yourself invited to conduct aparty of ladies through the marbles, and to direct their attention tothe merits that strike you. "

"No doubt I should invent an excuse. But it would be weakness. "

"A weakness inseparable from our civilization. The nude in art is ananachronism. "

"Pooh! That is encouraging the vulgar prejudice. "

"No; it is merely stating a vulgar fact. These collections of nudefigures in marble have only an historical interest. They are kept outof the way, in places which no one is obliged to visit. Modern work ofthat kind is tolerated, nothing more. What on earth is the good of anartistic production of which people in general are afraid to speakfreely? You take your stand before the Venus of the Capitol; you bidthe attendant make it revolve slowly, and you begin a lecture to yourwife, your sister, or your young cousin, on the glories of themasterpiece. You point out in detail how admirably Praxiteles hasexhibited every beauty of the female frame. Other ladies are standingby you smile blandly, and include them in your audience. "

Mallard interrupted with a laugh. 

"Well, why not?" continued the other. "This isn't the _gabinetto_ atNaples, surely?"

"But you are well aware that, practically, it comes to the same thing. How often is one half pained, half amused, at the behaviour of women inthe Tribune at Florence! They are in a false position; it is absurd toridicule them for what your own sensations justify. For my own part, Ialways leave my wife and Mrs. Baske to go about these galleries withoutmy company. If I can't be honestly at my ease, I won't make pretence ofbeing so. "

"All this is true enough, but the prejudice is absurd. We ought todespise it and struggle against it. "

"Despise it, many of us do, theoretically. But to make practicaldemonstrations against it, is to oppose, as I said, all thecivilization of our world. Perhaps there will come a time once morewhen sculpture will be justified; at present the art doesn't and can'texist. Its relics belong to museums--in the English sense of the word. "

"You only mean by this, " said Mallard, "that art isn't for themultitude. We know that well enough. "

"But there's a special difficulty about this point. We come across itin literature as well. How is it that certain pages in literature, which all intellectual people agree in pro flouncing just as pure asthey are great, could never be read aloud, say, in a family circle, without occasioning pain and dismay? No need to give illustrations;they occur to you in abundance. We skip them, or we read mutteringly, or we say frankly that this is not adapted for reading aloud. Yet noman would frown if he found his daughter bent over the book. There'ssomething radically wrong here. "

"This is the old question of our English Puritanism. In France, here inItaly, there is far less of such feeling. "

"Far less; but why must there be any at all? And Puritanism isn't asufficient explanation. The English Puritans of the really Puritan timehad freedom of conversation which would horrify us of to-day. We becomemore and more prudish as what we call civilization advances. It is ahateful fact that, from the domestic point of view, there exists nodifference between some of the noblest things in art and poetry, andthe obscenities which are prosecuted; the one is as impossible of frankdiscussion as the other. "

"The domestic point of view is contemptible. It means the bourgeoispoint of view, the Philistine point of view. "

"Then I myself, if I had children, should be both bourgeois andPhilistine. And so, I have a strong suspicion, would you too. "

"Very well, " replied Mallard, with some annoyance, "then it is one morereason why an artist should have nothing to do with domesticities. Butlook here, you are wrong as regards me. If ever I marry, _amico mio_, my wife shall learn to make more than a theoretical distinction betweenwhat is art and what is grossness. If ever I have children, they shallfrom the first he taught a natural morality, and not the conventional. If I can afford good casts of noble statues, they shall stand freelyabout my house. When I read aloud, by the fire side, there shall be noskipping or muttering or frank omissions; no, by Apollo! If a daughterof mine cannot describe to me the points of difference between theVenus of the Capitol and that of the Medici, she shall be bidden to useher eyes and her brains better. I'll have no contemptible prudery in myhouse!"

"Bravissimo!" cried Spenee, laughing. "I see that my cousin Miriam isnot the only person who has progressed during these years. Do youremember a certain conversation of ours at Posillipo about theeducation of a certain young lady?"

"Yes, I do. But that was a different matter. The question was not ofGreek statues and classical books, but of modern pruriencies andshallowness and irresponsibility. "

"You exaggerated then, and you do so now, " said Spence; "at presentwith less excuse. "

Mallard kept silence for a space; then said:

"Let us speak of what we have been avoiding. How has that marriageturned out?"

"I have told you all I know. There's no reason to suppose that thingsare anything but well. "

"I don't like her coming abroad alone; I have no faith in that plea ofwork. I suspect things are _not_ well. "

"A cynic--which I am not--would suggest that a wish had something to dowith the thought. "

"He would be cynically wrong, " replied Mallard, with calmness. 

"Why shouldn't she come abroad alone? There's nothing alarming in thefact that they no longer need to see each other every hour. And onetakes for granted that _they_, at all events, are not bourgeois; theirlife won't be arranged exactly like that of Mr. And Mrs. Jones thegreengrocers. "

"No, " said the other, musingly. 

"In what direction do you imagine that Cecily will progress? Possiblyshe has become acquainted with disillusion. "

"Possibly?"

"Well, take it for certain. Isn't that an inevitable step in hereducation? Things may still be well enough, philosophically speaking. She has her life to live--we know it will be to the end a modern life. _Servetur ad imum_--and so on; that's what one would wish, I suppose?We have no longer to take thought for her. "

"But we are allowed to wish the best. "

"What _is_ the best?" said Spenee, sustaining his tone of impartialspeculation. "Are you quite sure that Mr. And Mrs. Jones are not toomuch in your mind?"

"Whatever modern happiness may mean, I am inclined to think that modernunhappiness is not unlike that of old-fashioned people. "

"My dear fellow, you are a halter between two opinions. You can't makeup your mind in which direction to look. You are a sort of Janus, withanxiety on both faces. "

"There's a good deal of truth in that, " admitted the artist, with agrowl. 

"Get on with your painting, and whatever else of practical you have inmind. Leave philosophy to men of large leisure and placid pulses, likemyself. Accept the inevitable. "

"I do so. "

"But not with modern detachment, " said Spence, smiling. 

"Be hanged with your modernity! I believe myself distinctly the moremodern of the two. "

"Not with regard to women. When you marry, you will be a rigidautocrat, and make no pretence about it. You don't think of women asindependent beings, who must save or lose themselves on their ownresponsibility. You are not willing to trust them alone. "

"Well, perhaps you are right. "

"Of course I am. Come and dine at the hotel. I think Seaborne will bethere. "

"No, thank you. "

Mallard had waited but a few minutes in the court of the PalazzoBorghese next morning, when Miriam joined him. There was someconstraint on both sides. Miriam looked as if she did not wishyesterday's conversation to be revived in their manner of meeting. Her"Good-morning, Mr. Mallard, " had as little reference as possible to thefact of this being an appointment. The artist was in quite another moodthan that of yesterday; his smile was formal, and he seemed indisposedfor conversation. 

"I have the _permesso_, " he said, leading at once to the door of thegallery. 

They sauntered about the first room, exchanging a few idle remarks. Inthe second, a woman past the prime of life was copying a large picture. They looked at her work from a distance, and Miriam asked if it waswell done. 

"What do you think yourself?" asked Mallard. 

"It seems to me skilful and accurate, but I know that perhaps it isneither one nor the other. "

He pointed out several faults, which she at once recognized. 

"I wonder I could not see them at first That confirms me in distrust ofmyself. I am as likely as not to admire a thing that is utterlyworthless. "

"As likely as not--no; at least, I think not. But of course your eye isuntrained, and you have no real knowledge to go upon. You can judge anoriginal picture sentimentally, and your sentiment will not be whollymisleading. You can't judge a copy technically, but I think you havemore than average observation. How would you like to spend your lifelike this copyist?"

"I would give my left hand to have her skill in my right. "

"You would?"

"I should be able to _do_ something--something definite and tolerablygood. "

"Why, so you can already; one thing in particular. "

"What is that?"

"Learn your own deficiencies; a thing that most people neither will norcan. Look at this Francia, and tell me your thoughts about it. "

She examined the picture for a minute or two. Then, without moving hereyes, she murmured:

"I can say nothing that is worth saying. "

"Never mind. Say what you think, or what you feel. "

"Why should you wish me to talk commonplace?"

"That is precisely what I don't wish you to talk. You know what iscommonplace, and therefore you can avoid it. Never mind his school orhis date. What did the man want to express here, and how far do youthink he has succeeded? That's the main thing; I wish a few criticswould understand it. "

Miriam obeyed him, and said what she had to say diffidently, but inclear terms. Mallard was silent when she ceased, and she looked up athim. He rewarded her with a smile, and one or two nods--as his mannerwas. 

"I have not made myself ridiculous?"

"I think not. "

They had walked on a little, when Mallard said to her unexpectedly:

"Please to bear in mind that I make no claim to infallibility. I am apainter of landscape; out of my own sphere, I become an amateur. Youare not hound to accept my judgment. "

"Of course not, " she replied simply. 

"It occurred to me that I had been rather dictatorial. "

"So you have, Mr. Mallard, " she returned, looking at a picture. "I amsorry. It's the failing of men who have often to be combative, and wholive much in solitude. I will try to use a less offensive tone. "

"I didn't mean that your tone was in the least offensive. "

"A more polite tone, then--as you taught me yesterday. "

"I had rather you spoke just as is natural to you. "

Mallard laughed. 

"Politeness is not natural to me, I admit. I am horribly uncomfortablewhenever I have to pick my words out of regard to polite people. Thatis why I shun what is called society. What little I have seen of it hasbeen more than enough for me. "

"I have seen still less of it; but I understand your dislike. "

"Before you left home, didn't you associate a great deal with people?"

"People of a certain kind, " she replied coldly. "It was not society asyou mean it. "

"You will be glad to mix more freely with the world, when you are backin England?"

"I can't tell. By whom is that Madonna?"

Thus they went slowly on, until they came to the little hall where thefountain plays, and whence is the outlook over the Tiber. It wasdelightful to sit here in the shadows, made cooler and fresher by thatplashing water, and to see the glorious sunlight gleam upon the river'stawny flow. 

"Each time that I have been in Rome, " said Mallard, "I have felt, afterthe first few days, a peculiar mental calm. The other cities of Italyhaven't the same effect on me. Perhaps every one experiences it, moreor less. There comes back to me at moments the kind of happiness whichI knew as a boy--a freedom from the sense of duties andresponsibilities, of work to be done, and of disagreeable things to befaced; the kind of contentment I used to have when I was reading livesof artists, or looking at prints of famous pictures, or myself tryingto draw. It is possible that this mood is not such a strange one withmany people as with me, when it comes, I feel grateful to the powersthat rule life Since boyhood, I have never known it in the north. Outof Rome, perhaps only in fine weather on the Mediterranean. But in Romeis its perfection. "

"I thought you preferred the north, " said Miriam. 

"Because I so often choose to work there? I can do better work when Itake subjects in wild scenery and stern climates, but when my thoughtsgo out for pleasure, they choose Italy. I don't enjoy myself in theHebrides or in Norway, but what powers I have are all brought outthere. Hero I am not disposed to work. I want to live, and I feel thatlife can be a satisfaction in itself without labour. I am naturally theidlest of men. Work is always pain to me. I like to dream pictures; butit's terrible to drag myself before the blank canvas. "

Miriam gazed at the Tiber. 

"Do these palaces, " he asked, "ever make you wish you owned them? Didyou ever imagine yourself walking among the marbles and the pictureswith the sense of this being your home?"

"I have wondered what that must be. But I never wished it had fallen tomy lot. "

"No? You are not ambitious?"

"Not in that way. To own a palace such as this would make oneinsignificant. "

"That is admirably true! I should give it away, to recoverself-respect. Shakespeare or Michael Angelo might live here and make itsubordinate to him; I should be nothing but the owner of the palace. You like to feel your individuality?"

"Who does not?"

"In you, I think, it is strong. "

Miriam smiled a little, as if she liked the compliment. Before eitherspoke again, other visitors came to look at the view, and disturbedthem. 

"I shan't ask you to come anywhere to-morrow, " said Mallard, when theyhad again talked for awhile of pictures. "And the next day Mrs. Elgarwill be here. "

She looked at him. 

"That wouldn't prevent me from going to a gallery--if you thought ofit. "

"You will have much to talk of. And your stay in Rome won't be longafter that. "

Miriam made no reply. 

"I wish your brother had been coming, " he went on. "I should have likedto hear from him about the book he is writing. "

"Shall you not be in London before long?" she asked, without show ofmuch interest. 

"I think so, but I have absolutely no plans. Probably it is raininghard in England, or even snowing. I must enjoy the sunshine a littlelonger. I hope your health won't suffer from the change of climate. "

"I hope not, " she answered mechanically. 

"Perhaps you will find you can't live there?"

"What does it matter? I have no ties. "

"No, you are independent; that is a great blessing. "

Chatting as if of indifferent things, they left the gallery. 

CHAPTER VIII

STUMBLINGS

Rolled tightly together, and tied up with string, at the bottom of oneof Miriam's trunks lay the plans of that new chapel for which Bartlesstill waited. Miriam did not like to come upon them, in packing orunpacking; she had covered them with things which probably would not bemoved until she was again in England. 

But the thought of them could not be so satisfactorily hidden. It layin a corner of her mind, and many were the new acquisitions heaped uponit; but in spite of herself she frequently burrowed through all thoseaccumulations of travel, and sought the thing beneath. Sometimes theimpulse was so harassing, the process so distressful, that she mighthave been compared to a murderer who haunts the burial-place of hisvictim, and cannot restrain himself from disturbing the earth. 

It was by no methodic inquiry, no deliberate reasoning, that Miriam hadset aside her old convictions and ordered her intellectual life on thenew scheme. Of those who are destined to pass beyond the bounds ofdogma, very few indeed do so by the way of studious investigation. Howmany of those who abide by inherited faith owe their steadfastness to aconvinced understanding? Convictions, in the proper sense of the word, Miriam had never possessed; she accepted what she was taught, withoutreflecting upon it, and pride subsequently made her stubborn inconsistency. The same pride, aided by the ennui of mental facultiesjust becoming self-conscious, and the desires of a heart for the firsttime humanly touched, constrained her to turn abruptly from the idealshe had pursued, and with unforeseen energy begin to qualify herselffor the assertion of new claims. No barriers of logic stood in her way;it was a simple matter of facing round about. True, she still had toendure the sense of having chosen the wide way instead of that straitone which is authoritatively prescribed. It was a long time before shemade any endeavour to justify herself; but the wide way ran through acountry that delighted her, and her progress was so notable thatself-commendation and the respect of others made her careless of theoccasional stings of conscience. 

She was able now to review the process of change, and to compare thetwo ideals. Without the support of a single argument of logical value, she stamped all the beliefs of her childhood as superstition, andmarvelled that they had so long held their power over her. Herchildhood, indeed, seemed to her to have lasted until she came toNaples; with hot shame she reflected on her speech and behaviour atthat time. What did the Spences think of her? How did they speak of herto their friends? What impression did she make upon Mallard? Thesememories were torture; they explained the mixture of humility andassumption which on certain days made her company disagreeable toEleanor, and the dark moods which now and then held her in sullensolitude. 

But the word "superstition" was no guarantee against the haunting ofsuperstition itself. Miriam was far from being one of the emancipated, however arrogantly she would have met a doubt of her freedom. Just aslittle as ever had she genuine convictions, capable of supporting herin hours of weakness and unsatisfied longing. Several times of late shehad all but brought herself to speak plainly with Eleanor, and ask onwhat foundation was built that calm life which seemed independent ofsupernatural belief; but shame always restrained her. It would be thesame as confessing that she had not really the liberty to which shepretended. There was, however, an indirect way of approaching thesubject, by which her dignity would possibly be rather enhanced thansuffer; and this she at length took. After her return from the PalazzoBorghese, she was beset with a confusion of anxious thoughts. The needof confidential or semi-confidential speech with one of her own sexbecame irresistible. In the evening she found an opportunity ofspeaking privately with Eleanor. 

"I want to ask your opinion about something. It's a question I amobliged to decide now I am going back to England. "

Eleanor smiled inquiringly. She was not a little curious to have aglimpse into her cousin's mind just now. 

"You remember, " pursued Miriam, leaning forward on a table by which shesat, and playing with a twisted piece of paper, "that I once had thesilly desire to build a chapel at Bartles. "

She reddened in hearing the words upon her own lips--so strange a soundthey had after all this time. 

"I remember you talked of doing so, " replied Eleanor, with her usualquiet good-nature. 

"Unfortunately, I did more than talk about it. I made a distinctpromise to certain people gravely interested. The promise wasregistered in a Bartles newspaper. And you know that I went so far asto have my plans made. "

"Do you feel bound by this promise, my dear?"

Miriam propped her cheek on one hand, and with the other kept rollingthe piece of paper on the table. 

"Yes, " she answered, "I can't help thinking that I ought to keep myword. How does it strike you, Eleanor?"

"I am not quite clear how you regard the matter. Are you speaking ofthe promise only as a promise?"

It was no use. Miriam could not tell the truth; she could not confessher position. At once a smile trembled scornfully upon her lips. 

"What else could I mean?"

"Then it seems to me that the obligation has passed away with thecircumstances that occasioned it. "

Miriam kept her eyes on the table, and for a few moments seemed toreflect. 

"A promise is a promise, Eleanor. "

"So it is. And a fact is a fact. I take it for granted that you are nolonger the person who made the promise. I have a faint recollectionthat when I was about eight years old, I pledged myself, on reachingmaturity, to give my nurse the exact half of my worldly possessions. Idon't feel the least ashamed of having made such a promise, and just aslittle of not having kept it. "

Miriam smiled, but still had an unconvinced face. 

"I was not eight years old, " she said, "but about four-and-twenty. "

"Then let us put it in this way. Do you still feel a desire to benefitthat religious community in Bartles? Would it distress you to thinkthat they shook their heads in mentioning your name?"

"I do feel rather in that way, " Miriam admitted slowly. 

"But is this enough to justify you in giving them half or more of allyou possess? You spoke of pulling down Redbeck House, and building onthe site, didn't you?"

"Yes. "

"In any case, should you ever live there again?"

"Never. "

"You prefer to be with us in London?"

"I think you have been troubled with me quite long enough. Perhaps Imight take rooms. "

"If you are as willing to share our house as we are to have you withus, there can be no need for you to live alone. "

"I can't make up my mind about that, Eleanor. Let us talk only aboutthe chapel just now. Are you sure that other people would see it as youdo?"

"Other people of my way of thinking would no doubt think thesame--which is a pretty piece of tautology. Edward would be amazed tohear that you have such scruples. It isn't as if you had promised tosupport a family in dire need, or anything of that kind. The chapel isa superfluity. "

"Not to them. "

"They have one already. "

"But very small and inconvenient. "

"Suppose you ask Mr. Mallard for his thoughts on the subject?" saidEleanor, as if at the bidding of a caprice. 

"Does Mr. Mallard know that I once had this purpose?"

"I think so, " replied the other, with a little hesitation. "You knowthat there was no kind of reserve about it when you first came toNaples. "

"No, of course not. Do you feel as sure of his opinion as of Edward's?"

"I can't say that I do. There's no foreseeing his judgment aboutanything. As you are such good friends, why not consult him?"

"Our friendship doesn't go so far as that. "

"And after all, I don't see what use other people's opinions can be toyou, " said Eleanor, waiving the point. "It's a matter of sentiment. Strict obligation you see, of course, that there is none whatever. Ifit would please you to use a large sum of money in this way, you have aperfect right to do so. But, by-the-bye, oughtn't you to make theBartles people clearly understand who it is that builds their chapel?"

"Surely there is no need of that?"

"I think so. The scruple, in my case, would be far more on this sidethan on the other. "

Miriam did not care to pursue the conversation. The one result of itwas that she had an added uncertainty. She had thought that herproposal to fulfil the promise would at least earn the respect which isdue to stern conscientiousness; but Eleanor clearly regarded it asmatter for the smile one bestows on good-natured folly. Her questionseven showed that she was at first in doubt as to the motives which hadrevived this project--a doubt galling to Miriam, because of itsjustification. She said, in going away:

"Please to consider that this was in confidence, Eleanor. "

Confidence of a barren kind. It was the same now as it had ever been;she had no one with whom she could communicate her secrets, no friendin the nearer sense. On this loneliness she threw the blame of thosefaults which she painfully recognized in herself--her frequentinsincerity, her speeches and silences calculated for effect, her pridebased on disingenuousness. If she could but have disclosed her heart inthe humility of love and trust, how would its aching have been eased!

For a long time she had been absorbed, or nearly so, in studying andobserving; but Mallard's inquiry whether she found this sufficienttouched the source whence trouble was again arising for her. Threeyears ago it did not cost her much to subdue a desire which hadhopelessness for its birthright; the revival of this desire now uniteditself with disquietudes of the maturing intellect, and she lookedforward in dread to a continuation of her loneliness. Some change inher life there must be. Sudden hope had in a day or two brought to fullgrowth the causes of unrest which would otherwise have developed slowly. 

It seemed to be her fate to live in pretences. As the mistress ofRedbeck House, and the light of dissenting piety in Bartles, she knewherself for less than she wished to appear to others; not a hypocrite, indeed, but a pretender to extraordinary zeal, and at the same time aflagrant instance of spiritual pride. Now she was guilty of likesimulation directed to a contrary end. In truth neither bond nor free, she could not suffer herself to seem less liberal-minded than thosewith whom she associated. And yet her soul was weary of untruth. Theone need of her life was to taste the happiness of submission to astronger than herself. Religious devotion is the resource of women ingeneral who suffer thus and are denied the natural solace; but forMiriam it was impossible. Her temperament was not devout, and, howeverpersistent the visitings of uneasy conscience, she had no longer thepower of making her old beliefs a reality. The abstract would not availher; philosophic comforts had as little to say to her as the Churches'creeds. Only by a strong human band could she be raised from herunworthy position and led into the way of sincerity. 

She had counted on having another morning with Mallard before Cecily'sarrival. Disappointed in this hope, she invented a variety oftormenting reasons for Mallard's behaviour. As there was a chance ofhis calling at the hotel, she stayed in all day. But he did not come. The next afternoon Mrs. Lessingham and her companion reached Rome. 

It was known that Cecily's health had suffered from her watchings bythe sick child, and from her grief at its death; so no one wassurprised at finding her rather thin-faced. She had a warm greeting forher friends, and seemed happy to be with them again; but the brightnessof the first hour was not sustained. Conversation cost her aperceptible effort; she seldom talked freely of anything, and generallywith an unnatural weighing of her words, an artificiality of thoughtand phrase, which was a great contrast to the spontaneousness of formertimes. When Eleanor wanted her to speak about herself, she preferred totell of what she had lately read or heard or seen. That the simplegrace of the girl should be modified in the wife and mother was ofcourse to be expected, but Cecily looked older than she ought to havedone, and occasionally bore herself with a little too muchconsciousness, as if she felt the observation even of intimate friendssomething of a restraint. 

Miriam, when she had made inquiries about her brother's health, tooklittle part in the general conversation, and it was not till late inthe evening that she spoke with Cecily in private. 

"May I come and sit with you for a few minutes?" Cecily asked, whenMiriam was going to her bedroom. 

They were far less at ease with each other than when their differencesof opinion were a recognized obstacle to intimacy. Cecily was uncertainhow far her sister-in-law had progressed from the old standpoint, andshe saw in her even an increase of the wonted reticence. On her ownside there was no longer a warm impulse of sisterly affection. But herfirst words, when they were alone together, sounded like an appeal fortender confidence. 

"I do so wish you had seen my poor little boy!"

"I wish I had been nearer, " Miriam answered kindly. "It is very sadthat you have suffered such a loss. "

Cecily spoke of the child, and with simple feeling, which made her morelike herself than hitherto. 

"When a little thing dies at that age, " she said presently, "it is onlythe mother's grief. The father cannot have much interest in so young achild. "

"But Reuben wrote very affectionately of Clarence in one letter I hadfrom him. "

"Yes, but it is natural that he shouldn't feel the loss as I do. A manhas his business in life; a woman, if she needn't work for bread, hasnothing to do but be glad or sorry for what happens in her home. "

"I shouldn't have thought you took that view of a woman's life, " saidMiriam, after a silence, regarding the other with uncertain eyes. 

"'Views' have become rather a weariness to me, " answered Cecily, smiling sadly. "Sorrow is sorrow to me as much as to the woman whonever questioned one of society's beliefs; it makes me despondent. Nodoubt I ought to find all sorts of superior consolations. But I don'tand can't. A woman's natural lot is to care for her husband and bringup children. Do you believe, Miriam, that anything will ever take theplace of these occupations?"

"I suppose not. But time will help you, and your interests will comeback again. "

"True. On the other hand, it is equally true that I am now seeing howlittle those interests really amount to. They are pastime, if you like, but nothing more. Some women do serious work, however; I wish I couldbe one of them. To them, perhaps, 'views' are something real andhelpful. But never mind myself; you were glad to hear that Reuben isworking on?"

"Very glad. "

Cecily waited a little; then, watching the other's face, asked:

"You know what he is writing?"

"In a general way, " Miriam answered, averting her eyes. "Do you thinkhe has made a wise choice?"

"I dare say it is the subject on which he will write best, " Cecilyanswered, smiling. 

"I doubt whether he understands it sufficiently, " said Miriam, withbalanced tone. "He has really nothing but prejudice to go upon. Therewill be a great deal of misrepresentation in his book--if he everfinishes it. "

"Yes, I am afraid that is true. But it may be useful, after all. Hereand there he will hit the mark. "

Cecily was tentative. She saw Miriam's brows work uneasily. 

"Perhaps so, " was the reply. "But I know quite well that such a bookwould have been no use to me when I stood in need of the kind of helpyou mean. "

"To be sure; it is for people who have already helped themselves, " saidCecily, in a jesting tone. 

Miriam turned to another subject, and very soon said good night. Reflecting on the conversation, she was annoyed with herself for havingbeen led by her familiar weakness to admit that she had changed her wayof thinking. Certainly she had no intention of disguising the fact, butthis explicit confession had seemed to make her Cecily's inferior; shewas like a school-girl claiming recognition of progress. 

The next morning Mallard called. He came into a room where Mrs. Lessingham, Eleanor, and Miriam were waiting for Cecily to join them, that all might go out together. Miriam had never seen him behave withsuch ease of manner. He was in good spirits, and talked with a facilitymost unusual in him. Mrs. Lessingham said she would go and see whyCecily delayed; Eleanor also made an excuse for leaving the room. ButMiriam remained, standing by the window and looking into the street;Mallard stood near her, but did not speak. The silence lasted for aminute or two; then Cecily entered, and at once the artist greeted herwith warm friendliness. Miriam had turned, but did not regard the pairdirectly; her eye caught their reflection in a mirror, and she watchedthem closely without seeming to do so. Cecily had made her appearancewith a face of pleased anticipation; she looked for the first momentwith much earnestness at her old friend, and when she spoke to him itwas with the unmistakable accent of emotion. Mallard was gentle, reverent; he held her hand a little longer than was necessary, but hiseyes quickly fell from her countenance. 

"Your husband is well?" he asked in a full, steady voice. 

They seated themselves, and Miriam again turned to the window. Cecily'svoice made a jarring upon her ear; it was so much sweeter and moreyouthful, so much more like the voice of Cecily Doran, than when itaddressed other people. Mallard, too, continued in a soft, pleasanttone, quite different from his usual speech; Miriam thrilled withirritation as she heard him. 

"They have told me of the picture you painted at Paestum. When may Mrs. Lessingham and I come and see it?"

"I haven't a place in which I could receive you. I'll bring the thinghere, whenever you like. "

Miriam moved. She wished to leave the room, but could not decideherself to do so. In the same moment Mallard glanced round at her. Sheinterpreted his look as one of impatience, and at once said to Cecily:

"I think I'll change my mind, and write some letters this morning. Perhaps you could persuade Mr. Mallard to take my place for the drive. "

"Oh!" exclaimed Cecily, with a laugh, "I'm quite sure Mr. Mallard hasno desire to go to the English cemetery. " She added in explanation, toMallard himself, "My aunt has promised to visit a certain grave, andcopy the inscription for a friend at Florence. "

Whilst she was speaking, Mrs. Lessingham and Eleanor returned. Mallard, rising, looked at Miriam with a singular smile; then talked a littlelonger, and, with a promise to come again, soon took his leave. 

"Don't disappoint us, " said Cecily to Miriam, in the most natural tone. 

"It was only that I felt we were making Mr. Mallard's visit veryshort, " answered Miriam, constrained by shame. 

"He detests ceremony. You couldn't please him better than by saying, 'Please don't hinder me now, but come when I'm at leisure. '"

It was peculiarly distasteful to Miriam to have information concerningthe artist's character offered her by Cecily, in spite of the playfultone. During the drive, she persuaded herself that Cecily's improvedspirits were entirely due to the conversation with Mallard, and thisstirred fresh resentment in her. She had foreseen the effect upon herown feelings of the meeting which had just come about; it was extremefolly, but she could not control it. 

The next day Mallard brought his picture again to the hotel, and spentnearly an hour with Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily in their sitting-room. Miriam heard of this on her return from a. Solitary walk, and heard, moreover, that Mallard had been showing his friends a number of littledrawings which he had never offered to let her or the Spences see. Inthe afternoon she again went out by herself, and, whilst looking into ashop-window in the Piazza di Spagna, became aware of Mallard's facereflected in the glass. She drew aside before looking round at him. 

"That is a clever piece of work, " he said, indicating a water-colour inthe window, and speaking as if they had already been in conversation. He had not even made the hat-salute. 

"I thought so, " Miriam replied, very coldly, looking at something else. 

"Are you going home, Mrs. Baske?"

"Yes. I only came out to buy something. "

"I am just going to see the studio of an Italian to whom Mr. Seaborneintroduced me yesterday. It's in the Quattro-Fontane. Would it interestyou?"

"Thank you, Mr. Mallard; I had rather not go this afternoon. "

He accepted the refusal with a courteous smile, raised his hat inapproved manner, and turned to cross the Piazza as she went her way. 

This evening they had a visit from Seaborne, who met Mrs. Lessinghamand Cecily for the first time. These ladies were predisposed to likehim, and before he left they did so genuinely. In his pleasantly quietway, he showed much respectful admiration of Mrs. Elgar. 

"Now, isn't there a resemblance to Mr. Mallard?" asked Eleanor, whenthe visitor was gone. 

"Just--just a little, " admitted Cecily, with fastidiousness and anamused smile. "But Mr. Seaborne doesn't impress me as so original, sostrong. "

"Oh, that he certainly isn't, " said Spence. "But acuter, and perhaps afiner feeling in several directions. "

Miriam listened, and was tortured. 

She had suffered all the evening from observing Cecily, whose powers ofconversation and charms of manner made her bitterly envious. How farshe herself was from this ideal of the instructed and socially trainedwoman! The presence of a stranger had banished Cecily's despondentmood, and put all her capacities in display. With a miserable sense ofhumiliation, Miriam compared her own insignificant utterances and thatbright, often brilliant, talk which held the attention of every one. Beside Cecily, she was still indeed nothing but a school-girl, who withmuch labour was getting a smattering of common knowledge; for, thoughCecily had no profound acquirements, the use she made of what she didknow was always suggestive, intellectual, individual. 

What wonder that Mallard brought out his drawings to show them toCecily? There would be nothing commonplace in _her_ remarks andadmiration. 

She felt herself a paltry pretender to those possibilities of modernwomanhood which were open to Cecily from her birth. In the course ofnatural development, Cecily, whilst still a girl, threw for ever behindher all superstitions and harassing doubts; she was in the true sense"emancipated"--a word Edward Spence was accustomed to use jestingly. And this was Mallard's conception of the admirable in woman. 

CHAPTER IX

SILENCES

Cecily was seeing Rome for the first time, but she could not enjoy itin the way natural to her. It was only at rare moments that she _felt_Rome. One of the most precious of her life's anticipations was fadinginto memory, displaced by a dull experience, numbered amongdisillusionings. Not that what she beheld disappointed her, but thatshe was not herself in beholding. Had she stayed here on her firstvisit to Italy, on what a strong current of enthusiasm would the hoursand the days have borne her! What a light would have glowed upon theSeven Hills, and how would every vulgarity of the modern streets havebeen transformed by her imagination! But now she was in no haste tovisit the most sacred spots; she was content to take each in its turn, and her powers of attention soon flagged. It had been the same inFlorence. She felt herself reduced to a lower level of existence thanwas native to her. Had she lived her life--all that was worth callinglife?

Her chief solace was in the society of Mrs. Spence. Formerly she hadnot been prepared for appreciating Eleanor, but now she felt thebeauties of that calm, self-reliant character, rich in a mode ofhappiness which it seemed impossible for herself ever to attain. Fortune had been Eleanor's friend. Disillusion had come to her only inthe form of beneficent wisdom; no dolorous dead leaves rustled abouther feet and clogged her walk. Happy even in the fact that she hadnever been a mother. She was a free woman; free in the love of herhusband, free in the pursuit of knowledge and the cultivation of allher tastes. She had outlived passion without mourning it; what greaterhappiness than that can a woman expect? Cecily had once believed thatlife was to be all passion, or a failure. She understood now that therewas a middle path. But against her it was closed. 

In a few days she could talk with Eleanor even of bygone things in aperfectly simple tone, without danger of betraying the thoughts shemust keep secret. One such conversation reminded her of something shehad learnt shortly before she left London. 

"Do you remember, " she asked, "a family named Denyer, who were at Mrs. Gluck's?"

Eleanor recollected the name, and the characteristics attached to it. 

"An acquaintance of mine who has rooms at Hampstead happened to speakof the people she is with, and it surprised me to discover that theywere those very Denyers. One of the daughters is paralyzed, poor girl;I was shocked to remember her, and think of her visited by such a fate. I believe she was to have married that artist, Mr. Marsh, who gave Mr. Bradshaw so much amusement. And the eldest--"

She broke off to inquire why Eleanor had looked at her so expressively. 

"I'll tell you when you have finished your story. What of the eldest?"

"She has recently married Mr. Musselwhite, who was also one of our oldacquaintances. Mrs. Travis--the lady who tells me all this--says thatMrs. Denyer is overjoyed at this marriage, for Mr. Musselwhite is thebrother of a baronet!"

"Very satisfactory indeed. Well, now for Mr. Marsh. Edward heard fromMr. Bradshaw when we were in Sicily, and this young gentleman had agreat part in the letter. It seems he has long abandoned his artisticcareer, and gone into commerce. "

"That most superior young man? But I remember something about that. "

"His business takes him often to Manchester, and he has beencultivating the acquaintance of the Bradshaws. And now there is anengagement between him and their eldest daughter. "

"Charlotte? What a queer thing to happen! Isn't she about my age?"

"Yes; and, if she fulfils her promise, one of the plainest girls inexistence. Her father jokes about the affair, but evidently doesn'tdisapprove. "

It was Thursday, and the Spences had decided to start for London onFriday night. Miriam had been keeping much alone these last few days, and this morning was out by herself in the usual way. Spence wasengaged with Seaborne. Mrs. Lessingham, Eleanor, and Cecily went to theVatican. 

Where also was Mallard. He had visited the chapel, and the Stanze, andthe Loggia, and the picture-gallery, not looking at things, but seemingto look for some one; then he came out, and walked round St. Peter's tothe Museum. In the Sala Rotonda he encountered his friends. 

They talked about the busts. Cecily was studying them with thecatalogue, and wished Mallard to share her pleasure. 

"The empresses interest me most, " she said. "Come and do homage tothem. "

They look with immortal eyes, those three women who once saw the worldat their feet: Plotina, the wife of Trajan; Faustina, the wife ofAntoninus Pius; Julia, the wife of Septimius Severus. Noble heads, eachso unlike the other. Plotina, with her strong, not beautiful, features, the high cheek-bones, the male chin; on her forehead a subdued anxiety. Faustina, the type of aristocratic self-consciousness, gloriouslyarrogant, splendidly beautiful, with her superb coronet of woven hair. Julia Domna, a fine, patrician face, with a touch of idleness andgood-natured scorn about her lips, taking her dignity as a matter ofcourse. 

"These women awe me, " Cecily murmured, as Mallard stood beside her. "They are not of our world. They make me feel as if I belonged to aninferior race. "

"Glorious barbarians, " returned Mallard. 

"We of to-day have no right to say so. "

Then the Antinous, the finest of all his heads. It must be caught inprofile, and one stands marvelling at the perfection of soullessbeauty. And the Jupiter of Otricoli, most majestic of marble faces; inthat one deep line across the brow lies not only profound thought, butsomething of the care of rule, or something of pity for mankind; asthough he had just uttered his words in Homer: "For verily there is nocreature more afflicted than man, of all that breathe and move upon theearth. " But that other, the Serapis, is above care of every kind; onhis countenance is a divine placidity, a supernal blandness; he gazesfor ever in sublime and passionless reverie. 

Thence they passed to the Hall of the Muses, and spoke of Thalia, whosesweet and noble face, with its deep, far-looking eyes, bears such aweary sadness, Comedy? Yes; comedy itself, when comedy is rightlyunderstood. 

And whilst they stood here, there came by a young priest, holding opena missal or breviary or some such book, and muttering from it, as iflearning by heart. Cecily followed him with her gaze. 

"What a place for study of that kind!" she exclaimed, looking atMallard. 

He also had felt the incongruity, and laughed. 

Two or three chambers of the Vatican sufficed for one day. Cecily wouldnot trust herself to remain after her interest had begun to weary; itwas much that she had won two hours of intellectual calm. Hercompanions had no wish to stay longer. Just as they came again into theSala Rotonda, they found themselves face to face with Miriam. 

"Did you know we were coming here?" asked Eleanor. 

"I thought it likely. "

She shook hands with Mallard, but did not speak to him. Eleanor offeredto stay with her, as this would be their last visit, but Miriam said ina friendly manner that she preferred to be alone. So they left her. 

At the exit, Mallard saw his companions into a carriage, and himselfwalked on; but as soon as the carriage was out of sight, he turnedback. He had taken care to recover his _permesso_ from the attendant, in the common way, when he came out, so that he could enter againimmediately. He walked rapidly to the place where they had left Miriam, but she was gone. He went forward, and discovered her sitting beforethe Belvedere Apollo. As his entrance drew her attention, he saw thatshe had an impulse to rise; but she overcame it, and again turned hereyes upon him, with a look in which self-control was unconsciously likedefiance. 

He sat down by her, and said:

"I came to the Vatican this morning for the chance of meeting you. "

"I hope that was not your only reason for coming, " she returned, in avoice of ordinary civility. 

"It was, in fact I should have asked you to let me have your companyfor an hour to-day, as it is practically your last in Rome; but I wasnot sure that you would grant it, so I took my chance instead. "

She waited a moment before replying. 

"I am afraid you refer to your invitation of a few days ago. I didn'tfeel in the mood for going to a studio, Mr. Mallard. "

"Yes, I was thinking of that. You refused in a way not quite likeyourself. I began to be afraid that you thought me too regardless offorms. "

His return had gratified her; it was unexpected, and she set her facein a hard expression that it might not betray her sudden gladness. Butthe look of thinly-masked resentment which succeeded told of what hadbeen in her mind since she encountered him in the company of Cecily. That jealous pain was uncontrollable; the most trivial occasions hadkept exciting it, and now it made her sick at heart. The effort tospeak conventionally was all but beyond her strength. 

They had in common that personal diffidence which is one of the phasesof pride, and which proves so fruitful a source of misunderstandings. For all her self-esteem, Miriam could not obtain the conviction that, as a woman, she strongly interested Mallard; and the artist found itvery hard to persuade himself that Miriam thought of him as anythingbut a man of some talent, whose attention was agreeable, and perhaps alittle flattering. Still, he could not but notice that her changedbehaviour connected itself with Cecily's arrival. It seemed to himextraordinary, almost incredible, that she should be jealous of hisrelations with her sister-in-law. Had she divined his passion forCecily at Naples? (He cherished a delusion that the secret had neverescaped him. ) But to attribute jealousy to her was to assume that sheset a high value on his friendship. 

Miriam had glanced at the Apollo as he spoke. Conscious of his eyesupon her, she looked away, saying in a forced tone:

"I had no such thought. You misunderstood me. "

"It was all my fault, then, and I am sorry for it. You said just nowthat you preferred to be alone. I shall come to the hotel to-morrow, just to say good-bye. "

He rose; and Miriam, as she did the same, asked formally:

"You are still uncertain how long you remain here?"

"Quite, " was his answer, cheerfully given. 

"You are not going to work?"

"No; it is holiday with me for a while. I wish you were staying alittle longer. "

"You will still have friends here. "

Mallard disliked the tone of this. 

"Oh yes, " he replied. "I hope to see Mrs. Lessingham and Mrs. Elgarsometimes. "

He paused; then added:

"I dare say I shall return to England about the same time that they do. May I hope to see you in London?"

"I am quite uncertain where I shall be. "

"Then perhaps we shall not meet for a long time. --Will you let me giveyou one or two little drawings that may help to remind you of Italy?"

Miriam's cheeks grew warm, and she east down her eyes. 

"Your drawings are far too valuable to be given as one gives trifles, Mr. Mallard. "

"I don't wish you to receive them as trifles. One of their values to meis that I can now and then please a friend with them. If you had ratherI did not think of you as a friend, then you would be right to refusethem. "

"I will receive them gladly. "

"Thank you. They shall be sent to the hotel. "

They shook hands, and he left her. 

On the morrow they met again for a few minutes, when he came to saygood-bye. Miriam made no mention of the packet that had reached her. She was distant, and her smile at leave-taking very cold. 

So the three travelled northwards. 

Their departure brought back Cecily's despondent mood. With difficultyshe restrained her tears in parting from Eleanor; when she was alone, they had their way. She felt vaguely miserable--was troubled withshapeless apprehensions, with a sense of desolateness. 

The next day brought a letter from her husband, "Dear Ciss, " he wrote, "I am sorry its so long since I sent you a line, but really there's nonews. I foresee that I shall not have much manuscript to show you; I amreading hugely, but I don't feel ready to write. Hope you are muchbetter; give me notice of your return. My regards to Mallard; I expectyou will see very little of him. " And so, with a "yours ever, " theepistle ended. 

This was all Reuben had to say to her, when she had been absent nearlya month. With a dull disappointment, she put the arid thing out of hersight. It had been her intention to write to-day, but now she couldnot. She had even less to say than he. 

He expressed no wish for her return, and felt none. Perhaps, it wasmerely indifferent to him how long she stayed away; but she had noassurance that he did not prefer to be without her. And, for her ownpart, had she any desire to be back again? Here she was not contented, but at home she would be even less so. 

The line in his letter which had reference to the much-talked-of bookonly confirmed her distrust. She had no faith in his work. The revivalof his energy from time to time was no doubt genuine enough, but sheknew that its subsequent decline was marked with all manner ofpretences. Possibly he was still "reading hugely, " but the greaterlikelihood was that he had fallen into mere idleness. It wassignificant of her feeling towards him that she never made surmises asto how he spent his leisure; her thoughts, consciously andunconsciously, avoided such reflections; it was a matter that did notconcern her. He had now a number of companions, men of whom her ownknowledge was very vague; that they were not considered suitableacquaintances for her, of course meant that Reuben could have no profitfrom them, and would probably suffer from their contact. But in thesethings she had long been passive, careless. Experience had taught herhow easy it was for husband and wife to live parted lives, even whilsttheir domestic habits seemed the same as ever; in books, that situationhad formerly struck her as inconceivable, but now she suspected that itwas the commonest of the results of marriage. Habit, habit; how strongit is!

And how degrading! To it she attributed this bluntness in her facultiesof perception and enjoyment, this barrenness of the world about her. Itwas dreadful to look forward upon a tract of existence thus vulgarized. Already she recognized in herself the warnings of a possible future inwhich she would have lost her intellectual ambitions. There is acreeping paralysis of the soul, and did she not experience itssymptoms? Already it was hard to apply herself to any study thatdemanded real effort; she was failing to pursue her Latin; she avoidedGerman books, because they were more exacting than French; her memoryhad lost something of its grasp. Was she to become a woman of society, a refined gossip, a pretentious echo of the reviews and of cleverpeople's talk? If not, assuredly she must exert a force of characterwhich she had begun to suspect was not in her. 

Strange that the one person to whom she had disclosed something of herreal mind was also the one who seemed at the greatest distance from herin this circle of friends. Involuntarily, she had spoken to Miriam asto no one else. This might be a result of old associations. But had ita connection with that curious surmise she had formed during the firsthour of her conversation with the Spences, and with Miriamherself--that an unexpected intimacy was coming about between Miriamand Mallard? For, in her frequent thoughts of Mallard, she hadnecessarily wondered whether he would ever perceive the true issue ofher self-will; and, so far from desiring to blind him, she had almost ahope that one day he might know how her life had shaped itself. Mallard's position in her mind was a singular one; in some such way shemight have regarded a brother who had always lived remote from her, butwhom she had every reason to love and reverence. Her esteem for him wasboundless; he was the ideal of the artist, and at the same time of thenobly strong man. Had such a thing been possible, she would have soughtto make _him_ her confidant. However it was to be explained, she feltno wound to her self-respect in supposing him cognizant of all hersufferings; rather, a solace, a source of strength. 

Was it, in a measure, woman's gratitude for love? In the course ofthree years she had seen many reasons for believing that Reuben wasright; that the artist had loved her, and gone through dark struggleswhen her fate was being decided. That must have added tenderness to herformer regard and admiration. But she was glad that he had nowrecovered his liberty; the first meeting, his look and the grasp of hishand, told her at once that the trouble was long gone by. She was gladof this, and the proof of her sincerity came when she watched therelations between him and Miriam. 

On the last evening, Miriam came to her room, carrying a smallportfolio, which she opened before her, disclosing three water-colours. 

"You have bought them?" Cecily asked, as the other said nothing. 

"No. Mr. Mallard has given me them, " was the answer, in a voice whichaffected a careless pleasure. 

"They are admirable. I am delighted that you take such a present awaywith you. "

Cecily expected no confidences, and received none; she could onlypuzzle over the problem. Why did Miriam behave with so strange acoldness? Her new way of regarding life ought to have resulted in herlaying aside that austerity. Mrs. Lessingham hinted an opinion that thechange did not go very deep; Puritanism, the result of birth andbreeding, was not so easily eradicated. 

Mallard stayed on in Rome, but during this next week Cecily only sawhim twice--the first time, for a quarter of an hour on the Pincio; thenin the Forum. On that second occasion he was invited to dine with themat the hotel the next day, Mr. Seaborne's company having also beenrequested. The result was a delightful evening. Seaborne was just nowbusy with a certain period of Papal history; he talked of some oldbooks he had been reading in the Vatican library, and revealed a worldutterly strange to all his hearers. 

Here were men who used their lives to some purpose; who rot onlyplanned, but executed. When the excitement of the evening had subsided, Cecily thought with more bitterness than ever yet of the contrastbetween such workers and her husband. The feeling which had first comeupon her intensely when she stood before Mallard's picture at theAcademy was now growing her habitual mood. She had shut herself out forever from close communion with this world of genuine activity; shecould only regard it from behind a barrier, instead of warming herheart and brain in free enjoyment of its emotions. And the worst of itwas that these glimpses harmed her, injured her morally. One cannotdwell with discontent and keep a healthy imagination. She knew herdanger, and it increased the misery with which she looked forward. 

Another week, and again there was a chance meeting with Mallard, thistime on the Via Appia, where Cecily and her aunt were driving. Theyspent a couple of hours together. At the parting, Mallard announcedthat the next day would see him on his journey to London. 

CHAPTER X

ELGAR AT WORK

At Dover it was cold and foggy; the shore looked mildewed, the townrain-soaked and mud-stained. In London, a solid leaden sky loweredabove the streets, neither threatening rain nor allowing a hope ofsunlight. What a labour breathing had become!

"My heart warms to my native land, " said Spence. "This is a spring daythat recalls one's youth. "

Eleanor tried to smile, but the railway journey had depressed herbeneath the possibility of joking. Miriam was pallid and miserable; shehad scarcely spoken since she set foot on the steamboat. Cab-bornethrough the clangorous streets, they seemed a party of exiles. 

The house in Chelsea, which the Spences held on a long lease, had beenoccupied during their absence by Edward's brother-in-law and hisfamily. Vacated, swept, and garnished, the old furniture from thePantechnicon re-established somewhat at haphazard, it was not a homethat welcomed warmly; but one could heap coals on all the fires, anddraw down the blinds as soon as possible, and make a sort of Christmasevening. If only one's lungs could have free play! But in a week or sosuch little incommodities would become natural again. 

Miriam had decided that in a day or two she would go down to Bartles;not to stay there, but merely to see her relative, Mrs. Fletcher, andRedbeck House. Before leaving London, she must visit Reuben; she hadpromised Cecily to do so without delay. This same evening she posted acard to her brother, asking him to be at home to see her early the nextmorning. 

She reached Belsize Park at ten o'clock, and dismissed the cab as soonas she had alighted from it. Her ring at the door was long in beinganswered, and the maid-servant who at last appeared did small credit tothe domestic arrangements of the house--she was slatternly, and seemedto resent having her morning occupations, whatever they were, thusdisturbed. Miriam learnt with surprise that Mr. Elgar was not at home. 

"He is out of town?"

The servant thought so; he had not been at the house for two days. 

"You are unable to tell me when he will return?"

Mr. Elgar was often away for a day or two, but not for longer thanthat. The probability was that he would, at all events, look in beforeevening, though he might go away again. 

Miriam left a card--which the servant inspected with curiosity beforethe door was closed--and turned to depart. It was raining, and verywindy. She had to walk some distance before she could find aconveyance, and all the way she suffered from a painful fluttering ofthe heart, an agitation like that of fear. All night she had wished shehad never returned to England, and now the wish became a dread ofremaining. 

By the last post that evening came a note from Reuben. He wrote inmanifest hurry, requesting her to come again next morning; he wouldhave visited her himself, but perhaps she had not a separatesitting-room, and he preferred to talk with her in privacy. 

So in the morning she again went to Belsize Park. This time the servantwas a little tidier, and behaved more conventionally. Miriam wasconducted to the library, where Reuben awaited her. 

They examined each other attentively. Miriam was astonished to find herbrother looking at least ten years older than when she last saw him; hewas much sparer in body, had duller eyes and, it seemed to her, thinnerhair. 

"But why didn't you write sooner to let me know you were coming?" washis first exclamation. 

"I supposed you knew from Cecily. "

"I haven't heard from her since the letter in which she told me she hadgot to Rome. She said you would be coming soon, but that was all. Idon't understand this economy of postage!"

He grew more annoyed as he spoke. Meeting Miriam's eye, he added, inthe tone of explanation:

"It's abominable that you should come here all the way from Chelsea, and be turned away at the door! What did the servant tell you?"

"Only that your comings and goings were very uncertain, " she replied, looking about the room. 

"Yes, so they are. I go now and then to a friend's in Surrey and stopovernight. One can't live alone for an indefinite time. But sit down. Unless you'd like to have a look at the house, first of all?"

"I'll sit a little first. "

"This is my study, when I'm working at home, " Reuben continued, walkingabout and handling objects, a book, or a pen, or a paper-knife. "Comfortable, don't you think? I want to have another bookcase overthere. I haven't worked here much since Cecily has been away; I have agreat deal of reading to do at the Museum, you know. --You look a vastdeal better, Miriam. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Most likely I shall continue to live with the Spences. "

"You wouldn't care to come here?"

"Thank you; I think the other arrangement will be better. "

"Perhaps so. For one thing, it's quite uncertain whether we shall keepthis house. It's really a good deal too large for us; an unnecessaryexpense. If Cecily is often to be away like this, there's nopossibility of keeping the place in order. How the servants live, orwhat they do, I have no idea. How can I be expected to look after suchthings?"

"But surely it is not expected of you? I understood that Cecily hadleft a housekeeper. "

"Oh yes; but I have a suspicion that she does little but eat and drink. I know the house is upside down. It's long enough since I had a decentmeal here. Practically I have taken to eating at restaurants. Of courseI say nothing about it to Cecily; what's the use of bothering her?By-the-bye, how is she? How did you leave her?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid. "

"She never says a word about her health. But then, practically, shenever writes. I doubt whether London suits her. We shall have to makeour head-quarters in Paris, I fancy; she was always well enough there. Of course I can't abandon London entirely; at all events, not tillI've--till my materials for the book are all ready; but it's simpleenough for me to come and take lodgings for a month now and then. "

Miriam gave an absent "Yes. "

"You don't seem to have altered much, after all, " he resumed, lookingat her with a smile. "You talk to me just like you used to. I expectedto find you more cheerful. "

Miriam showed a forced smile, but answered nothing. 

"Well, did you see much of Mallard?" he asked, throwing himself into aseat impatiently, and beginning to rap his knee with the paper-knife. 

"Not very much. "

"Has he come back with you?"

"Oh no; he is still in Rome. He said that he would most likely returnwhen the others did. "

"How do he and Cecily get on together?"

"They seemed to be quite friendly. "

"Indeed? Does he go about with them?"

"I don't know. "

"But did he when you were there?"

"I think he was with them at the Vatican once. "

Elgar heard it with indifference. He was silent for a minute or two;then, quitting his chair, asked:

"Had you much talk with her?"

"With Cecily? We were living together, you know. "

"Yes, but had she much to tell you? Did she talk about how things weregoing with us--what I was doing, and so on?"

He was never still. Now he threw himself into another chair, andstrummed with his fingers on the arm of it. 

"She told me about your work. "

"And showed that she took very little interest in it, no doubt?"

Miriam gazed at him. 

"Why do you think that?"

"Oh, that's tolerably well understood between us. " Again he rose, andpaced with his hands in his pockets. "It was a misfortune that Clarencedied. Now she has nothing to occupy herself with. She doesn't seem tohave any idea of employing her time. It was bad enough when the childwas living, but since then--"

He spoke as though the hints fell from him involuntarily; he wished tobe understood as implying no censure, but merely showing an unfortunatestate of things. When he broke off, it was with a shrug and a shake ofthe head. 

"But I suppose she reads a good deal?" said Miriam; "and has friends tovisit?"

"She seems to care very little about reading nowadays. And as for thefriends--yes, she is always going to some house or other. Perhaps itwould have been better if she had had no friends at all. "

"You mean that they are objectionable people?"

"Oh no; I don't mean to say anything of that kind. But--well, nevermind, we won't talk about it. "

He threw up an arm, and began to pace the floor again. His nervousnesswas increasing. In a few moments he broke out in the same curious tone, which was half complaining, half resigned. 

"You know Cecily, I dare say. She has a good deal of--well, I won'tcall it vanity, because that has a vulgar sound, and she is nevervulgar. But she likes to be admired by clever people. One must rememberhow young she still is. And that's the very thing of which she can'tendure to be reminded. If I hint a piece of counsel, she feels it aninsult. I suppose I am to blame myself, in some things. When I wasworking here of an evening, now and then I felt it a bore to have todress and go out. I don't care much for society, that's the fact of thematter. But I couldn't bid her stay at home. You see how things getinto a wrong course. A girl of her age oughtn't to be going about aloneamong all sorts of people. Of course something had to precede that. Thefirst year or two, she didn't want any society. I suppose a man whostudies much always runs the danger of neglecting his home affairs. Butit was her own wish that I should begin to work. She was incessantlyurging me to it. One of the inconsistencies of women, you see. "

He laughed unmelodiously, and then there was a long silence. Miriam, who watched him mechanically, though her eyes were not turned directlyupon him, saw that he seated himself on the writing-table, and began tomake idle marks with a pencil on the back of an envelope. 

"Why didn't you go abroad with her?" she asked in a low voice. 

"I would have gone, if it hadn't been quite clear that she preferrednot to have my company. "

"Are you speaking the truth?"

"What do you mean, Miriam? She preferred to go alone; I know she did. "

"But didn't you make the excuse to her that you couldn't leave yourwork?"

"That's true also. Could I say plainly that I saw what she wished?"

"I think it very unlikely that you were right, " Miriam rejoined in atone of indecision. 

"What reason have you for saying that?"

"You ought to have a very good reason before you believe the contrary. "

She waited for him to reply, but he had taken another piece of paper, and seemed absorbed in covering it with a sort of pattern of his owndesign. 

"Right or wrong, what does it matter?" he exclaimed at length, flingingthe pencil away. "The event is the same, in any case. Does it depend onmyself how I act, or what I think? Do you believe still that we arefree agents, and responsible for our acts and thoughts?"

Miriam avoided his look, and said carelessly:

"I know nothing about it. "

He gave a short laugh. 

"Well, that's better and more honest than saying you believe what iscontrary to all human experience. Look back on your life. Has itscourse been of your own shaping? Compare yourself of to-day withyourself of four years ago; has the change come about by your ownagency? If you are _wrong_, are you to blame? Imagine some fanaticseizing you by the arm, and shouting to you to beware of the precipiceto which you are advancing--"

He suited the action to the word, and grasped her wrist. Miriam shookhim off angrily. 

"What do you know of _me_?" she exclaimed, with suppressed scorn. 

"True. Just as little as you know of me, or any one person of anyother. However, I was speaking of what you know of yourself. I supposeyou can look back on one or two things in your life of which yourjudgment doesn't approve? Do you imagine they could have happenedotherwise than they did? Do you think it lay in your own power to takethe course you now think the better?"

Miriam stood up impatiently, and showed no intention of replying. AgainElgar laughed, and waved his arm as if dismissing a subject of thought. 

"Come up and look at the drawing-room, " he said, walking to the door. 

"Some other time. I'll come again in a few days. "

"As you please. But you must take your chance of finding me at home, unless you give me a couple of days' notice. "

"Thank you, " she answered coldly. "I will take my chance. "

He went with her to the front door. With his hand on the latch, he saidin an undertone:

"Shall you be writing to Cecily?"

"I think not; no. "

"All right. I'll let her know you called. "

For Miriam, this interview was confirmative of much that she hadsuspected. She believed now that Reuben and his wife, if they had notactually agreed to live apart, were practically in the position ofpeople who have. The casual reference to a possible abandonment oftheir house meant more than Reuben admitted. She did not interpret thesituation as any less interested person, with her knowledge ofantecedents, certainly would have done; that is to say, conclude thatReuben was expressing his own desires independently of those whichCecily might have formed. Her probing questions, in which she hadseemed to take Cecily's side, were in reality put with a perverse hopeof finding that such a view was untenable, and she came away convincedthat this was the case. The state of things at home considered, Cecilywould not have left for so long an absence but on her own wish. 

And, this determined, she thought with increased bitterness ofMallard's remaining in Rome. He too could not but suspect the coursethat Cecily's married life was taking; by this time he might even knowwith certainty. How would that affect him? In her doubt as to how farthe exchange of confidences between Cecily and Mallard was a possiblething, she tortured herself with picturing the progress of theirintercourse at Rome, inventing chance encounters, imaginingconversations. Mrs. Lessingham was as good as no obstacle to theirintimacy; her, Miriam distrusted profoundly. Judging by her ownimpulses, she attributed to Cecily a strong desire for Mallard'ssustaining companionship; and on the artist's side, she judged all butinevitable, under such circumstances, a revival of that passion she hadread in his face long ago. Her ingenuity of self-torment went so far asto interpret Mallard's behaviour to herself in a dishonourable sense. It is doubtful whether any one who loves passionately fulfils the idealof being unable to see the object of love in any but a noble light;this is one of the many conventions, chiefly of literary origin, whichto the eyes of the general make cynicism of wholesome truth. Miriamdeemed it not impossible that Mallard had made her his present ofpictures simply to mislead her thought when she was gone. Jealousy cansink to baser imaginings than this. It is only calm affection thatjudges always in the spirit of pure sympathy. 

On the following day, the Spences dined from home, and Miriam, who hadexcused herself from accompanying them, sat through the evening intheir drawing-room. The weather was wretched; a large fire made thecomfort within contrast pleasantly enough with sounds of wind and rainagainst the house. Miriam's mind was far away from Chelsea; it hauntedthe Via del Babuino, and the familiar rooms of the hotel where Cecilywas living. Just after the clock had struck ten, a servant entered andsaid that Mr. Elgar wished to see her. 

Reuben was in evening dress. 

"What! you are alone?" he said on entering. "I'm glad of that. Isupposed I should have to meet the people. I want to kill half an hour, that's all. "

He drew a small low chair near to hers, and, when he had seatedhimself, took one of her hands. Miriam glanced at him with surprise, but did not resist him. His cheeks were flushed, perhaps from the coldwind, and there was much more life in his eyes than the other morning. 

"You're a lonely girl, Miriam, " he let fall idly, after musing. "I'mglad I happened to come in, to keep you company. What have you beenthinking about?"

"Italy, " she answered, with careless truth. 

"Italy, Italy! Who doesn't think of Italy? I wish I knew Italy as wellas you do. Isn't it odd that I should be saying that to you? I believeyou are now far my superior in all knowledge that is worth having. DidI mention that Ciss wrote an account of you in the letter just aftershe had reached Rome?"

Miriam made an involuntary movement as if to withdraw her hand, butovercame herself before she had succeeded. 

"How did she come to know me so quickly?" was her question, murmuredabsently. 

"From Mrs. Spence, it seemed. Come, tell me what you have been doingthis long time. You have seen Greece too. I must go to Greece--perhapsbefore the end of this year. I'll make a knapsack ramble: Greece, Egypt, Asia Minor, Constantinople. "

Miriam kept silence, and her brother appeared to forget that he hadsaid anything that required an answer. Presently he released her hand, after patting it, and moved restlessly in his chair; then he looked athis watch, and compared it curiously with the clock on the mantelpiece. 

"Ciss, " he began suddenly, and at once with a laugh correctedhimself--"Miriam, I mean. "

"What?"

"I forget what I was going to say, " he muttered, after delaying. "Butthat reminds me; I've been anxious lest you should misunderstand what Isaid yesterday. You didn't think I wished to make charges againstCecily?"

"It's difficult to understand you, " was all she replied. 

"But you mustn't think that I misjudge her. Cecily has more thanrealized all I imagined her to be. There are few women living who couldbe called her equals. I say this in the gravest conviction; this is thesimple result of my knowledge of her. She has an exquisite nature, anadmirable mind. I have never heard her speak a sentence that wasunworthy of her, not one!"

His voice trembled with earnestness. Miriam looked at from under hereyebrows. 

"If any one, " he pursued, "ever threw doubt on the perfect uprightnessof Cecily's conduct, her absolute honour, I would gage my life upon theissue. "

And in this moment he spoke with sincerity, whatever the mental processwhich had brought him to such an utterance. Even Miriam could not doubthim. His clenched fist quivered as it lay on his knee, and the gleam offirelight showed that his eves were moist. 

"Why do you say this?" his sister asked, still scrutinizing him. 

"To satisfy myself; to make you understand once for all what I _do_believe. Have you any other opinion of her, Miriam?"

She gave a simple negative. 

"I am not saying this, " he pursued, "in the thought that you willperhaps repeat it to her some day. It is for my own satisfaction. If Icould put it more strongly, I would; but I will have nothing to do withexaggerations. The truth is best expressed in the simplest words. "

"What do you mean by honour?" Miriam inquired, when there had been ashort silence. 

"Honour?"

"Your definitions are not generally those accepted by most people. "

"I hope not. " He smiled. "But you know sufficiently what I mean. Deception, for instance, is incompatible with what I understand ashonour. "

He spoke it slowly and clearly, his eyes fixed on the fire. 

"You seem to me to be attributing moral responsibility to her. "

"What I say is this that I believe her nature incapable of admittingthe vulgar influences to which people in general are subject. I attachno merit to her high qualities--no more than I attach merit to the seafor being a nobler thing than a muddy puddle. Of course I know that shecannot help being what she is, and cannot say to herself that in futureshe will become this or that. How am I inconsistent? Suppose me wrongin my estimate of her. I might then lament that she fell below what Ihad imagined, but of course I should have no right to blame her. "

Miriam reflected; then put the question:

"And does she hold the same opinion--with reference to you, forinstance?"

"Theoretically she does. "

"Theoretically? If she made her opinions practical, I suppose therewould be no reason why you shouldn't live together in contentment?"

Reuben glanced at her. 

"I can't say, " he replied gloomily. "That is quite another matter. "

"Speaking of honour, " said Miriam, "you would attach no blame toyourself if you fell below it. "

He replied with deliberation:

"One often blames one's self emotionally, but the understanding is notaffected by that. Unless your mind is unsteadied by excess of feeling. "

"I believe you are a victim of sophistry--sophistry of the mostdangerous kind. I can't argue with you, but I pity you, and fear foryou. "

The words were uttered so solemnly that Reuben for a moment was shaken;his features moved in a way which indicates a sudden failure ofself-possession. But he recovered himself immediately, and smiled hisleast amiable smile. 

"I see you are not yet past the half-way house on the way ofemancipation, Miriam. These things sound disagreeable, and prompt suchdeliverances as this of yours. But can I help it if a truth isunpalatable? What better should I be if I shut my eyes against it? Youwill say that this conviction makes me incapable of struggle for thegood. Nothing of the kind. Where I am destined to struggle, I do so, without any reference to my scientific views. Of course, one isunhappier with science than without it. Who ever urged the contrary, that was worth listening to? I believe the human race will be more andmore unhappy as science grows. But am I on that account likely topreach a crusade against it? Sister mine, we are what we are; we thinkand speak and do what causation determines. If you can still holdanother belief, do so, and be thrice blessed. I would so gladly see youhappy, dear Miriam. "

Again he took her hand, and pressed it against his cheek Miriam lookedstraight before her with wide, almost despairing eyes. 

"I must go, this moment, " Elgar said, happening to notice the time. "Say I have been here, and couldn't wait for their return; indeed, theywouldn't expect it. "

"Wait a few minutes, Reuben. "

She retained his hand. 

"I can't dear; I can't. " His cheeks were hot. "I have an appointment. "

"What appointment? With whom?"

"A friend. It is something important. I'll tell you another time. "

"Tell me now. Your sister is more to you than a friend. I ask you tostay with me, Reuben. "

In his haste, he did not understand how great an effort over herselfsuch words as these implied. The egoist rarely is moved to wonder atunusual demonstrations made on his own behalf. Miriam was holding hishand firmly, but he broke away. Then he turned back, took her in hisarms, and kissed her more tenderly than he ever had done since he was achild. Miriam had a smile of hope, but only for a moment. After all, hewas gone. 

CHAPTER XI

IN DUE COURSE

A change of trains, and half an hour's delay, at Manchester, then onthrough Lancashire civilization, through fumes and evil smells andexpanses of grey-built hideousness, as far as the station calledBartles. 

Miriam remarked novelties as she alighted. The long wooden platform, which used to be almost bare, was now in part sheltered by a structureof iron and glass. There was a bookstall. Porters were more numerous. The old stationmaster still bustled about; he recognized her with astare of curiosity, but did not approach to speak, as formerly he wouldhave done. Miriam affected not to observe him; he had been wont to sitin the same chapel with her. 

The wooden stairs down into the road were supplanted by steps of stone, and below waited several cabs, instead of the two she remembered. "ToRedbeck House. " The local odours were, at all events, the same as ever;with what intensity they revived the past! Every well-known object, every familiar face, heightened the intolerable throbbing of her heart;so that at length she drew herself into a corner of the cab and lookedat nothing. 

In the house itself nothing was new; even the servants were the sameMiriam had left there. Mrs. Fletcher lived precisely the life of threeand a half years ago, down to the most trivial habit; used the samephrases, wore the same kind of dress. To Miriam everything seemedunreal, visionary; her own voice sounded strange, for it was out ofharmony with this resuscitated world. She went up to the room preparedfor her, and tried to shake off the nightmare oppression. Thedifficulty was to keep a natural consciousness of her own identity. Above all, the scents in the air disturbed her, confused her mind, forced her to think in forgotten ways about the things on which hereyes fell. 

The impressions of every moment were disagreeable, now and then acutelypainful. To what purpose had she faced this experience? She might haveforeseen what the result would be, and her presence here wasunnecessary. 

But in an hour, when her pulse again beat temperately, she began toadjust the relations between herself and these surroundings. They nolonger oppressed her; the sense of superiority which had been pleasantat a distance re-established itself, and gave her a defiant strengthsuch as she had hoped for. So far from the anxieties of her consciencebeing aggravated by return to Bartles, she could not recover that modeof feeling which had harassed her for the last few months. Like so manyother things, it had become insubstantial. It might revive, but for thepresent she was safe against it. 

And this self-possession was greatly aided by Mrs. Fletcher's talk. Prom her sister-in-law's letters, though for the last two years theyhad been few, Miriam had formed some conception of the progress ofBartles opinion concerning herself. Now she led Mrs. Fletcher toconverse with native candour on this subject, and in the course of theevening, which they spent alone, all the town's gossip since Miriam'sgoing abroad was gradually reported. Mrs. Fletcher was careful toprevent the inference (which would have been substantially correct)that she herself had been the source of such rumours as had set waggingthe tongues of dissident Bartles; she spoke with much show ofreluctance, and many protestations of the wrath that had been excitedin her by those who were credulous of ill. Miriam confined herself toquestioning; she made no verbal comments. But occasionally she avertedher face with a haughty smile. 

Mrs. Welland, the once-dreaded rival, had established an unassailablesupremacy. From her, according to Mrs. Fletcher, proceeded most of thescandalous suggestions which had attached themselves to Mrs. Baske'sname. This lady had not scrupled to state it as a fact in her certainknowledge that Mrs. Baske was become a Papist. To this end, it seemed, was the suspicion of Bartles mainly directed--the Scarlet Woman thronedby the Mediterranean had made a victim of her who was once a light inthe re-reformed faith. That was the reason, said Mrs. Welland, why theowner of Redbeck House continued to dwell in foreign parts. If ever shecame back at all, it would be as an insidious enemy; but more likelyshe would never return; possibly her life would close in a convent, like that of other hapless Englishwomen whose personal property excitedthe covetousness of the Pope. In the Bartles newspaper there hadappeared, from time to time, enigmatic paragraphs, which Mrs. Wellandand her intimates made the subject of much gossip; these passagesalluded either to a certain new chapel which seemed very long ingetting its foundations laid, or to a certain former inhabitant ofBartles, who found it necessary, owing to the sad state of her health, to make long residence in Roman Catholic countries. Mrs. Fletcher hadpreserved these newspapers, and now produced them. Miriam read andsmiled. 

"Why didn't it occur to them to suggest that I had become an atheist?"

Mrs. Fletcher screamed with horror. No, no; Bartles did not contain anyone so malicious as that. After all, whatever had been said was merelythe outcome of a natural disappointment. All would be put right again. To-morrow was Sunday, and when Miriam appeared in the chapel--

"I have no intention of going to chapel. "

On Monday morning she returned to London. Excepting Mrs. Fletcher andher daughters, she had spoken with no one in Bartles. She came awaywith a contemptuous hatred of the place--a resolve never to see itagain. 

This had been the one thing needed to make Miriam as intolerant inagnosticism as she formerly was in dogma. Henceforth she felt theanimosity of a renegade. In the course of a few hours her soul hadcompleted its transformation, and at the incitement of that pride whichhad always been the strongest motive within her. Her old faith was nowidentified with the cackle of Bartles, and she flung it behind her withdisdain. 

Not that she felt insulted by the supposition that she had turnedRomanist. No single reason would account for her revolt, which, coiningthus late, was all but as violent as that which had animated herbrother from his boyhood. Intellectual progress had something to dowith it, for on approaching with new eyes that narrow provincial life, she could scarcely believe it had once been her own, and resented thememory of such a past. But less worthy promptings were more stronglyoperative. The Bartles folk had a certain measure of right against her;she had ostentatiously promised them a chapel, and how was her failurein keeping the promise to be accounted for? This justification oftheirs chafed her; she felt the ire of one who has no right to beangry. It shamed her, moreover, to be reminded of the pretentiousspirit which was the origin of this trouble; and to be shamed by herinferiors was to Miriam a venomed stab. Then, again, she saw no way ofrevenging herself. Had she this morning possessed the power of callingdown fire from heaven, Lancashire would shortly have missed one of itsugliest little towns; small doubt of that. 

No wonder a grave old gentleman who sat opposite on the journey toLondon was constrained frequently to look at her. As often as sheforgot herself, the wrathful arrogance which boiled in her heart wasrevealed on her features; the strained brow, the flashing eyes, thestern-set lips, made a countenance not often to be studied in therailway-carriage. 

It was with distinct pleasure that she found herself again in London. Contrasted with her homes in the south, London had depressed anddiscouraged her; but in this also did the visit to Bartles change herfeeling. She understood now what Ii ad determined the Spences to maketheir abode once more in London. She too was in need of tonics for themind. The roar of the streets was grateful to her; it seemed to lullthe painful excitement in which she had travelled, and at the same timeto stimulate her courage. Yes, she could face miseries better inLondon, after all. She could begin to work again, and make lofty thatedifice of anti dogmatic scorn which had now such solid foundations. 

She allowed nearly a week to pass before writing to Reuben. When atlength she sent a note, asking him either to come and see her or tomake an appointment, it remained unanswered for three days; thenarrived a few hurried lines, in which he said that he had been out oftown, and was again on the point of leaving home, but he hoped to seeher before long. She waited, always apprehensive of ill. What shedivined of her brother's life was inextricably mingled with the othercauses of her suffering. 

One afternoon she returned from walking on the Chelsea Embankment, and, on reaching the drawing-room door, which was ajar, heard a voice thatmade her stand still. She delayed an instant; then entered, and foundEleanor in conversation with Mallard. 

He had been in London, he said, only a day or two. Miriam inquiredwhether Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily had also left Rome. Not yet, hethought, but certainly they would be starting in a few days. Theconversation then went on between Mallard and Eleanor; Miriam, holdinga cup of tea, only gave a brief reply when it was necessary. 

"And now, " said Eleanor, "appoint a day for us to come and see yourstudio. "

"You shall appoint it yourself. "

"Then let us say to-morrow. "

In speaking, Eleanor turned interrogatively to Miriam, who, however, said nothing. Mallard addressed her. 

"May I hope that you will come, Mrs. Baske?"

His tone was, to her ear, as unsatisfying as could be; he seemed to putthe question under constraint of civility. But, of course, only oneanswer was possible. 

So next day this visit was paid; Spence also came. Mallard had madepreparations. A tea-service which would not have misbecome Eleanor'sown drawing-room stood in readiness. Pictures were examined, tea wastaken, artistic matters were discussed. 

And Miriam went away in uttermost discontent. She felt that henceforthher relations with Mallard were established on a perfectly conventionalbasis. Her dreams were left behind in Rome. Here was no Vatican inwhich to idle and hope for possible meetings. The holiday was over. Everything seemed of a sudden so flat and commonplace, that even herjealousy of Cecily faded for lack of sustenance. 

Then she received a letter from Cecily herself, announcing returnwithin a week. From Reuben she had even yet heard nothing. 

A few days later, as she was reading in her room between tea anddinner-time, Eleanor came in; she held an evening newspaper, and lookedvery grave--more than grave. Miriam, as soon as their eyes met, wentpale with misgiving. 

"There's something here, " Eleanor began, "that I must show you. If Isaid nothing about it, you would see it all the same. Sooner or later, we should speak of it. "

"What is it? About whom?" Miriam asked, with fearful impatience, halfrising. 

"Your brother. "

Miriam took the paper, and read what was indicated. It was the reportof a discreditable affair--in journalistic language, a _fracas_--thathad happened the previous night at Notting Hill. A certain music-hallsinger, a lady who had of late achieved popularity, drove home aboutmidnight, accompanied by a gentleman whose name was also familiar tothe public--at all events, to that portion of it which reads societyjournals and has an interest in race-horses. The pair had just alightedat the house-door, when they were hurriedly approached by anothergentleman, who made some remark to the songstress; whereupon theindividual known to fame struck him smartly with his walking-stick. Theresult was a personal conflict, a rolling upon the pavement, a tearingof shirt-collars, and the opportune arrival of police. The gentlemanwhose interference had led to the _rencontre_--again to borrow thereporter's phrase--and who was charged with assault by the other, atfirst gave a false name; it had since transpired that he was a Mr. R. Elgar, of Belsize Park. 

Miriam laid down the paper. She had overcome her extreme agitation, butthere was hot shame on her cheeks. She tried to smile. 

"One would think he had contrived it for his wife's greeting on herreturn. "

Eleanor was silent. 

"I am not much surprised, " Miriam added. "Nor you either, I dare say?"

"I have felt uneasy; but I never pictured anything like this. Can we doanything? Shall you go and see him?"

"No. "

They sat for some minutes without speaking; then Miriam exclaimedangrily:

"What right had she to go abroad alone?"

"For anything we know, Miriam, she may have had only too good a reason. "

"Then I don't see that it matters. "

Eleanor sighed, and, after a little lingering, but without furtherspeech, went from the room. 

In the meantime, Spence had entered the house. Eleanor met him in thedrawing-room, and held the paper to him, with a silent indication ofthe paragraph. He read, and with an exclamation of violent disgustthrew the thing aside. His philosophy failed him for once. 

"What a blackguardly affair! Does Miriam know?"

"I have just shown it her. Evidently she had a suspicion of what wasgoing on. "

Spence muttered a little; then regained something of his usualequanimity. 

"Our conjectures may be right, " he said. "Perhaps no revelation awaitsher. "

"I begin to think it very likely. Oh, it is hateful, vile! She oughtn'tto return to him. "

"Pray, what is she to do?"

"I had rather she died than begin such a life!"

"I see no help for her. Her lot is that of many a woman no worse thanherself. We both foresaw it; Mallard foresaw it. "

"I am afraid to look forward. I don't think she is the kind of woman toforgive again and again. This will revolt her, and there is no tellingwhat she may do. "

"It is the old difficulty. Short of killing herself, whatever she doeswill be the beginning of worse things. In this respect, there's nodistinction between Cecily and the wife of the costermonger. Civilization is indifferent. Her life is marred, and there's an endon't. "

Eleanor turned away. Her eyes were wet with tears of indignant sympathy. 

CHAPTER XII

CECILY'S RETURN

On alighting at Charing Cross, Cecily searched the platform for Reuben. There could be no doubt of his coming to meet her, for she had writtento tell him that Mrs. Lessingham would at once go into the country fromanother station, and she would thus be alone. But she looked about andwaited in vain. In the end she took a cab, parted with her companion, and drove homewards. 

It was more than a trivial disappointment. On the journey, she had felta longing for home, a revival of affection; she had tried to persuadeherself that this long separation would have made a happy change, andthat their life might take a new colour. Had Reuben appeared 'at thestation, she would have pressed his hand warmly. Her health hadimproved; hope was again welcome. It came not like the hope of yearsago, radiant, with eyes of ecstasy; but sober, homely, a gentle smileon its compassionate lips. 

His failure would easily be explained; either he had mistaken thetrain, or something inevitable had hindered him; possibly she had madea slip of the pen in writing. Nearing home, she grew tremulous, nervously impatient. Before the cab had stopped, she threw the dooropen. 

The servant who admitted her wore an unusual expression, but Cecily didnot observe this. 

"Mr. Elgar is at home?"

"No, ma'am. "

"When did he go out?"

"He has not been at home for three days, ma'am. "

Cecily controlled herself. 

"There are some parcels in the cab. Take them up stairs. "

She went into the study, and stood looking about her. On thewriting-table lay some unopened letters, all addressed to her husband;also two or three that had been read and thrown aside. Whilst she wasstill at the mercy of her confused thoughts, the servant came and askedif she would pay the cabman. 

Then she ascended to the drawing-room and sat down. Had her letter goneastray? But if he had not been home for three days, and, as appeared, his letters were not forwarded to him, did not this prove (supposing amiscarriage of what she had written) that he was not troubling himselfabout news from her? If he had received her letter--and it ought tohave arrived at least four days ago--what was the meaning of hisabsence?

She shrank from questioning the servants further. Presently, withouthaving changed her dress, she went down again to the library, andre-examined the letters waiting to be read; and the handwriting was ineach case unknown to her. Then she took up the letters that were open. One was an invitation to dine, one the appeal of some charitableinstitution; last, a few lines from Mallard. He wrote asking Elgar tocome and see him--seemingly with no purpose beyond a wish tore-establish friendly relations. Cecily read the note again and again, wondering whether it had led to a meeting. 

Why had not the housekeeper made her appearance? She rang the bell, andthe woman came. With as much composure as she could command, Cecilyinquired whether Mr. Elgar had spoken of her expected arrival. Yes, hehad done so; everything had been made ready. And had he left word whenhe himself should be back? No; he had said nothing. 

Naturally, she thought of going to the Spences'; but her dignityresisted. How could she seek information about her husband fromfriends? It was difficult to believe that he kept away voluntarily. Would he not in any case have sent word, even though the excuse wereuntruthful? What motive could he have for treating her thus? His lastletter was longer and kinder than usual. 

She was troubling herself needlessly. The simple explanation was ofcourse the true one. He had been away in the country, and had arrangedto be back in time to meet her at the station; then some chance hadintervened. Doubtless he would very soon present himself. Herimpatience and anxiety would never occur to him; what difference coulda few hours make? They were not on such lover-like terms nowadays. 

Compelling herself to rest in this view, she made a change of clothing, and again summoned the housekeeper, this time for discussion ofdomestic details. Cecily had no feminine delight in such matters fortheir own sake; the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker werenecessary evils, to be put out of mind as soon as possible. She learnedincidentally that Reuben had been a great deal from home; but this didnot surprise her. She had never imagined him leading a methodical life, between Belsize Park and the British Museum. That was not in his nature. 

At the usual hour she had luncheon. Shortly after, when her patiencewas yielding to fears--fears which, in truth, she had only masked withthe show of explanation--a letter was brought in. But nothing to thepurpose. It came from Zillah Denyer, who began with apologies forwriting, and expressed uncertainty whether Mrs. Elgar had yet returnedfrom abroad; then went on to say that her sister Madeline had beensuffering dreadfully of late. "Perhaps you know that Mrs. Travis hasleft us. Madeline has missed her company very much, and often longs tosee the face of some visitor. She speaks of the one visit you paid her, and would so like to see you again. Forgive me for asking if you couldspare half an hour. The evening is best; I venture to say this, as youcame in the evening before. "

Cecily forgot herself for a few minutes in sorrows graver than her own. Her impression after the one visit had been that Madeline would notgreatly care for her to repeat it; this, it seemed, was a mistake. SoMrs. Travis had left her lodgings? She heard of it for the first time. 

About half-past three there sounded the knock of a visitor at the housedoor. Expecting no one, Cecily had given no directions; theparlour-maid hurried upstairs to ask if she was "at home. " She repliedthat the name must first be announced to her. 

It was Mrs. Travis. Cecily hesitated, but decided to receive her. 

Though the intercourse between them had been resumed, it was with arestraint on both sides that seemed to forbid the prospect offriendship. They had met two or three times only; once it was in theDenyers' house, and on that occasion Cecily had renewed heracquaintance with the family and sat a little with Madeline. Interestin each other they certainly felt, but not in like degrees; Mrs. Travisshowed herself more strongly attracted to Cecily than Cecily was toher, as it had been from the first. That this was the attraction ofsimple liking and goodwill, Cecily could never quite convince herself. Mrs. Travis always seemed to be studying her, and sometimes in a spiritof curiosity that was disagreeable. But at the same time she was somanifestly in need of sympathetic companionship, and allowed such sadglimpses into her own wrecked life, that Cecily could not reject her, nor even feel with actual coldness. 

"Have you been home long?" the visitor asked, as they shook hands. 

"A few hours only. "

"Indeed? You have arrived to-day?"

They sat down. Mrs. Travis fixed her eyes on Cecily. 

"I hardly hoped to find you. "

"I should have let you know that I was back. "

Their conversations were accustomed to begin awkwardly, constrainedly. They never spoke of ordinary topics, and each seemed to wait for asuggestion of the other's mood. At present Cecily was uneasy under hervisitor's gaze, which was stranger and more inquisitive than usual. 

"So you have left the Denyers'?" she said. 

"From whom did you hear?"

"I have just had a note from Zillah Denyer, about Madeline. She merelymentions that you are no longer there. "

"I ought to go and see them; but I can't to-day. "

"Have you been in London all the time?"

"Yes. --I have gone back to my husband. "

It was spoken in a matter-of-fact tone (obviously assumed) which wasvery incongruous with the feeling it excited in Cecily. She could nothear the announcement without an astonished look. 

"Of your own free will?" she asked, in a diffident voice. "Oh yes. Thatis to say, he persuaded me. "

Their eyes met, and Cecily had an impulse of distrust, more decidedthan she had ever felt. She could not find anything to say, and bykeeping silence she hoped the interview might be shortened. 

"You are disposed to feel contempt for me, " Mrs. Travis added, after afew moments. 

"No one can judge another in such things. It is your own affair, Mrs. Travis. "

"Yes, but you despise me for my weakness, naturally you do. Had you nosuspicion that it would end again in this way?"

"I simply believed what you told me. "

"That nothing would induce me to return to him. That is how women talk, you know. We are all very much the same. "

Again Cecily kept silence. Mrs. Travis, observing her, saw an offendedlook rise to her face. 

"I mean, we are few of us, us women, strong enough to hold out againstnatural and social laws. We feel indignant, we suffer more than men canimagine, but we have to yield. But it is true that most women are wiseenough not to act in my way. You are quite right to despise me. "

"Why do you repeat that? It is possible you are acting quite rightly. How should I be able to judge?"

"I am not acting rightly, " said the other, with bitterness. "Twocourses are open to a woman in my position. Either she must suffer insilence, care nothing for the world's talk, take it for granted that, at any cost, she remains under her husband's roof; or she must leavehim once and for ever, and regard herself as a free woman. The first isthe ordinary choice; most women are forced into it by circumstances;very few have courage and strength for the second. But to do first onething, then the other, to be now weak and now strong, to yield to theworld one day and defy it the next, and then to yield again, --that isbase. Such a woman is a traitor to her sex. "

Cecily did not lift her eyes. She heard the speaker's voice tremble, and could not bear to look at her face. Her heart was sinking, thoughshe knew not exactly what oppressed her. There was a long silence; thenCecily spoke. 

"If your husband persuaded you to return, it must have been that youstill have affection for him. "

"The feeling is not worthy of that name. "

"That is for yourself to determine. Why should we talk of it?"

Looking up, Cecily found the other's eyes again fixed on her. It was asthough this strange gaze were meant to be a reply. 

"Would it not be better, " she continued, "if we didn't speak of thesethings? If it could do any good--But surely it cannot. "

"Sympathy is good--offered or received. "

"I do sympathize with you in your difficulties. "

"But you do not care to receive mine, " replied Mrs. Travis, in anundertone. 

Cecily gazed at her with changed eyes, inquiring, offended, fearful. 

"What need have I of your sympathy, Mrs. Travis?" she asked distantly. 

"None, I see, " answered the other, with a scarcely perceptible smile. 

"I don't understand you. Please let us never talk in this way again. "

"Never, if you will first let me say one thing. You remember that Mr. Elgar once had doubts about my character. He was anxious on youraccount, lest you should be friendly with a person who was not all hecould desire from the moral point of view. He did me justice at last, but it was very painful, as you will understand, to be suspected by onewho embodies such high morality. "

There was no virulence in her tone; she spoke as though quietlydefending herself against some unkindness. But Cecily could not escapeher eyes, which searched and stabbed. 

"Why do you say this?"

"Because I am weak, and therefore envious. Why should you reject mysympathy? I could be a better friend to you than any you have. I myselfhave no friend; I can't make myself liked. I feel dreadfully alone, without a soul who cares for me. I am my husband's plaything, and ofcourse he scorns me. I am sure he laughs at me with his friends andmistresses. And you too scorn me, though I have tried to make you myfriend. Of course it is all at an end between us now. I understand yournature; it isn't quite what I thought. "

Cecily beard, but scarcely with understanding. The word for which shewas waiting did not come. 

"Why, " she asked, "do you speak of offering me sympathy? What do youhint at?"

"Seriously, you don't know?"

"I don't, " was the cold answer. 

"Why did you go abroad without your husband?"

It came upon Cecily with a shock. Were people discussing her, and thusinterpreting her actions?

"Surely that is my own business, Mrs. Travis. I was in poor health, andmy husband was too busy to accompany me. "

"That is the simple truth, from _your_ point of view?"

"How have you done me the honour to understand me?"

Mrs. Travis examined her; then put another question. 

"Have you seen your husband since you arrived?"

"No, I have not. "

"And you don't know that he is being talked about everywhere--notexactly for his moral qualities?"

Cecily was mute. Thereupon Mrs. Travis opened the little sealskin-bagthat lay on her lap, and took out a newspaper. She held it to Cecily, pointing to a certain report. It was a long account of livelyproceedings at a police-court. Cecily read. When she had come to theend, her eyes remained on the paper. She did not move until Mrs. Travisput out a hand and touched hers; then she drew back, as in repugnance. 

"You had heard nothing of this?"

Cecily did not reply. Thereupon Mrs. Travis again opened her littlebag, and took out a cabinet photograph. It represented a young woman intights, her arms folded, one foot across the other; the face wasvulgarly piquant, and wore a smile which made eloquent declaration ofits price. 

"That is the 'lady, '" said Mrs. Travis, with a slight emphasis on thelast word. 

Cecily looked for an instant only. There was perfect silence for aminute or two after that; then Cecily rose. She did not speak; but theother, also rising, said:

"I shouldn't have come if I had known you were still ignorant. But nowyou can, and will, think the worst of me; from this day you will hateme. "

"I am not sure, " replied Cecily, "that you haven't some strangepleasure in what you have been telling me; but I know you are veryunhappy, and that alone would prevent me from hating you. I can't beyour friend, it is true; we are too unlike in our tempers and habits ofthought Let us shake hands and say good-bye. "

But Mrs. Travis refused her hand, and with a look of bitter suffering, which tried to appear resignation, went from the room. 

Cecily felt a cold burden upon her heart. She sat in a posture oflistlessness, corresponding to the weary misery, numbing instead oftorturing, which possessed her now that the shock was over. Perhaps thestrange manner of the revelation tended to produce this result; thestrong self-control which she had exercised, the mingling ofincongruous emotions, the sudden end of her expectation, brought abouta mood resembling apathy. 

She began presently to reflect, to readjust her view of the life shehad been living. It seemed to her now unaccountable that she had beenso little troubled with fears. Ignorance of the world had not blindedher, nor was she unaware of her husband's history. But the truth wasthat she had not cared to entertain suspicion. For a long time she hadnot seriously occupied her mind with Reuben. Self-absorbed, she waspractically content to let happen what would, provided it called for nointerference of hers. Her indifference had reached the point of idlyaccepting the present, and taking for granted that things would alwaysbe much the same. 

Yet she knew the kind of danger to which Reuben was exposed from thehour when her indifference declared itself; it was present to herimagination when he chose to remain alone in London. But such thoughtswere vague, impalpable. She had never realized a picture of suchdegradation as this which had just stamped itself upon her brain. Inher surmises jealousy had no part, and therefore nothing was conceivedin detail. In the certainty that he no longer loved her with love ofthe nobler kind, did it matter much what he concealed? But thisflagrant shame had never threatened her. This was indeed the"experience" in which, as Reuben had insisted, she was lacking. 

No difficulty in understanding now why he kept away. Would he evercome? Or had he determined that their life in common was no longerpossible, and resolved to spare her the necessity of saying that theywere no longer husband and wife? Doubtless that was what he expected tohear from her; his view of her character, which she understoodsufficiently well, would lead him to think that. 

But she had no impulse to leave his house. The example of Mrs. Traviswas too near. Escape, with or without melodramatic notes of farewell, never suggested itself. She knew that it was a practical impossibilityto make that absolute severance of their lives without which they werestill man and wife, though at a distance from each other; they muststill be linked by material interests, by common acquaintances. The endof sham heroics would come, sooner or later, in the same way as to Mrs. Travis. How was her life different from what it had been yesterday? Byan addition of shame and scorn, that was all; actually, nothing wasaltered. When Reuben heard that she was remaining at home, he wouldcome to her. Perhaps they might go to live in some other place; thatwas all. 

Tea was brought in, but she paid no heed to it. Sunset and twilightcame; the room grew dusk; then the servants appeared with lamps. Shedined, returned to the drawing room, and took up a book she had beenreading on her journey. It was a volume of Quinet, and insensibly itsinterest concentrated her attention. She read for nearly two hours. 

Then she was tired of it, and began to move restlessly about. Again shegrew impatient of the uncertainty whether Reuben would return to-night. She lay upon a couch and tried to forget herself in recollection offar-off places and people. But instead of the pictures she wished toform, there kept coming before her mind the repulsive photograph whichMrs. Travis had produced. Though she had barely glanced at it, she sawit distinctly--the tawdry costume, the ignoble attitude, the shamelessand sordid face. It polluted her imagination. 

Jealousy, of a woman such as that? Had she still loved him, she musthave broken her heart to think that he could fall so low. If it hadbeen told her that he was overcome by passion for a woman of somenobleness, she could have heard it with resignation; in that therewould have been nothing base. But the choice he had made would notallow her even the consolation of reflecting that she felt no jealousy;it compelled her to involve him in the scorn, if not in the loathing, with which that portrait inspired her. 

That he merely had ceased to love her, what right had she to blame him?The very word of "blame" was unmeaning in such reference. In this, atall events, his fatalism had become her own way of thinking. To talk ofcontrolling love is nonsensical; dead love is dead beyond hope. Butneed one sink into a slough of vileness?

At midnight she went to her bedroom. He would not come now. 

Sleep seemed far from her, and yet before the clock struck one she hadfallen into a painful slumber. When she awoke, it was to toss andwrithe for hours in uttermost misery. She could neither sleep norcommand a train of thoughts. At times she sobbed and wailed in hersuffering. 

No letter arrived in the morning. She could no longer read, and knewnot how to pass the hours. In some way she must put an end to herintolerable loneliness, but she could not decide how to act. Reubenmight come today; she wished it, that the meeting might be over anddone with. 

But the long torment of her nerves had caused a change of mood. She wasfeverish now, and impatience grew to resentment. The emotions whichwere yesterday so dulled began to stir in her heart and brain. Walkingabout the room, unable to occupy herself for a moment, she felt asthough fetters were upon her; this house had become a prison; her lifewas that of a captive without hope of release. 

There came in her a sudden outbreak of passionate indignation at theunequal hardships of a woman's lot. Often as she had read and heard andtalked of this, she seemed to understand it for the first time; nowfirst was it real to her, in the sense of an ill that goads andtortures. Not society alone was chargeable with the injustice; natureherself had dealt cruelly with woman. Constituted as she is, limited asshe is by inexorable laws, by what refinement of malice is she endowedwith energies and desires like to those of men? She should have beenmade a creature of sluggish brain, of torpid pulse; then she might havedischarged her natural duties without exposure to fever and pain andremorse such as man never knows. 

She asked no liberty to be vile, as her husband made himself; but thatshe was denied an equal freedom to exercise all her powers, to enrichher life with experiences of joy, this fired her to revolt. A woman whobelongs to the old education readily believes that it is not toexperiences of joy, but of sorrow, that she must look for her trueblessedness; her ideal is one of renunciation; religious motive is inher enforced by what she deems the obligation of her sex. But Cecilywas of the new world, the emancipated order. For a time she mightaccept misery as her inalienable lot, but her youthful years, fed withthe new philosophy, must in the end rebel. 

Could she live with such a man without sooner or later taking a taintof his ignobleness? His path was downwards, and how could she hope tokeep her own course in independence of him? It shamed her that she hadever loved him. But indeed she had not loved the Reuben that now was;the better part of him was then predominant. No matter that he waschanged; no matter how low he descended; she must still be bound tohim. Whereas he acknowledged no mutual bond; he was a man, andtherefore in practice free. 

Yet she was as far as ever from projecting escape. The unjust law wasstill a law, and irresistible. Had it been her case that she loved someother man, and his return of love claimed her, then indeed she mightdare anything and break her chains. But the power of love seemed asdead in her as the passion she had once, and only once, conceived. Shewas utterly alone. 

Morning and noon went by. She had exhausted herself with ceaselessmovement, and now for two or three hours lay on a couch as if asleep. The fever burned upon her forhead and in her breath. 

But at length endurance reached its limits. As she lay still, a thoughthad taken possession of her--at first rejected again and again, butalways returning, and with more tempting persistency. She could notbegin another night without having spoken to some one. She seemed tohave been foresaken for days; there was no knowing how long she mightlive here in solitude. When it was nearly five o'clock, she went to herbedroom and prepared for going out. 

When ready, she met the servant who was bringing up tea. 

"I shall not want it, " she said. "And probably I shall not dine athome. Nothing need be prepared. "

She entered the library, and took up from the writing-table Mallard'snote; she looked at the address that was on it. 

Then she left the house, and summoned the first vacant cab. 

CHAPTER XIII

ONWARD TO THE VAGUE

The cab drew up in a quiet road in Chelsea, by a gateway opening into ayard. Cecily alighted and paid the driver. 

"Be good enough to wait a minute or two, " she said. "I may need youagain at once. But if I am longer, I shall not be coming. "

Entering the yard, she came in front of a row of studios; on the doorof each was the tenant's name, and she easily discovered that of RossMallard. This door was half open; she looked in and saw a flight ofstairs. Having ascended these, she came to another door, which wasclosed. Here her purpose seemed to falter; she looked back, and heldher hand for a moment against her cheek. But at length she knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again, more loudly, leaning forward tolisten; and this time there came a distant shout for reply. Interpreting it as summons to enter, she turned the handle; the dooropened, and she stepped into a little ante-chamber. From a room withincame another shout, now intelligible. 

"Who's there?"

She advanced, raised a curtain, and found herself in the studio, buthidden behind some large canvases. There was a sound of some onemoving, and when she had taken another step, Mallard himself, pipe inmouth, came face to face with her. With a startled look, he took thepipe from his lips, and stood regarding her; she met his gaze with thesame involuntary steadiness. 

"Are you alone, Mr. Mallard?" fell at length from her. 

"Yes. Come and sit down. "

There was a gruffness in the invitation which under ordinarycircumstances would have repelled a visitor. But Cecily was so glad tohear the familiar voice that its tone mattered nothing; she followedhim, and seated herself where he bade her. There was much tobacco-smokein the air; Mallard opened a window. She watched him with timid, anxious eyes. Then, without looking at her, he sat down near an easelon which was his painting of the temples of Paestum. This canvas heldCecily's gaze for a moment. 

"When did you get home?" Mallard asked abruptly. 

"Yesterday morning. "

"Mrs. Lessingham went on, I suppose?"

"Yes. I have been alone ever since, except that a visitor called. "

"Alone?"

She met his eyes, and asked falteringly:

"You know why? You have heard about it?"

"Do you mean what happened the other day?" he returned, in a voice thatsounded careless, unsympathetic. 

"Yes. "

"I know that, of course. Where is your husband?"

"I have neither seen him nor heard from him. I shouldn't haveunderstood why he kept away but for the visitor that came--a lady; sheshowed me a newspaper. "

Mallard knit his brows, and now scowled at her askance, now lookedaway. His visage was profoundly troubled. There was silence for somemoments. Cecily's eyes wandered unconsciously over the paintings andother objects about her. 

"You have come to ask me if I know where he is?"

She failed in her attempt to reply. 

"I am sorry that I can't tell you. I know nothing of him. But perhapsMrs. Baske does. You know their address?"

"I didn't come for that, " she answered, with decision, her featuresworking painfully. "It is not my part to seek for him. "

"Then how can I help you?" Mallard asked, still gruffly, but with moreevidence of the feeling that his tone disguised. 

"You can't help me, Mr. Mallard. How could any one help me? I wasutterly alone, and I wanted to hear a friend's voice. "

"That is only natural. It is impossible for you to remain alone. Youdon't feel able to go to Mrs. Baske?"

She shook her head. 

"But your aunt will come? You have written to her?"

"No. I had rather she didn't come. It seems strange to you that Ishould bring my troubles here, when it can only pain you to see me, andto have to speak. But I am not seeking comfort or support--not of thekind you naturally think I need. "

As he watched the workings of her lips, the helpless misery in heryoung eyes, the endeavour for self-command and the struggles of womanlypride, Mallard remembered how distinctly he had foreseen this in hispast hours of anguish. It was hard to grasp the present as a reality;at moments he seemed only to be witnessing the phantoms of hisimagination. The years that had vanished were so insubstantial inmemory; _now_ and _then_, what was it that divided the two? This thatwas to-day a fact, was it not equally so when Cecily walked by his sideat Baiae? That which is to come, already is. In the stress of a deepemotion we sometimes are made conscious of this unity of things, andthe effect of such spiritual vision is a nobler calm than comes of mereacquiescence in human blindness. 

"I came here, " Cecily was continuing, "because I had something to sayto you--something I shall never say to any one else. You were myguardian when I was a child, and I have always thought of you as morethan a simple friend. I want to fulfil a duty to you. I owe yougratitude, and I shall have no rest till I have spoken it--told you howdeeply I feel it. "

Mallard interrupted her, for every word seemed to be wrung from her bypain, and he felt like one who listens to a forced confession. 

"Don't give way to this prompting, " he said, with kind firmness. "Iunderstand, and it is enough. You are not yourself; don't speak whilstyou are suffering so. "

"My worst suffering would be _not_ to speak, " she replied, withincreased agitation. "I must say what I came to say; then I can go andface whatever is before me. I want to tell you how right you were. Youtold me through Mrs. Lessingham how strongly you disapproved of mymarrying at once; you wished me to take no irrevocable step till I knewmyself and him better. You did everything in your power to prevent mefrom committing a childish folly. But I paid no regard to you. I oughtto have held your wish sacred; I owed you respect and obedience. But Ichose my own foolish way, and now that I know how right you were, Ifeel the need of thanking you. You would have saved me if you could. Itis a simple duty in me to acknowledge this now I know it. "

Mallard rose and stood for a minute looking absently at the temples. Then he turned gravely towards her. 

"If it has really lightened your mind to say this, I am content to haveheard it. But let it end there; there is no good in such thoughts andspeeches. They are hysterical, and you don't like to be thought that. Such a service as you believe I might have rendered you is so verydoubtful, so entirely a matter of suppositions and probabilities andpossibilities, that we can't talk of it seriously. I acted as anyguardian was bound to act, under the circumstances. You, on the otherhand, took the course that young people have taken from timeimmemorial. The past is past; it is worse than vain to revive it. Come, now, let us talk for a few minutes quietly. "

Cecily's head was bent. He saw that her bosom heaved, but on her facethere was no foreboding of tears. The strong impulse having had itsway, she seemed to be recovering self command. 

"By the bye, " he asked, "how did you know where to find me?"

"I found a letter of yours lying open. Did he answer your invitation?"

"Yes; he wrote a few lines saying he would come before long. But Ihaven't seen him. What do you intend to do when you leave me?"

"Go home again and wait, " she answered, with quiet sadness. 

"In solitude? And what assurance have you that he means to come?"

"None whatever. But where else should I go, but home? My place isthere, until I have heard his pleasure. "

It was mournfully unlike her, this bitter tone. Her eyes were fixedupon the picture again. Looking at her, Mallard was moved by somethingof the same indignant spirit that was still strong in her heart. Herpure and fine-wrought beauty, so subtle in expression of the soul'slife, touched him with a sense of deepest pathos. It revolted him tothink of her in connection with those brutalities of the newspaper; hehad a movement of rebellion against the undiscerning rigour of socialrule. Disinterested absolutely, but he averted his face lest she shouldhave a suspicion of what he thought. 

In spite of that, he was greatly relieved to hear her purpose. He hadfeared other things. It was hateful that she should remain the wife ofsuch a man as Elgar, but what refuge was open to her? The law thatdemands sacrifice of the noble few on behalf of the ignoble many is tooswift and sure in avenging itself when defied. It was well that she hadconstrained herself to accept the inevitable. 

"You will write this evening to Mrs. Lessingham?" he said, in a tone ofassuredness. 

"Why do you wish me to do that?" she asked, looking at him. 

"Because of the possibility of your still being left alone. You are notable to bear that. "

"Yes, I can bear anything that is necessary now, " she answered firmly. "If it was weakness to come here and say what I have said, then myweakness is over. Mrs. Lessingham is enjoying herself with friends; whyshould I disturb her? What have I to say to her, or to any one?"

"Suppose an indefinite time goes by, and you are still alone?"

"In that case, I shall be able to arrange my life as other such womendo. I shall find occupation, the one thing I greatly need. My gravestmisfortune is, that I feel the ability to do something, but do not knowwhat. Since the death of my child, that is what has weighed upon memost. "

Mallard reflected upon this. He could easily understand its truth. Hefelt assured that Miriam suffered in much the same way, having reachedthe same result by so very different a process of development. But itwas equally clear to him that neither of these women really could _do_anything; it was not their function to do, but to _be_. Eleanor Spencewould in all likelihood have illustrated the same unhappy problem hadit been her lot to struggle against adverse conditions; she lived thenatural life of an educated woman, and therefore was beset by noquestionings as to he? capacities and duties. So long, however, as theeducated woman is the exceptional woman, of course it will likewise beexceptional for her life to direct itself in a calm course. 

To discuss such questions with Cecily was impossible. How should he sayto her, "You have missed your chance of natural happiness, and it willonly be by the strangest good fortune if you ever again find yourselfin harmony with fate"? Mallard had far too much discretion to assumethe part of lay preacher, and involve himself in the dangers ofsuggesting comfort. The situation was delicate enough, and all hisefforts were directed to subduing its tone. After a pause, he said toher:

"Have you taken your meals to-day?"

She smiled a little. 

"Yes. But I am thirsty. Can you give me a glass of water?"

"Are you _very_ thirsty? Can you wait a quarter of an hour?"

With a look of inquiry as to his meaning, she answered that she could. Mallard nodded, and began to busy himself in a corner of the studio. She saw that he was lighting a spirit-lamp, and putting a kettle overit. She made no remark; it was soothing to sit here in thiscompanionship, and feel the feverish heat in her veins graduallyassuaged. Mallard kept silence, and when he saw her beginning to lookaround at the pictures, he threw out a word or two concerning them. Sherose, to see better, and moved about, now and then putting a questionIn little more than the stipulated time, tea was prepared. After ashort withdrawal to the ante-room, Mallard produced some delicateslices of bread and butter. Cecily ate and drank. As it was growingdusk, the artist lit a lamp. 

"You know, " she said, again turning her eyes to the pictures, "that Iused to pretend to draw, to make poor little sketches. Would there beany hope of my doing anything, not good, but almost good, if I beganagain and worked seriously?"

He would rather have avoided answering such a question; but perhaps theleast dangerous way of replying was to give moderate approval. 

"At all events, you would soon find whether it was worth while going onor not. You might take some lessons; it would be easy to find some ladyquite competent to help you in the beginning. "

She kept silence for a little; then said that she would think about it. 

Mallard had left his seat, and remained standing. When both had beenbusy with their thoughts for several minutes, Cecily also rose. 

"I must ask a promise from you before you go, " Mallard said, as soon asshe had moved. "If you are still alone tomorrow, you promise me tocommunicate with Mrs. Lessingham. Whether you wish to do so or not isnothing to the point. "

She hesitated, but gave her promise. 

"That is enough; your word gives me assurance. You are going straighthome? Then I will send for a cab. "

In a few minutes the cab was ready at the gate. Mallard, resolved tobehave as though this were the most ordinary of visits, put on his hatand led the way downstairs. They went out into the road, and thenCecily turned to give him her hand. He looked at her, and for the firsttime spoke on an impulse. 

"It's a long drive. Will you let me come a part of the way with you?"

"I shall be very glad. "

They entered the hansom, and drove off. 

The few words that passed between them were with reference to Mrs. Lessingham. Mallard inquired about her plans for the summer, and Cecilyanswered as far as she was able. When they had reached theneighbourhood of Regent's Park, he asked permission to stop the cab andtake his leave; Cecily acquiesced. From the pavement he shook handswith her, seeing her face but dimly by the lamplight; she said only"Thank you, " and the cab bore her away. 

Carried onward, with closed eyes as if in self-abandonment to her fate, Cecily thought with more repugnance of home the nearer she drew to it. It was not likely that Reuben had returned; there would be again anendless evening of misery in solitude. When the cab was at the end ofEel size Park, she called the driver's attention, and bade him drive onto a certain other address, that of the Denyers. Zillah's letter ofappeal, all but forgotten, had suddenly come to mind and revived hersympathies. Was there not some resemblance between her affliction andthat of poor Madeline? Her own life had suffered a paralysis; helplessamid the ruin of her hopes, she could look forward to nothing but longendurance. 

On arriving, she asked for Mrs. Denyer, but that lady was from home. Miss Zillah, then. She was led into the front room on the ground floor, and waited there for several minutes. 

At length Zillah came in hurriedly, excusing herself for being so long. This youngest of the Denyers was now a tall awkward, plain girl, with afixed expression of trouble; in talking, she writhed her fingerstogether and gave other signs of nervousness; she spoke in quick, shortsentences, often breaking off in embarrassment. During the years of herabsence from home as a teacher, Zillah had undergone a spiritualchange; relieved from the necessity of sustaining the Denyer tone, shehad by degrees ceased to practise affectation with herself, and one byone the characteristics of an "emancipated" person had fallen from her. Living with a perfectly conventional family, she adopted not only theforms of their faith--in which she had, of course, no choice--but atlength the habit of their minds; with a profound sense of solace, sheavowed her self-deceptions, and became what nature willed her to be--adaughter of the Church. The calamities that had befallen her family hadall worked in this direction with her, and now that her daily life wasin a sick-chamber, she put forth all her best qualities, finding inaccepted creeds that kind of support which only the very few amongwomen can sincerely dispense with. 

"She has been very, very ill the last few days, " was her reply toCecily's inquiry. "I don't venture to leave her for more than a fewminutes. "

"Mrs. Denyer is away!"

"Yes; she is staying at Sir Roland's, in Lincolnshire. Barbara and herhusband are there, and they sent her an invitation. "

"But haven't you a nurse?"

"I'm afraid I shall be obliged to find one. "

"Can I help you to-night? Do let me. I have only been home two days, and came in reply to your letter as soon as I could. "

They went up to Zillah's room, and Cecily threw aside her out-of-doorclothing. Then they silently entered the sick-chamber. 

Madeline was greatly changed in the short time since Cecily had seenher. Ceaseless pain had worn away the last traces of her girlishbeauty; the drawn features, the deadened eyes, offered hope that an endmust come before long. She gave a look of recognition as the visitorapproached her, but did not attempt to speak. 

"Are you easier again, dear?" Zillah asked, bending over her. 

"Yes. "

"Mrs. Elgar would like to stay with you a little. She won't ask you totalk. "

"Very well. Go and rest while she stays. "

"Yes, go and lie down, " urged Cecily. "Please do! I will call you atonce if it is necessary. "

Zillah was persuaded, and Cecily took her seat alone by the bedside. She had lost all thought of herself. The tremor which possessed herwhen she entered was subsiding; the unutterable mournfulness of thislittle room made everything external to it seem of small account. Sheknew not whether it was better to speak or remain mute, and whensilence had lasted for a few minutes, she could not trust her voice tobreak it. But at length the motionless girl addressed her. 

"Have you enjoyed yourself in Italy?"

"Not much. I have not been very well, " Cecily answered, leaning forward. 

"Did you go to Naples?"

"Only as fat as Rome. "

"How can any one be in Italy, and not go to Naples?" said Madeline, ina low tone of wonder. 

Silence came again. Cecily listened to the sound of breathing. Madelinecoughed, and seemed to make a fruit less effort to speak; then shecommanded her voice. 

"I took a dislike to you at Naples, " she said, with the simpledirectness of one who no longer understands why every thought shouldnot be expressed. "It began when you showed that you didn't care forMr. Marsh's drawings. It is strange to think of that now. You know Iwas engaged to Mr. Marsh?"

"Yes. "

"He used to write me letters; I mean, since _this_. But it is a longtime since the last came. No doubt he is married now. It would havebeen better if he had told me, and not just ceased to write. I wantZillah to write to him for me; but she doesn't like to. "

"Why do you think he is married?" Cecily asked. 

"Isn't it natural? I'm not so foolish as to wish to prevent him. It'snothing to me now. I should even be glad to hear of it. He ought tomarry some good-natured, ordinary kind of girl, who has money. Ofcourse you were right about his drawings; he was no artist, really. ButI had a liking for him. "

Cecily wondered whether it would be wise or unwise to tell what sheknew. The balance seemed in favour of holding her peace. In a fewminutes, Madeline moaned a little. 

"You are in pain?"

"That's nothing; pain, pain--I find it hard to understand that life isanything but pain. I can't live much longer, that's the one comfort. Death doesn't mean pain, but the end of it. Yesterday I felt myselfsinking, sinking, and I said, 'Now this is the end, ' and I could havecried with joy. But Zillah gave me something, and I came back. That'scruelty, you know. They ought to help us to die instead of keeping usalive in pain. If doctors had any sense they would help us to die;there are so many simple ways. You see the little bottle with the bluelabel; look round; the little bottle with the measure near it. If onlyit had been left within my reach! They call it poison when you take toomuch of it; but poison means sleep and rest and the end of pain. "

Cecily listened as though some one spoke from beyond the grave; thatstrange voice made all the world unreal. 

"Do you believe in a life after this?" asked Madeline, with earnestness. 

"I know nothing, " was the answer. 

"Neither do I. It matters nothing to me. All I have to do is to die, and then whatever comes will come. Poor Zillah does her best topersuade me that she _does_ know. I shall try to seem as if I believedher. Why should I give her pain? What does it matter if she is wrong?She is a kind sister to me, and I shall pretend that I believe her. Perhaps she is right? She may be, mayn't she?"

"She may be. "

"It's good of you to come and sit here while she rests. She hasn't goneto bed for two nights. She's the only one of us that cares for me. Barbara has got her husband; well, I'm glad of that. And there's noknowing; she might live to be Lady Musselwhite. Sir Roland hasn't anychildren. Doesn't it make you laugh?"

She herself tried to laugh--a ghostly sound. It seemed to exhaust her. For half an hour no word was spoken. Then Cecily, who had fallen intobrooding, heard herself called by a strange name. 

"Miss Doran!"

She rose and bent over the bed, startled by this summons from the deadpast. 

"Can I do anything for you, Madeline?"

The heavy eyes looked at her in a perplexed way. They seemed to be justawaking, and Madeline smiled faintly. 

"Didn't I call you, Miss Doran? I was thinking about you, and gotconfused. But you are married, of course. What is your name now? Ican't remember. "

"Mrs. Elgar. "

"How silly of me! Mrs. Elgar, of course. Are you happily married?"

"Why do you ask?"

For the first time, she remembered the possibility that the Denyersknew of her disgrace. But Madeline's reply seemed to prove that she, atall events, had no such thing in mind. 

"I was only trying to remember whom you married. Yes, yes; you told usabout it before. Or else. Mrs. Travis told me. "

"What did she say?"

"Only that you had married for love, as every woman ought to. But _she_is very unhappy. Perhaps that would have been my own lot if I hadlived. I dare say I should have been married long ago. What does itmatter? But as long as one is born at all, one might as well live lifethrough, see the best as well as the worst of it. It's been all worstwith me. --Oh, that's coming again! That wishing and rebelling anddespairing! I thought it was all over. You stand there and look at me;that is you and this is I, this, this! I am lying here waiting fordeath and burial. You have the husband you love, and long years ofhappy life before you. --Do you feel sorry for me? Suppose it was youwho lay here?"

The same question she had put to Mrs. Travis, but now spoken in a moreanguished voice. The tear's streamed from Cecily's eyes. 

"You cry, like Zillah does when she tries to persuade me. I don't knowwhether I had rather be pitied, or lie quite alone. But don't cry. Youshan't go away and be made miserable by thinking of me. I can bear itall well enough; there can't be much more of it, you know. Sit downagain, if you have time. Perhaps you want to go somewhere to-night--tosee friends?"

"No. I will stay with you as long as ever you wish. "

Presently the conversation ceased, and then for nearly three hoursCecily listened to the sound of breathing. At length the door softlyopened, and Zillah came in. She was distressed; it had struck twelvelong since, and only now had she awoke from sleep. Cecily entreated herto go and sleep again; she herself had no desire to close her eyes. 

"But what will Mr. Elgar think has become of you?"

"He is not at home to-night. Let me have my way, there's a good girl. "

Zillah, whose eyelids could scarcely be supported, at length went backto her room. Madeline still slept, with unusual calmness. The vigil wasresumed, and nothing again disturbed it until white dawn began toglimmer at the windows. 

Then Madeline awoke with a sudden loud cry of anguish. Cecily, arousedfrom slumber which was just beginning, sprang up and spoke to her. Butthe cry seemed to have been the end of her power of utterance; shemoved her lips and looked up fearfully. Cecily hastened to summonZillah. 

CHAPTER XIV

SUGGESTION AND ASSURANCE

When Miriam went out by herself to walk, either going or returning shetook the road in which was Mallard's studio. She kept on the sideopposite the gateway, and, in passing, seemed to have no particularinterest in anything at hand. A model who one day came out of the gate, and made inspection of the handsomely attired lady just going by, little suspected for what purpose she walked in this locality. 

And so it befell that Miriam was drawing near to the studios at themoment when a cab stopped there, at the moment when Cecily alightedfrom it. Instantly recognizing her sister-in-law, Miriam thought itinevitable that she herself must be observed; for an instant her footwas checked. But Cecily paid the driver without looking this way orthat, and entered the gateway. Miriam walked on for a few paces; thenglanced back and saw the cab waiting. She reached the turning of theroad, and still the cab waited, Another moment, and it drove away empty. 

She stood and watched it, until it disappeared in the oppositedirection. Heedless of one or two people who came by, she remained onthe spot for several minutes, gazing towards the studios. Presently shemoved that way again. She passed the gate, and walked on to the fartherend of the road, always with glances at the gate. Then she waitedagain, and then began to retrace her steps. 

How many times backwards and forwards? She neither knew nor cared; itwas indifferent to her whether or not she was observed from the windowsof certain houses. She felt no weariness of body, but time seemedendless. The longer she stood or walked, the longer was Cecily therewithin. For what purpose? Yesterday she was to arrive in London; to-dayshe doubtless knew all that had been going on in her absence. And duskfell, and twilight thickened. The street-lamps were lit. But Cecilystill remained within. 

Twice or thrice some one entered or left the studio-yard, strangers toMiriam. At length there came forth a man who, after looking about, hurried away, and in a few minutes returned with a hansom followinghim. Seeing that it stopped at the gateway, she approached as close asshe durst, keeping in shadow. There issued two persons, whom at onceshe knew--Cecily with Mallard. They spoke together a moment; then bothgot into the vehicle and drove away. 

That evening Miriam had an engagement to dine out, together with theSpences. When she reached home, Eleanor, dressed ready for departureand not a little impatient, met her in the entrance-hall. 

"Have you forgotten?"

"No. I am very sorry that I couldn't get back sooner. What is the time?"

It was too late for Miriam to dress and reach her destination at theappointed hour. 

"You must go without me. I hope it doesn't matter. They are not thekind of people who plan for their guests to go like the animals ofNoah's ark. "

This was a sally of unwonted liveliness from Miriam, and it did notsuit very well with her jaded face. 

"Will you come after dinner?" Eleanor asked. 

"Yes, I will. Make some excuse for me. "

So Miriam dined alone, or made a pretence of doing so, and at nineo'clock joined her friends. Through the evening she talked far morefreely than usual, and with a frequency of caustic remark which madeone or two mild ladies rather afraid of her. 

At half-past nine next morning, when she and Eleanor were talking overa letter Mrs. Spence had just received from Greece, a servant came intothe drawing-room to say that Mr. Elgar wished to speak with Mrs. Baske. The ladies looked at each other; then Miriam directed that the visitorshould go up to her own sitting-room. 

"This has something to do with Cecily, " said Eleanor in a low voice. 

"Probably. "

And Miriam turned away. 

As she entered her room, Reuben faced her, standing close by. He lookedmiserably ill, the wreck of a man compared with what he had been at hislast visit. When the door was shut, he asked without preface, and in ananxious tone:

"Can you tell me where Cecily is?"

Miriam laid her band on a chair, and met his gaze. 

"Where she is?"

"She isn't at home. Haven't you heard of her?"

"Since when has she been away?"

Her manner of questioning seemed to Elgar to prove that her ownsurprise was as great as his. 

"I only went there last night, " he said, "about eleven o'clock. She hadbeen in the house since her arrival the day before yesterday; but inthe afternoon she went out and didn't return. She left no word, andthere's nothing from her this morning. I thought it likely you hadheard something. "

"I have heard many things, but not about _her_. "

"Of course, I know that!" he exclaimed impatiently, averting his eyesfor a moment. "I haven't come to talk, but to ask you a simplequestion. You have no idea where she is?"

Miriam moved a few steps away and seated herself. But almost at onceshe arose again. 

"Why didn't you go home before last night?" she asked harshly. 

"I tell you, I am not going to talk of my affairs, " he answered, with aburst of passion. "If you want to drive me mad--! Can't you answer me?Do you know anything, or guess anything, about her?"

"Yes, " said Miriam, after some delay, speaking deliberately, "I cangive you some information. "

"Then do so, and don't keep me in torment. "

"Yesterday afternoon I happened to be passing Mr. Mallard's studio, andI saw her enter it; she came in a cab. She stayed there an hour or two;it grew dark whilst she was there. Then I saw them both go awaytogether. "

Elgar stared, half incredulously. 

"You saw this? Do you mean that you waited about and watched?"

"Yes. "

"You had suspicions?"

"I knew what a happy home she had returned to. "

Again she seated herself. 

"She went there to ask about me, " said Elgar, in a forced voice. 

"You think so? Why to him? Wouldn't she rather have come to me? Why didshe stay so long? Why did he go away with her? And why hasn't shereturned home?"

Question followed question with cold deliberateness, as if the matterbarely concerned her. 

"But Mallard? What is Mallard to her?"

"How can I tell?"

"Were they together much in Rome?"

"I think very likely they were. "

"Miriam, I can't believe this. How could it happen that you were nearMallard's studio just then? How could you stand about for hours, spying?"

"Perhaps I dreamt it. "

"Where is this studio?" he asked. "I knew the other day, but I haveforgotten. "

She told him the address. 

"Very well, then I must go there. You still adhere to your story?"

"Why should I invent it?" she exclaimed bitterly "And what is thereastonishing in it? What right have _you_ to be astonished?"

"Every right!" he answered, with violence. "What warning have I had ofsuch a thing?"

She rose and moved away with a scornful laugh. For a minute he lookedat her as she stood apart, her face turned from him. 

"If I find Mallard, " he said, "of course I shall tell him who myauthority is. "

She turned. 

"No; that you will not do!"

"And why not?"

"Because I forbid you. You will not dare to mention my name in any suchconversation! Besides"--her voice fell to a tone of indifference--"ifyou meet him, there will be no need. You will ask your question, andthat will be enough. There is very little chance of his being at thestudio. "

"I see that your Puritan spirit is gratified, " he said, looking at herwith fierce eyes. 

"Naturally. "

He went towards the door. Miriam, raising her eyes and following him astep or two, said sternly:

"In any case, you understand that my name is not to be spoken. Show atleast some remnant of honour. Remember who I am, and don't involve mein your degradation. "

"Have no fear. Your garment of righteousness shall not be soiled. "

When he was gone, Miriam sat for a short time alone. She had notforeseen this sequel of yesterday's event. In spite of all thepromptings of her jealous fear, she had striven to explain Cecily'svisit in some harmless way. Mean what it might, it tortured her; but, in her ignorance of what was happening between Cecily and her husband, she tried to believe that Mallard was perhaps acting the part ofreconciler--not an unlikely thing, as her better judgment told her. Nowshe could no longer listen to such calm suggestions. Cecily hadabandoned her home, and with Mallard's knowledge, if not at hispersuasion. 

She thought of Reuben with all but hatred. He was the cause of thedespair which had come upon her. The abhorrence with which she regardedhis vices--no whit less strong for all her changed habits ofthought--blended now with the sense of personal injury; this only hadbeen lacking to destroy what natural tenderness remained in her feelingtowards him. Cecily she hated, without the power of condemning her asshe formerly would have done. The old voice of conscience was not mute, but Miriam turned from it with sullen scorn. If Cecily declared hermarriage at an end, what fault could reason find with her? If she actedundisguisedly as a free woman, how was she to blame? Reuben's praise ofher might still keep its truth. And the unwilling conviction of thiswas one of Miriam's sharpest torments. She would have liked to regardher with disdainful condemnation, or a fugitive wife, a dishonouredwoman. But the power of sincerely judging thus was gone. Reuben hadtaunted her amiss. 

Presently she left her room and went to seek Eleanor. Mrs. Spence waswriting; she laid down her pen, and glanced at Miriam, but did notspeak. 

"Cecily has left her home, " Miriam said, with matter-of-fact brevity. 

Eleanor stood up. 

"Parted from him?"

"It seems be didn't go to the house till late last night. She had leftin the afternoon, and did not come back. "

"Then they have not met?". 

"No. "

"And had Cecily heard?"

"There's no knowing. "

"Of course, she has gone to Mrs. Lessingham. "

"I think not, " replied Miriam, turning away. 

"Why?"

But Miriam would give no definite answer. Neither did she hint at thespecial grounds of her suspicion. Presently she left the room as shehad entered, dispirited and indisposed for talk. 

Elgar walked on to the studios. He found Mallard's door, and wasbeginning to ascend the stairs, when the artist himself appeared at thetop of them, on the point of going out. He recognized his visitor witha grim movement of brows and lips, and without speaking turned back. Reuben reached the door, which remained open, and entered. Mallard, whostood there in the ante-room, looked at him inquiringly. 

"I want a few minutes' talk with you, if you please, " said Elgar. 

"Come in. "

They passed into the studio. The last time they had seen each other wasmore than three years ago, at Naples; both showed something ofcuriosity, over and above the feelings of graver moment. Mallard, observing the signs of mental stress on Elgar's features, wondered towhat they were attributable. Was the fellow capable of sufferingremorse or shame to this degree? Or was it the outcome of that otheraffair, sheer ignoble passion? Reuben, on his part, could not face theartist's somewhat rigid self-possession without feeling rebuked andabashed. The fact of Mallard's being here at this hour seemed all but adisproval of what Miriam had hinted, and when he looked up again at therugged, saturnine, energetic countenance, and met the calmly austereeyes, he felt how improbable it was that this man should be anything toCecily save a conscientious friend. 

"I haven't come in answer to your invitation, " Reuben began, glancinguneasily at the pictures, and endeavouring to support an air ofself-respect. "Something less agreeable has brought me. "

They had not shaken hands, nor did Mallard offer a seat. 

"What may that be?" he asked. 

"I believe you have seen my wife lately?"

"What of that?"

Mallard began to knit his brows anxiously. He put up one foot on achair, and rested his arm on his knee. 

"Will you tell me when it was that you saw her?"

"If you will first explain why you come with such questions, " returnedthe other, quietly. 

"She has not been home since yesterday; I think that is reason enough. "

Mallard maintained his attitude for a few moments, but at length puthis foot to the ground again, and repeated the keen look he had cast atthe speaker as soon as that news was delivered. 

"When did you yourself go home?" he asked gravely. 

"Late last night. "

Mallard pondered anxiously. 

"Then, " said he, "what leads you to believe that I have seen Mrs. Elgar?"

"I don't merely believe; I know that you have. "

Elgar felt himself oppressed by the artist's stern and authoritativemanner. He could not support his dignity; his limbs embarrassed him, and he was conscious of looking like a man on his trial for ignobleoffences. 

"How do you know?" came from Mallard, sharply. 

"I have been told by some one who saw her come here yesterday, in thelate afternoon. "

"I see. No doubt, Mrs. Baske?"

The certainty of this flashed upon Mallard. He had never seen Miriamwalk by, but on the instant he comprehended her doing so. It was evenpossible, he thought, that, if she had not herself seen Cecily, someone in her employment had made the espial for her. The whole train ofdivination was perfect in his mind before Elgar spoke. 

"It is nothing to the purpose who told me. My wife was here for a longtime, and when she went away, you accompanied her. "

"I understand. "

"That is more than I do. Will you please to explain it?"

"You are accurately informed. Mrs. Elgar came here, naturally enough, to ask if I knew what had become of you. "

"And why should she come to _you_?"

"Because my letter to you lay open somewhere in your house, and shethought it possible we had been together. "

Elgar reflected. Yes, he remembered that the letter was left on histable. 

"And where did she go afterwards? Where did you conduct her?"

"I went rather more than half-way home with her, in the cab" repliedMallard, somewhat doggedly. "I supposed she was going on to BelsizePark. "

"Then you know nothing of her reason for not doing so?"

"Nothing whatever. "

Elgar became silent. The artist, after moving about quietly, turned toquestion him with black brows. 

"Hasn't it occurred to you that she may have joined Mrs. Lessingham inthe country?"

"She has taken nothing--not even a travelling-bag. "

"You come, of course, from the Spences' house?"

Elgar replied with an affirmative. As soon as he had done so, heremembered that this was as much as corroborating Mallard's conjecturewith regard to Miriam; but for that he cared little. He had begun todiscern something odd in the relations between Miriam and Mallard, andsuspected that Cecily might in some way be the cause of it. 

"Did they not at once suggest that she was with Mrs. Lessingham?"

Elgar muttered a "No, " averting his face. 

"What _did_ they suggest, then?"

"I saw only my sister, " said Reuben, irritably. 

"And your sister thought I was the most likely person to know of Mrs. Elgar's whereabouts?"

"Yes, she did. "

"I am sorry to disappoint you, " said Mallard, coldly. "I have given youall the information I can. "

"All you _will_, " replied Elgar, whose temper was exasperated by thefirmness with which he was held at a scornful distance. He began now toimagine that Mallard, from reasons of disinterested friendship, hadadvised Cecily to seek some retreat, and would not disclose the secret. More than that, he still found incredible. 

Mallard eyed him scornfully. 

"I said 'all I _can_, ' and I don't deal in double meanings. I knownothing more than I have told you. You are probably unaccustomed, oflate, to receive simple and straightforward answers to your questions;but you'll oblige me by remembering where you are. "

Elgar might rage inwardly, but he had no power of doubting what heheard. He understood that Mallard would not even permit an allusion toanything save the plain circumstances which had come to light. Moreover, the artist had found a galling way of referring to the eventsthat had brought about this juncture. Reuben was profoundly humiliated;he had never seen himself in so paltry a light. He could have shedtears of angry shame. 

"I dare say the tone of your conversation, " he said acridly, "was notsuch as would reconcile her to remaining at home. No doubt you gave herabundant causes for self-pity. "

"I did not congratulate her on her return home; but, on the other hand, I said nothing that could interfere with her expressed intention toremain there. "

"She told you that she had this intention?" asked Reuben, with someeagerness. 

"She did. "

As in the dialogue of last evening, so now, Mallard kept the sternestcontrol upon himself. Had he obeyed his desire, he would have scarifiedElgar with savage words; but of that nothing save harm could come. Hisduty was to smooth, and not to aggravate, the situation. It was a blowto him to learn that Cecily had passed the night away from home, but hefelt sure that this would be explained in some way that did no injuryto her previous resolve. He would not admit the thought that she hadmisled him. What had happened, he could not with any satisfactionconjecture, but he was convinced that a few hours would solve themystery. Had she really failed in her determination, then assuredly shewould write to him, even though it were without saying where she hadtaken refuge. But he persisted in hoping that it was not so. 

"Go back to your house, and wait there, " he added gravely, but withoutharshness. "For some reason best known to yourself, you kept your wifewaiting for nearly two days, in expectation of your coming. I hope itwas reluctance to face her. You can only go and wait. If I hear anynews of her, you shall at once receive it. And if she comes, I desireto know of it as soon as possible. "

Elgar could say nothing more. He would have liked to ask severalquestions, but pride forbade him. Turning in silence he went from thestudio, and slowly descended the stairs Mallard heard him pause nearthe foot, then go forth. 

Reuben had no choice but to obey the artist's directions. He walked along way, the exercise helping him to combat his complicatedwretchedness, but at length he felt weary and threw himself into a cab. 

The servant who opened the door to him said that Mrs. Elgar had been infor a few minutes, about an hour ago; she would be back again bylunch-time. 

CHAPTER XV

PEACE IN SHOW AND PEACE IN TRUTH

At first so much relieved that he was able to sit down and quietlyreview his thoughts, Elgar could not long preserve this frame of mind;in half an hour he began to suffer from impatience, and when the timeof Cecily's return approached, he was in a state of intolerableagitation. Mallard's severity lost its force now that it was onlyremembered. He accused himself of having been, as always, weaklysensitive to the moment's impression. The fact remained that Cecily hadspent a long time alone with Mallard, had made him the confidant of hertroubles; it credible in human nature--the past borne in mind--thatMallard had never exceeded a passionless sympathy? Did not Miriam saydistinctly that suspicion had been excited in her by the behaviour ofthe two when they were in Rome? Why had he not stayed to question hissister on that point? As always, he had lost his head, missed theessential, obeyed impulses instead of proceeding on a rational plan. 

He worked himself into a sense of being grossly injured. The shame hehad suffered in this morning's interviews was now a mortification. Whathad _he_ to do with vulgar rules and vulgar judgments? By what rightdid these people pose as his superiors and look contemptuous rebuke?His anger concentrated itself on Cecily; the violence of jealousy andthe brute instinct of male prerogative plied his brain to frenzy as theminutes dragged on. Where had she passed the night? How durst sheabsent herself from home, and keep him in these tortures of expectation?

At a few minutes past one she came. The library door was ajar, and heheard her admit herself with a latch-key; she would see his hat andgloves in the hall. But instead of coming to the library she wentstraight upstairs; it was Cecily, for he knew her step. Almostimmediately he followed. She did not stop at the drawing-room; hefollowed, and came up with her at the bedroom door. Still she paid noattention, but went in and took off her hat. 

"Where have you been since yesterday afternoon?" he asked, when he hadslammed the door. 

Cecily looked at him with offended surprise--almost as she might haveregarded an insolent servant. 

"What right have you to question me in such a tone?"

"Never mind my tone, but answer me. "

"What right have you to question me at all?"

"Every right, so long as you choose to remain in my house. "

"You oblige me to remind you that the house is at least as much mine asyours. For what am I beholden to you? If it comes to the bare questionof rights between us, I must meet you with arguments as coarse as yourown. Do you suppose I can pretend, now, to acknowledge any authority inyou? I am just as free as you are, and I owe you no account of myself. "

Physical exhaustion had made her incapable of self-control. She hadanticipated anything but such an address as this with which Elgarpresented himself. The insult was too shameless; it rendered impossiblethe cold dignity she had purposed. 

"What do you mean by 'free'?" he asked, less violently. 

"Everything that you yourself understand by it. I am accountable to noone but myself. If I have allowed you to think that I held the oldbelief of a woman's subjection to her husband, you must learn that thatis at an end. I owe no more obedience to you than you do to me. "

"I ask no obedience. All I want to know is, whether it is possible forus to live under the same roof or not. "

Cecily made no reply. Her anger had involved her in an inconsistency, yet she was not so far at the mercy of blind impulses as to rightherself by taking the very course she had recognized as impossible. 

"That entirely depends, " added Elgar, "on whether you choose to explainyour absence last night. "

"In other words, " said Cecily, "it can be of no significance to mewhere you go or what you do, but if you have a doubt about any of mymovements, it at once raises the question whether you can continue tolive with me or not I refuse to admit anything of the kind. I havechosen, as you put it, to remain in your house, and in doing so I knowwhat I accept. By what right do you demand more of me than I of you?"

"You know that you are talking absurdly. You know as well as I do thedifference. "

"Whatever laws I recognize, they are in myself only. As regards yourclaims upon me, what I have said is the simple truth. I owe you noaccount. If you are not content with this, you must form whateversuppositions you will, and act as you think fit. "

"That is as much as telling me that our married life is at an end. Isuppose you meant that when you kindly reminded me that it was yourmoney I have been living on. Very well. Let it be as you wish. "

Cecily regarded him with resentful wonder. 

"Do you dare to speak as if it were I who had brought this about?"

Reuben was not the man to act emotion and contrive scenes. Whenever itmight have seemed that he did so, he was, in truth, yielding to thesudden revulsions which were characteristic of his passionate nature. In him, harshness and unreason inevitably led to a reaction in whichall the softer of his qualities rose predominant. So it was now. Thoselast words of his were not consciously meant to give him an opportunityof changing his standpoint. Inconstant, incapable of self-direction, atthe mercy of the moment's will, he could foresee himself just as littleas another could foresee him. His impetuous being prompted him to uttersincerely what a man of adroit insincerity would have spoken withcalculation. 

"Yes, " he exclaimed, "it _is_ you who have done most towards it!"

"By what act? what word?" she asked, in astonishment. 

"By all your acts and words for the year past, and longer. You hadpractically abandoned me long before you went abroad. When youdiscovered that I was not everything you imagined, when you foundfaults and weaknesses in me, you began to draw away, to be cold andindifferent, to lose all interest in whatever I did or wished to do. When I was working, you showed plainly that you had no faith in mypowers; it soon cost you an effort even to listen to me when I talkedon the subject. I looked to you for help, and I found none. Could I sayanything? The help had to come spontaneously, or it was no use. Thenyou gave yourself up entirely to the child; you were glad of thatexcuse for keeping out of my way. If I was away from home for a day ortwo, you didn't even care to ask what I had been doing; that was whatproved to me how completely indifferent you had become. And when youwent abroad, what a pretence it was to ask me to come with you! I knewquite well that you had much rather be without me. And how did yousuppose I should live during your absence? You never thought about it, never cared to think. Don't imagine I am blaming you. Everything was atan end between us, and which of us could help it? But it is as well toshow you that I am not the cause of all that has happened. You have nojustification whatever for this tone of offence. It is foolish, childish, unworthy of a woman who claims to think for herself. "

Cecily listened with strange sensations. She knew that all this hadnothing to do with the immediate point at issue, and that it onlyemphasized the want of nobility in Reuben's character, but, as heproceeded, there was so much truth in what he attributed to her that, in spite of everything, she could not resist a feeling of culpability. However little it really signified to her husband, it was undoubtedlytrue that she had made no effort with herself when she became consciousof indifference towards him. To preserve love was not in her power, butwas he not right in saying that she might have done more, as a wife, tosupply his defects? Knowing him weak, should she not have made it aduty to help him against himself? Had she not, as he said, virtually"abandoned" him?

Elgar observed her, and recognized the effect of his words. 

"Of course, " he pursued, "if you have made up your mind to be released, I have neither the power nor the will to keep you. But you must dealplainly with me. You can't both live here and have ties elsewhere. Ishould have thought you would have been the first to recognize that. "

"Of what ties do you speak?"

"I don't know that you have any; but you say you hold yourself free toform them. "

"If I had done so, I should not be here. "

"Then what objection can you have to telling me where you have been?"

How idle it was, to posture and use grandiose words! Why did she shrinkfrom the complete submission that her presence here implied? No amountof self-assertion would do away with the natural law of which he hadcontemptuously reminded her, the law which distinguishes man and woman, and denies to one what is permitted to the other. 

"I passed the night by a sick-bed, " she replied, letting her voice dropinto weariness--"Madeline Denyer's. "

"Did you go there directly on leaving home?"

"No. "

"Will you tell me where else you went?"

"I went first of all to see Mr. Mallard. I talked with him for a longtime, and he gave me some tea. Then he came part of the way back withme. Shall I try and remember the exact spot where he got out of thecab?"

"What had you to do with Mallard, Cecily?"

"I had to tell him that my life was a failure, and to thank him forhaving wished to save me from this fate. "

Her answers were given in a dull monotone; she seemed to be heedless ofthe impression they made. 

"You said that to Mallard?"

"Yes. It can be nothing to me what you think of it. I had waited heretill I could bear loneliness no longer; I knew I had one true friend, and I went to him. "

"You behaved as no self-respecting woman could!" Elgar exclaimedpassionately. 

"If so, " she answered, meeting his look, "the shame falls only onmyself. "

"That is not true! You yourself seem to be unconscious of the shame; tome it is horrible suffering. I thought you incapable of anything of thekind. I looked up to you as a high-minded woman, and I loved you foryour superiority to myself. "

"You loved me?" she asked, with a bitter smile. 

"Yes; believe it or not, as you like. Because I was maddened by sensualpassion for a creature whom I never one moment respected, how did thatlessen my love for you? You complain that I kept away from you; I didso because I was still racked by that vile torment, and shrank inreverence from approaching you. You might have known me well enough tounderstand this. Have I not told you a thousand times that in me souland body have lived separate lives? Even when I seemed sunk in thelowest depths, I still loved you purely and truly; I loved you all themore because I was conscious of my brutal faults. Now you havedestroyed my ideal; you have degraded yourself in my esteem. It isnothing to me now, do what you may! I can never forgive you. By doingyourself wrong, you have wronged me beyond all words!"

Cecily could not take her eyes from him. She marvelled at such emotionin him. But the only way in which it affected her own feeling was tomake her question herself anxiously as to whether she had really fallenbelow her self-respect. Had she led Mallard to think of her with likedisapproval?

Life is so simple to people of the old civilization. The rules are laiddown so broadly and plainly, and the conscience they have createdanswers so readily when appealed to. But for these poor instructedpersons, what a complex affair has morality become! Hard enough formen, but for women desperate indeed. Each must be her own casuist, andwithout any criterion save what she can establish by her ownexperience. The growth of Cecily's mind had removed her further andfurther from simplicity of thought; this was in part the cause of thatperpetual sense of weariness to which she awoke day after day. Communion with such a man as Elgar strengthened the natural tendency, until there was scarcely a motive left to which she could yield withoutdiscussing it in herself, consciously or unconsciously. Her safeguardwas an innate nobleness of spirit. But it is not to every woman ofbrains that this is granted. 

"What I did, " she said at length slowly, "was done, no doubt, in amoment of weakness; I gave way to the need of sympathy. Had my friendbeen a man of less worth, he might have misunderstood me, and then Imight indeed have been shamed. But I knew him and trusted him. "

"Which means, that you were false to me in a way I never was to you. Itis you who have broken the vow we made to be faithful to each other. "

"I cannot read in your heart. If you still love me, it is a pity; I cangive you no love in return. "

He drew nearer, and looked at her despairingly. 

"Cecily! when I came last night, I had a longing to throw myself atyour feet, and tell you all my misery--everything, and find strengthagain with your help. I never feared _this_. You, who are all love andwomanliness, you cannot have put me utterly from your heart!"

"I am your wife still; but I ask nothing of you, and you must not seekfor more than I can give. "

"Well, I too ask for nothing, But I will prove--"

She checked him. 

"Don't forget your philosophy. We both of us know that it is idle tomake promises of that kind. "

"You will leave London with me?"

"I shall go wherever you wish. "

"Then we will make our home again in Paris. The sooner the better. Afew days, and we will get rid of everything except what we wish to takewith us. I don't care if I never see London again. "

In the evening, Cecily was again at the Denyers' house. Madeline laywithout power of speech, and seemed gradually sinking intounconsciousness. Mrs. Denyer had been telegraphed for; a reply hadcome, saying that she would be home very soon, but already a muchlonger time than was necessary had passed, and she did not arrive. Zillah sat by the bed weeping, or knelt in prayer. 

"If your mother does not come, " Cecily said to her, "I will stay allnight. It's impossible for you to be left alone. "

"She must surely come; and Barbara too. How can they delay so long?"

Madeline's eyes were open, but she gave no sign of recognition. Thelook upon her face was one of suffering, there was no telling whetherof body or mind. Hitherto it had changed a little when Zillah spoke toher, but at length not even this sign was to be elicited. Cecily couldnot take her gaze from the blank visage; she thought unceasingly of thebright, confident girl she had known years ago, and the sunny shore ofNaples. 

The doctor looked in at nine o'clock. He stayed only a few minutes. 

At half-past ten there came a loud knocking at the house-door, and theservant admitted Mrs. Denyer, who was alone. In the little room above, the two watchers were weeping over the dead girl. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE TWO FACES

Mallard, when he had taken leave of Cecily by Regent's Park, set out towalk homewards. He was heavy-hearted, and occasionally a fit of savagefeeling against Elgar took hold of him, but his mood remained that ofone who watches life's drama from a point of vantage. Sitting close byCecily's side, he had been made only more conscious of their realremoteness from each other--of his inability to give her any kind ofhelp. He wished she had not come to him, for he saw she had hoped tomeet with warmer sympathy, and perhaps she was now more than everoppressed with the sense of abandonment. And yet such a result mighthave its good; it might teach her that she must look for support to noone but herself. Useless to lament the necessity; fate had brought herto the hardest pass that woman can suffer, and she must make of herlife what she could. It was not the kind of distress that a friend canremedy; though she perished, he could do nothing but stand by andsorrow. 

Coming to his own neighbourhood, he did not go straight to the studio, but turned aside to the Spences' house. He had no intention of lettinghis friends know of Cecily's visit, but he wished to ask whether theyhad any news of Elgar. No one was at home, however. 

The next morning, when surprised by the appearance of Elgar himself, hewas on the point of again going to the Spences'. The interview over, hemet forth, and found Eleanor alone. She had just learnt from Miriamwhat news Reuben had brought, and on Mallard's entrance she at oncerepeated this to him. 

"I knew it, " replied the artist. "The fellow has been with me. "

"He ventured to come? Before or after his coming here?"

"After. I think, " he added carelessly, "that Mrs. Baske suggested it tohim. "

"Possibly. I know nothing of what passed between them. "

"Do you think Mrs. Baske has any idea on the subject?" Mallardinquired, again without special insistence. 

"She spoke rather mysteriously, " Eleanor replied. "When I said thatMrs. Lessingham probably could explain it, she said she thought not, but gave no reasons. "

"Why should she be mysterious?"

"That is more than I can tell you. Mystery rather lies in hercharacter, I fancy. "

"Would you mind telling me whether she is in the habit of going outalone?"

Eleanor hesitated a little, surprised by the question. 

"Yes, she is. She often takes a walk alone in the afternoon. "

"Thank you. Never mind why I wished to know. It throws no light onCecily's disappearance. "

They talked of it for some time, and were still so engaged when Spencecame in. In him the intelligence excited no particular anxiety; Cecilyhad gone to her aunt, that was all. What else was to be expected whenshe found an empty house?

"But, " remarked Eleanor, "the question remains whether or not she hasheard of this scandal. "

Mallard could have solved their doubts on this point, but to do soinvolved an explanation of how he came possessed of the knowledge; heheld his peace. 

It was doubtful whether Elgar would keep his promise and communicateany news he might have. Mallard worked through the day, as usual, butwith an uneasy mind. In the morning he walked over once more to theSpences', and learnt that anxieties were at an end; Mrs. Baske hadreceived a letter from her brother, in which Cecily's absence wasexplained. Elgar wrote that he was making preparations for departure;in a few days they hoped to be in Paris, where henceforth they purposedliving. 

He went away without seeing Miriam, and there passed more than afortnight before he again paid her a visit. In the meantime he had seenSpence, who reported an interview between Eleanor and Mrs. Lessingham;nothing of moment, but illustrating the idiosyncrasies of Cecily'srelative. When at length, one sunny afternoon, Mallard turned his stepstowards the familiar house, it was his chance to encounter Eleanor andher husband just hastening to catch a train; they told him hurriedlythat Miriam had heard from Paris. 

"Go and ask her to tell you about it, " said Eleanor. "She is not goingout. "

Mallard asked nothing better. He walked on with a curious smile, wasadmitted, and waited a minute or two in the drawing-room. Miriamentered, and shook hands with him, coldly courteous, distantlydignified. 

"I am sorry Mrs. Spence is not at home. "

"I came to see you, Mrs. Baske. I have just met them, and heard thatyou have news from Paris. "

"Only a note, sending a temporary address. "

He observed her as she spoke, and let silence follow. "You would liketo know it--the address?" she added, meeting his look with a ratherdefiant steadiness. 

"No, thank you. It will be enough if I know where they finally settle. You saw Mrs. Elgar before she left?"

"No. "

"I'm sorry to hear that. "

Miriam's face was clouded. She sat very stiffly, and averted her eyesas if to ignore his remark. Mallard, who had been holding his hat andstick in conventional manner, threw them both aside, and leaned hiselbow on the back of the settee. 

"I should like, " he said deliberately, "to ask you a question whichsounds impertinent, but which I think you will understand is not reallyso. Will you tell me how you regard Mrs. Elgar? I mean, is it your wishto be still as friendly with her as you once were? Or do you, forwhatever reason, hold aloof from her?"

"Will you explain to me, Mr. Mallard, why you think yourself justifiedin asking such a question?"

In both of them there were signs of nervous discomposure. Miriamflushed a little; the artist moved from one attitude to another, andbegan to play destructively with a tassel. 

"Yes, " he answered. "I have a deep interest in Mrs. Elgar'swelfare--_that_ needs no explaining--and I have reason to fear thatsomething in which I was recently concerned may have made you lessdisposed to think of her as I wish you to. Is it so or not?"

Her answer was uttered with difficulty. 

"What can it matter howl think of her?"

"That is the point. To my mind it matters a great deal. For instance, it seems to me a deplorable thing that you, her sister in more sensesthan one, should have kept apart from her when she so much needed awoman's sympathy. Of course, if you had no true sympathy to give her, there's an end of it. But it seems to me strange that it should be so. Will you put aside conventionality, and tell me if you have anydefinite reason for acting as if you and she were strangers?"

Miriam was mute. Her questioner waited, observing her. At length shespoke with painful impulsiveness. 

"I can't talk with you on this subject. "

"I am very sorry to distress you, " Mallard continued, his voice growingalmost harsh in its determination, "but talk of it we must, once forall. Your brother came to my studio one morning, and demanded anexplanation of something about his wife which he had heard from you. Hedidn't _say_ that it came from you, but I have the conviction that itdid. Please to tell me if I am wrong. "

She kept an obstinate silence, sitting motionless, her hands tightlyclasped together on her lap. 

"If you don't contradict me, I must conclude that I am right. To speakplainly, it had come to his knowledge that Mrs. Elgar--no; I will callher Cecily, as I used to do when she was a child--that Cecily hadvisited my studio the evening before. You told him of that. How did youknow of it, Mrs. Baske?"

Miriam answered in a hard, forced voice. 

"I happened to be passing when she drove up in a cab. "

"I understand. But you also told him how long she remained, and thatwhen she left I accompanied her. How could you be aware of thosethings?"

She seemed about to answer, but her voice failed. She stood up, andbegan to move away. Instantly Mallard was at her side. 

"You must answer me, " he said, his voice shaking. "If I detain you byforce, you must answer me. "

Miriam turned to face him. She stood splendidly at bay, her eyesgleaming, her cheeks bloodless, her lithe body in an attitude finerthan she knew. They looked into each other's pupils, long, intensely, as if reading the heart there. Miriam's eyes were the first to fall. 

"I waited till she came out again. "

"You waited all that time? In the road?"

"Yes. "

"And when you heard that Cecily had Dot returned home that night, youbelieved that she had left her husband for ever?

"Yes. "

Mallard drew hack a little, and his voice softened. 

"Forgive me for losing sight of civility. Knowing this, it was perhapsnatural that you should inform your brother of it. You took it forgranted that Cecily--however unwise it was of her--had come to tell meof her resolve to leave home, and that I, as her old friend, had seenher safely to the place where she had taken refuge?"

He uttered this with a peculiar emphasis, gazing steadily into herface. Miriam dropped her eyes, and made no reply. 

"You represented it to your brother in this light?" he continued, inthe same tone. 

She forced herself to look at him; there was awed wonder on her face. 

"There is no need to answer in words. I see that I have understood you. But of course you soon learnt that you had been in part mistaken. Cecily had no intention of leaving her husband, from the first. "

Miriam breathed with difficulty. He motioned to her to sit down, butshe gave no heed. 

"Then why did she come to you?" fell from her lips. 

"Please to take your seat again, Mrs. Baske. "

She obeyed him. He took a chair at a little distance, and answered herquestion. 

"She came because she was in great distress, and had no friend in whomshe could confide so naturally. This was a misfortune; it should nothave been so. It was to _you_ that she should have gone, and I amafraid it was your fault that she could not. "

"My fault?"

"Yes. You had not behaved to her with sisterly kindness. You had heldapart from her; you had been cold and unsympathetic. Am I unjust?"

"Can one command feelings?"

"That is to say, you _felt_ coldly to her. Are you conscious of anyreason? I believe religious prejudice no longer influences you?"

"No. "

"Then I am obliged to recall something to your mind. Do you rememberthat you were practically an agent in bringing about Cecily's marriage?No doubt things would have taken much the same course, however you hadacted. But is it not true that you gave what help was in your power?You acted as though your brother's suit had your approval. And I thinkyou alone did so. "

"You exaggerate. I know what you refer to. Reuben betrayed my lack offirmness, as he betrays every one who trusts in him. "

"Let us call it lack of firmness. The fact is the same, and I feel verystrongly that it laid an obligation on you. From that day you shouldhave been truly a sister to Cecily. You should have given her everyencouragement to confide in you. She loved you in those days, in spiteof all differences. You should never have allowed this love to fail. "

Miriam kept her eyes on the floor. 

"I am afraid, " he added, after a pause, "that you won't tell me why youcannot think kindly of her?"

She hesitated, her lips moving uncertainly. 

"There _is_ a reason?"

"I can't tell you. "

"I have no right to press you to do so. I will rather ask this--I askedit once before, and had no satisfactory answer--why did you allow me tothink for a few days, in Italy, that you accepted my friendship andgave me yours in return, and then became so constrained in your mannerto me that I necessarily thought I had given you offence?"

She was silent. 

"That also you can't tell me?"

She glanced at him--or rather, let her eyes pass over his face--withthe old suggestion of defiance. Her firm-set lips gave no promise ofanswer. 

Mallard rose. 

"Then I must still wait. Some day you will tell me, I think. "

He held his hand to her, then turned away; but in a moment faced heragain. 

"One word--a yes or no. Do you believe what I have told you? Do youbelieve it absolutely? Look at me, and answer. "

She flushed, and met his gaze almost as intensely as when he compelledher confession. 

"Do you put absolute faith in what I have said?"

"I do. "

"That is something. "

He smiled very kindly, and so this dialogue of theirs ended. 

A few days later, the Spences gathered friends about theirdinner-table. Mallard was of the invited. The necessity of donningsociety's uniform always drew many growls from him; he never felt athis ease in it, and had a suspicion that he looked ridiculous. Indeedit suited him but ill; it disguised the true man as he appeared in hisrough travelling apparel, and in the soiled and venerable attire of thestudio. 

As he entered the drawing-room, his first glance fell on Seaborne, whosat in conversation with Mrs. Baske. The man of letters was justreturned from Italy. Going to shake hands with Miriam, Mallardexchanged a few words with him; then he drew aside into a convenientcorner. He noticed that Miriam's eyes turned once or twice in hisdirection. Informed that she was to be his partner in the solemnprocession, he approached her when the moment arrived. They had nothingto say to each other, until they had been seated some time then theypatched together a semblance of talk, a few formalities, commonplaces, all but imbecilities. Finding this at length intolerable, each turnedto the person whom he had once before met, a pretty, bright, charmingon the other side. In Mallard's case this was a young lady girl;without hesitation, she abandoned her companion proper, and drew theartist into lively dialogue. It was continued afterwards in thedrawing-room, until Mallard, observing that Miriam sat alone, went overto her. 

"What's the matter?" he asked, as he seated himself. 

"The matter? Nothing. "

"I thought you looked unusually well and cheerful early in the evening. Now you are the opposite. "

"Society soon tires me. "

"So it does me. "

"You seem anything but tired. "

"I have been listening to clever and amusing talk. Do you like MissHarper?"

"I don't know her well enough to like or dislike her. "

Mallard was looking at her hands, as they lay folded together; henoticed a distinct tension of the muscles, a whitening of the knuckles. 

"She has just the qualities to put me in good humour. Often when I havegot stupid and bearish from loneliness, I wish I could talk to some oneso happily constituted. "

Miriam had become mute, and in a minute or two she rose to speak to alady who was passing. As she stood there, Mallard regarded her at hiscase. She was admirably dressed to-night, and looked younger than ofwont. Losing sight of her, owing to people who came between, Mallardfell into a brown study, an anxious smile on his lips. 

On the second morning after that, he interrupted his work to sit downand pen a short letter. "Dear Mrs. Baske, " he began then pondered, androse to give a touch to the picture on which his eyes were fixed. Buthe seated himself again, and wrote on rapidly. "Would you do me thekindness to come here to-morrow early in the afternoon? If you have anengagement, the day after would do. But please to come, if you can; Iwish to see you. "

There was no reply to this. At the time he had mentioned; Mallardwalked about his room in impatience. Just before three o'clock, his earcaught a footstep outside, and a knock at the door followed. 

"Come in!" he shouted. 

From behind the canvases appeared Miriam. 

"Ah! How do you do? This is kind of you. Are you alone?"

The question was so indifferently asked, that Miriam stood inembarrassment. 

"Yes. I hare come because you asked me. "

"To be sure. --Can you sew, Mrs. Baske?"

She looked at him in confusion, half indignant. 

"Yes, I can sew. "

"I hardly like to ask you, but--would you mend this for me? It's thecase in which I keep a large volume of engravings; the seams are comingundone, you see. "

He took up the article in question, which was of glazed cloth, and heldit to her. 

"Have you a needle and thread?" she asked. 

"Oh yes; here's a complete work-basket. "

He watched her as she drew off her gloves. 

"Will you sit here?" He pointed to a chair and a little table. "I shallgo on with my work, if you will let me. You don't mind doing this forme?"

"Not at all. "

"Is that chair comfortable?"

"Quite. "

He moved away and seemed to be busy with a picture; it was on an easelso placed that, as he stood before it, he also overlooked Miriam at herneedlework. For a time there was perfect quietness. Mallard keptglancing at his companion, but she did not once raise her eyes. Atlength he spoke. 

"I have never had an opportunity of asking you what your newimpressions were of Bartles. "

"The place was much the same as I left it, " she answered naturally. 

"And the people? Did you see all your old friends?"

"I saw no one except my sister-in-law and her family. "

"You felt no inclination?"

"None whatever. "

"By-the-bye"--he seemed to speak half absently, looking closely at hiswork--"hadn't you once some thought of building a large new chapelthere?"

"I once had. "

She drew her stitches nervously. 

"That has utterly passed out of your mind?"

"Must it not necessarily have done so?"

He stepped back, held his head aside, and examined her thoughtfully. 

"H'm. I have an impression that you went beyond thinking of it as apossibility. Did you not make a distinct promise to some one oranother--perhaps to the congregation?"

"Yes, a distinct promise. "

He became silent; and Miriam, looking up for the first time, asked:

"Is it your opinion that the promise is still binding on me?"

"Why, I am inclined to think so. Your difficulty is, of course, thatyou don't see your way to spending a large sum of money to advancesomething with which you have no sympathy. "

"It isn't only that I have no sympathy with it, " broke from Miriam. "The thought of those people and their creeds is hateful to me. Theirso-called religion is a vice. They are as far from being Christians asI am from being a Mahometan. To call them Puritans is the exaggerationof compliment. "

Mallard watched and listened to her with a smile. 

"Well, " he said, soberly, "I suppose this only applies to the mostfoolish among them. However, I see that you can hardly be expected tobuild them a chapel. Let us think a moment. --Are there any public bathsin Bartles?"

"There were none when I lived there. "

"The proverb says that after godliness comes cleanliness. Why shouldyou not devote to the establishing of decent baths what you meant toset apart for the chapel? How does it strike you?"

She delayed a moment; then--

"I like the suggestion. "

"Do you know any impartial man there with whom you could communicate onsuch a subject?"

"I think so. "

"Then suppose you do it as soon as possible?"

"I will. "

She plied her needle for a few minutes longer; then looked up and saidthat the work was done. 

"I am greatly obliged to you. Now will you come here and look atsomething?"

She rose and came to his side. Then she saw that there stood on theeasel a drawing-board; on that was a sheet of paper, which showeddrawings of two heads in crayon. 

"Do you recognize these persons?" he asked, moving a little away. 

Yes, she recognized them. They were both portraits of herself, butsubtly distinguished from each other. The one represented a face fixedin excessive austerity, with a touch of pride that was by no meansamiable, with resentful eyes, and lips on the point of becoming cruel. In the other, though undeniably the features were the same, all theseharsh characteristics had yielded to a change of spirit; austerity hadgiven place to grave thoughtfulness, the eyes had a noble light, on thelips was sweet womanly strength. 

Miriam bent her head, and was silent. 

"Now, both these faces are interesting, " said Mallard. "Both areuncommon, and full of force. But the first I can't say that I like. Itis that of an utterly undisciplined woman, with a possibility of greatthings in her, but likely to be dangerous for lack of self-knowledgeand humility; an ignorant woman, moreover; one subjected tosuperstitions, and aiming at unworthy predominance. The second isobviously her sister, but how different! An educated woman, this; onewho has learnt a good deal about herself and the world. She is'emancipated, ' in the true sense of the hackneyed word; that is to say, she is not only freed from those bonds that numb the faculties of mindand heart, but is able to control the native passions that would make aslave of her. Now, this face I love. "

Miriam did not stir, but a thrill went through her. "One of thepassions that she has subdued, " Mallard went on, "is, you can see, particularly strong in this sister of hers. I mean jealousy. This firstface is that of a woman so prone to jealousy of all kinds that therewould be no wonder if it drove her to commit a crime. The woman whom Ilove is superior to idle suspicions; she thinks nobly of her friends;she respects herself too much to be at the mercy of chance and changeof circumstance. "

He paused, and Miriam spoke humbly. 

"Do you think it impossible for the first to become like her sister?"

"Certainly not impossible. The fact is that she has already made greatprogress in that direction. The first face is not that of an actuallyexisting person. She has changed much since she looked altogether likethis, so much, indeed, that occasionally I see the sister in her, andthen I love her for the sister's sake. But naturally she has relapses, and they cannot but affect my love. That word, you know, has such verydifferent meanings. When I say that I love her, I don't mean that I amready to lose my wits when she is good enough to smile on me. Ishouldn't dream of allowing her to come in the way of my life's work;if she cannot be my helper in it, then she shall be nothing to me atall. I shall never think or call her a goddess, not even if she developall the best qualities she has. Still, I think the love is true love; Ithink so for several reasons, of which I needn't speak. "

Miriam again spoke, all but raising her face. 

"You once loved in another way. "

"I was once out of my mind, which is not at all the same as loving. "

He moved to a distance; then turned, and asked:

"Will you tell me now why you became so cold to Cecily?"

"I was jealous of her. "

"And still remain so?"

"No. "

"I am glad to hear that. Now I think I'll get on with my work. Thankyou very much for the sewing. --By-the-bye, I often feel the want ofsome one at hand to do a little thing of that kind. "

"If you will send for me, I shall always be glad to come. "

"Thank you. Now don't hinder me any longer. Good-bye for to-day. "

Miriam moved towards the door. 

"You are forgetting your gloves, Mrs. Baske, " he called after her. 

She turned back and took them up. 

"By-the-bye, " he said, looking at his watch, "it is the hour at whichladies are accustomed to drink tea. Will you let me make you a cupbefore you go?"

"Thank you. Perhaps I could save your time by making it myself. "

"A capital idea. Look, there is all the apparatus. Please to tell mewhen it is ready, and I'll have a cup with you. "

He painted on, and neither spoke until the beverage was actuallyprepared. Then Miriam said:

"Will you come now, Mr. Mallard?"

He laid down his implements, and approached the table by which shestood. 

"Do you understand, " he asked, "what is meant when one says of a manthat he is a Bohemian?"

"I think so. "

"You know pretty well what may be fairly expected of him, and what must_not_ be expected?"

"I believe so. "

"Do you think you could possibly share the home of such a man?"

"I think I could. "

"Then suppose you take off your hat and your mantle, or whatever it'scalled, and make an experiment--see if you can feel at home here. "

She did so. Whilst laying the things aside, she heard him step up toher, till he was very close. Then she turned, and his arms were abouther, and his heart beating against hers. 

CHAPTER XVII

END AND BEGINNING

In the autumn of this year, Mrs. Lessingham died. Owing to slightailments, she had been advised to order her life more restfully, andwith a view to this she took a house at Richmond, where Mrs. Delph andIrene again came to live with her. Scarcely was the settlementeffected, when grave illness fell upon her, the first she had sufferedsince girlhood. She resented it; her energies put themselves forthdefiantly; two days before her death she had no suspicion of what wascoming. Warned at length, she made her will, angrily declined spiritualcomfort, and with indignation fought her fate to the verge of darkness. 

Cecily and her husband arrived a few hours too late; when the telegramof summons reached them, they were in Denmark. The Spences attended thefuneral. Mallard and Miriam, who were in the north of Scotland--theyhad been married some two months--did not come. By Mrs. Lessingham'swill, the greater part of her possessions fell to Cecily; there was alegacy of money to Irene Delph, and a London hospital for womenreceived a bequest. 

Eleanor wrote to Miriam:

"They went back to Paris yesterday. I had Cecily with me for one wholeday, but of herself she evidently did not wish to speak, and of courseI asked no questions. Both she and her husband looked well, however. Itpleased me very much to hear her talk of you; all her naturaltenderness and gladness came out; impossible to imagine a moreexquisite sincerity of joy. She is a noble and beautiful creature; I dohope that the shadow on her life is passing away, and that we shall seeher become as strong as she is lovable. She said she had written toyou. Your letter at the time of your marriage was a delight to her. 

"It happened that on the day when she was here we had a visitfrom--whom think you? Mr. Bradshaw, accompanied by his daughterCharlotte and her husband. The old gentleman was in London on business, and had met the young people, who were just returning from theirhoneymoon. He is still the picture of health, and his robust, practicaltalk seemed to do us good. How he laughed and shouted over hisreminiscences of Italy! Your marriage had amazed him; when he began tospeak of it, it was in a grave, puzzled way, as if there must besomething in the matter which required its being touched upon withdelicacy. The substitution of baths for a chapel at Bartles obviouslygave him more amusement than he liked to show; he chuckled inwardly, with a sober face. 'What has Mallard got to say to that?' he asked measide. I answered that it met with your husband's entire approval. 'Well, ' he said, 'I feel that I can't keep up with the world; in myday, you didn't begin married life by giving away half your income. Itcaps me, but no doubt it's all right. ' Mrs. Bradshaw by-the-bye, shakesher head whenever you are mentioned. 

"You will like to hear of Mr. And Mrs. Marsh. Charlotte is excessivelyplain, and I am afraid excessively dull, but it is satisfactory to seethat she regards her husband as a superior being, not to be spoken ofsave with bated breath. Mr. Marsh is rather too stout for his years, and I should think very self-indulgent; whenever his wife looks at him, he unconsciously falls into the attitude of one who is accustomed tosnuff incense. He speaks of 'my Bohemian years' with a certain pride, wishing one to understand that he was a wild, reckless youth, and thathis present profound knowledge of the world is the result ofexperiences which do not fall to the lot of common men. With Cecily hewas superbly gracious--talked to her of art in a large, fluent way, thememory of which will supply Edward with mirth for some few weeks. Theodd thing is that his father-in-law seems more than half to believe inhim. "

Time went on. Cecily's letters to her friends in England grew rare. Writing to Eleanor early in the spring, she mentioned that Irene Delph, who had been in Paris since Mrs. Lessingham's death, was giving herlessons in painting, but said she doubted whether this was anythingbetter than a way of killing time. "You know Mr. Seaborne is here?" sheadded. "I have met him two or three times at Madame Courbet's, whom Iwas surprised to find he has known for several years. She translatedhis book on the revolutions of '48 into French. "

Never a word now of Elgar. The Spences noted this cheerlessly, andcould not but remark a bitterness that here and there revealed itselfin her short, dry letters. To Miriam she wrote only in the form ofreplies, rarely even alluding to her own affairs, but always withaffectionate interest in those of her correspondent. 

Another autumn came, and Cecily at length was mute; the most pressingletters obtained no response. Miriam wrote to Reuben, but with the sameresult. This silence was unbroken till winter; then, one morning inNovember, Eleanor received a note from Cecily, asking her to call assoon as she was able at an address in the far west of London--nothingmore than that. 

In the afternoon, Eleanor set out to discover this address. It provedto be a house in a decent suburban road. On asking for Mrs. Elgar, shewas led up to the second floor, and into a rather bare littlesitting-room. Here was Cecily, alone. 

"I knew you would come soon, " she said, looking with an earnest, butnot wholly sad, smile at her visitor. "I had very nearly gone to you, but this was better. You understand why I am here?"

"I am afraid so, after your long silence. "

"Don't let us get into low spirits about it, " said Cecily, smilingagain. "All that is over; I can't make myself miserable any more, andcertainly don't wish any one to be so on my account. Come and sitnearer the fire. What a black, crushing day!"

She looked out at the hopeless sky, and shook her head. 

"You have lodgings here?" asked Eleanor, watching the girl with concern. 

"Irene and her mother live here; they were able to take me in for thepresent. He left me a month ago. This time he wrote and told meplainly--said it was no use, that he wouldn't try to deceive me anylonger. He couldn't live as I wish him to, so he would have done withpretences and leave me free. I waited there in my 'freedom' till theother day; he might have come back, in spite of everything, you know. But at last I wrote to an address he had given me, and told him I wasgoing to London--that I accepted his release, and that henceforth allhis claims upon me must be at end. "

"Is he in Paris?"

"In the south of France, I believe. But that is nothing to me. What Iinherited from my aunt makes me independent; there is no need of anyarrangements about money, fortunately. I dare say he foresaw this whenhe expressed a wish that I should keep this quite apart from our othersources of income, and manage it myself. "

Eleanor felt that the last word was said. There was no distress inCecily's voice or manner, nothing but the simplicity of a cleardecision, which seemed to carry with it hardly a regret. 

"A tragedy can go no further than its fifth act, " Cecily pursued. "Ihave shed all my tears long since, exhausted all my indignation. Youcan't think what an everyday affair it has become with me. I am afraidthat means that I am in a great measure demoralized by theseexperiences. I can only hope that some day I shall recover my finerfeeling. "

"You haven't seen Miriam?"

"No, and I don't know whether I can. There as no need for you to keepsilence about me when you see her; what has happened can't be hidden. Ithought it possible that Reuben might have written and told her. If shecomes here, I shall welcome her, but it is better for me not to seekher first. "

"If he writes to her, " asked Eleanor, with a grave look, "is it likelythat he will try to defend himself?"

"I understand you. You mean, defend himself by throwing blame of onekind or another on me. No, that is impossible. He has no desire to dothat. What makes our relations to each other so hopeless, is that wecan be so coldly just. In me there is no resentment left, and in him nowish to disguise his own conduct. We are simply nothing to each other. I appreciate all the good in him and all the evil; and to him my ownqualities are equally well known. We have reached the point of studyingeach other in a mood of scientific impartiality--surely the mosthorrible thing in man and wife. "

Eleanor had a sense of relief in hearing that last comment. For thetone of the speech put her painfully in mind of that whichcharacterizes certain French novelists all very well in its place, buton Cecily's lips an intolerable discord. It was as though the girl'sspirit had been materialized by Parisian influences; yet the look andwords with which she ended did away with, or at least mitigated, thatfear. 

"He is pursued by a fate, " murmured the listener. 

"Listen to my defence;" said Cecily, after a pause, with moreearnestness. "For I have not been blameless throughout. Before we leftLondon, he charged me with contributing to what had befallen us, and ina measure he was right. He said that I had made no effort to keep himfaithful to me that I had watched the gulf growing between us withindifference, and allowed him to take his own course. A jealous andcomplaining wife, he said, would have behaved more for his good. Hearing this, I recognized its truth. I had held myself too littleresponsible. When our life in Paris began, I resolved that I wouldaccept my duties in another spirit I did all that a wife can do tostrengthen the purer part in him. I interested myself in whatever heundertook; I suggested subjects of study which I thought congenial tohim and studied them together with him, putting aside everything of myown for which he did not care. And for a time I was encouraged byseeming success. He was grateful to me, and I found my one pleasure inthis absolute devotion of myself. I choose my words carefully; you mustnot imagine that there was more in either his feeling or mine than whatI express. But it did not last more than six months. Then he grew tiredof it. I still did my utmost; believe that I did, Mrs. Spence, for itis indeed true. I made every effort in my power to prevent what I knewwas threatening. Until he began to practise deceit, trickery of everykind. What more could I do? If he was determined to deceive me, hewould do so; what was gained by my obliging him to exert more cunning?Then I turned sick at heart, and the end came. "

"But, Cecily, " said Eleanor, "how can the end be yet?"

"You mean that he will once more wish to return. "

"Once more, or twenty times more. "

"I know; but--"

She broke off, and Eleanor did not press her to continue. 

It was not long before the news reached Miriam. In a few days Eleanorpaid one of her accustomed visits to a little house out at Roehampton, externally cold and bare enough in these days of November, but inwardlyrich with whatsoever the heart or brain can desire. Hither came nopayers of formal calls, no leavers of cards, no pests from the humdrumworld to open their mouths and utter foolishness. It was a dwellingsacred to love and art, and none were welcome across its threshold savethose to whom the consecration was of vital significance. To Eleanorthe air seemed purer than that of any other house she entered; tobreathe it made her heart beat more hopefully, gave her a keener relishof life. 

Mallard was absent to-day, held by business in London. The visitor had, for once, no wish to await his return. She sat for an hour by thefireside, and told what she had to tell; then took her leave. 

When the artist entered, Miriam was waiting for him by the light of thefire; blinds shut out the miserable gloaming, but no lamp had yet beenbrought into the room. Mallard came in blowing the fog and rain off hismoustache; he kicked off his boots, kicked on his slippers, and thenbent down over the chair to the face raised in expectancy. 

"A damnable day, Miriam, in the strict and sober sense of the word. "

"Far too sober, " she replied. "Eleanor came through it, however. "

"Wonderful woman! Did she come to see if you bore it with thephilosophy she approves?"

"She had a more serious purpose, I'm sorry to say, Cecily is in London, He has left her--written her a good-bye. "

Mallard leaned upon the mantelpiece, and watched his wife's face, illumined by the firelight. A healthier and more beautiful face than ithad ever been; not quite the second of those two faces that Mallarddrew, but with scarcely a record of the other. They talked in subduedvoices. Miriam repeated all that Eleanor had been able to tell. 

"You must go and see her, of course, " Mallard said. 

"Yes; I will go to-morrow. "

"Shall you ask her to come here?"

"I don't think she will wish to, " answered Miriam. 

"That brother of yours!" he growled. 

"Isn't it too late even to feel angry with him, dear? We know what allthis means. It is absolutely impossible for them to live together, andReuben's behaviour is nothing but an assertion of that. Sooner orlater, it would be just as impossible, even if he preserved thedecencies. "

"Perhaps true; perhaps not. Would it be possible for him to live forlong with _any_ woman?"

Miriam sighed. 

"Well, well; go and talk to the poor girl, and see if you can doanything. I wish she were an artist, of whatever kind; then it wouldn'tmatter much. A woman who sings, or plays, or writes, or paints, canlive a free life. But a woman who is nothing but a woman, what thedeuce is to become of her in this position? What would become of _you_, if I found you in my way, and bade you go about your business?"

"We are not far from the Thames, " she answered, looking at him with thefire-glow in her loving eyes. 

"Oh, you!" he muttered, with show of contempt. "But other women havemore spirit. They get over their foolish love, and then find that lifein earnest is just beginning. "

"I shall never get over it. "

"Pooh!--How long to dinner, Miriam?"

Miriam went to see her sister-in-law, and repeated the visit atintervals during the next few months; but Cecily would not come toRoehampton. Neither would she accept the invitations of the Spences, though Eleanor was with her frequently, and became her nearest friend. She seemed quite content with the society of Irene and Mrs. Delph; herhealth visibly improved, and as spring drew near there was abrightening in her face that told of thoughts in sympathy with thenew-born hope of earth. 

The Mallards were seldom in town. Excepting the house at Chelsea, theirvisits were only to two or three painters, who lived much as Mallardhad done before his marriage. In these studios Miriam at first inspireda little awe; but as her understanding of the art-world increased, sheadapted herself to its habits in so far as she could respect them, andwhere she could not, the restraint of her presence was recognized as aninfluence towards better things. 

At the Spences', one day in April, they met Seaborne. They had heard ofhis being in London again (after a year mostly spent in Paris), but hadnot as yet seen him. He was invited to visit them, and promised to doso before long. A month or more passed, however, and the promiseremained unfulfilled. At Chelsea the same report was made of him; heseemed to be living in seclusion. 

In mid-May, as Miriam was walking by herself at a little distance fromhome, she was overtaken by a man who had followed her over the heath. When the step paused at her side, she turned and saw Reuben. 

"Will you speak to me?" he said. 

"Why not, Reuben?"

She gave him her hand. 

"That is kinder than I hoped to find you. But I see how changed youare. You are so happy that you can afford to be indulgent to a poordevil. "

"Why have you made yourself a poor devil!"

"Why, why, why! Pooh! Why is anything as it is? Why are you what youare, after being what you were?"

It pained her to look at him. At length she discerned unmistakably thefatal stamp of degradation. When he came to her two years ago, his facewas yet unbranded; now the darkening spirit declared itself. Even hisclothing told the same tale, in spite of its being such as he hadalways worn. 

"Where are you living?" she asked. 

"Anywhere; nowhere. I have no home. "

"Why don't you make one for yourself?"

"It's all very well for you to talk like that. Every one doesn't get ahome so easily. --Does old Mallard make you a good husband?"

"Need you ask that?" Miriam returned, averting her eyes, and walkingslowly on. 

"You have to thank me for it, Miriam, in part. "

She looked at him in surprise. 

"It's true. It was I who first led him to think about you, andinterested him in you. We were going from Pompeii to Sorrento--how manyyears ago? thirty, forty?--and I talked about you a great deal. I toldhim that I felt convinced you could be saved, if only some strong manwould take you by the hand. It led him to think about you; I am sure ofit. "

Miriam had no reply to make. They walked on. 

"I didn't come to the house, " he resumed presently, "because I thoughtit possible that the door might be shut in my face. Mallard would havewished to do so. "

"He wouldn't have welcomed you; but you were free to come in if youwished. "

"Have you thought it likely I might come some day?"

"I expected, sooner or later, to hear from you. "

He had a cane, and kept slashing with it at the green growths by hisfeet. When he missed his aim at any particular object, he stopped andstruck again, more fiercely. 

"Does Cecily come to see you?" was his next question, uttered as ifunconcernedly. 

"No. "

"But you know about her? You know where she is?"

"Yes. "

"Tell me what you know, Miriam. How is she living?"

"I had much rather not speak of her. I don't feel that I have any rightto. "

"Why not?" he asked quickly, standing still. "What is there to hide?Why had you rather not speak?"

"For reasons that you understand well enough. What is it to you how shelives?"

He searched her face, like one suspecting a studied ambiguity. Hiseyes, which were a little bloodshot, grew larger and more turbid; arepulsive animalism came out in all his features. 

"Do tell me what you know, Miriam, " he pleaded. "Of course it's nothingto me; I know that. I have no wish to interfere with her; I promise youto do nothing of the kind; I promise solemnly!"

"You promise?" she exclaimed, not harshly, but with stern significance. "How can you use such words? Under what circumstances could I put faithin a promise of yours, Reuben?"

He struck violently at the trunk of a tree, and his cane broke; then heflung it away, still more passionately. 

"You're right enough. What do I care? I lie more often than I tell thetruth. I have a sort of pride in it. If a man is to be a liar, let himbe a thorough one. --Do you know why I smashed the stick? I had adevilish temptation to strike you across the face with it. That wouldhave been nice, wouldn't it?"

"You had better go your own way, Reuben, and let me go mine. "

She drew apart, and not without actual fear of him, so brutal helooked, and so strangely coarse had his utterance become. 

"You needn't be afraid. If I _had_ hit you, I'd have gone away andkilled myself; so perhaps it's a pity I didn't. I felt a savage hatredof you, and just because I wanted you to take my hand and be gentlewith me. I suppose you can't understand that? You haven't gone deepenough into life. "

His voice choked, and Miriam saw tears start from his eyes. 

"I hope I never may, " she answered gently. "Have done with all that, and talk to me like yourself, Reuben. "

"Talk! I've had enough of talking. I want to rest somewhere, and bequiet. "

"Then come home with me. "

"Dare you take me?"

"There's no question of daring. Come with me, if you wish to. "

They walked to the house almost in silence. It was noon; Mallard wasbusy in his studio. Having spoken a word with him, Miriam rejoined herbrother in the sitting-room. He had thrown himself on a couch, andthere he lay without speaking until luncheon-time, when Mallard'sentrance aroused him. The artist could not be cordial, but he exerciseda decent hospitality. 

In the afternoon, brother and sister again sat for a long time withoutconversing. When Reuben began to speak, it was in a voice softened bythe influences of the last few hours. 

"Miriam, there's one thing you will tell me; you won't refuse to. Isshe still living alone?"

"Yes. "

"Then there is still hope for me. I must go back to her, Miriam. No--listen to me! That is my one and only hope. If I lose that, I loseeverything. Down and down, lower and lower into bestial life--that's myfate, unless she saves me from it. Won't you help me? Go and speak toher for me, dear sister, you can't refuse me that. Tell her howhelpless I am, and implore her to save me, only out of pity. I don'tcare how mean it makes me in your eyes or hers; I have no self-respectleft, nor courage--nothing but a desire to go back to her and ask herto forgive me. "

Miriam could scarcely speak for shame and distress. 

"It is impossible, Reuben. Be man enough to face what you have broughton yourself. Have you no understanding left? With her, there is no hopefor you. She and you are no mates; you can only wreck each other'slives. Surely, surely you know this by now! She could only confirm yourruin, strive with you as she might; you would fall again into hatefulfalsity. Forget her, begin a life without thought of her, and you maystill save yourself--yourself; no one else can save you. Begin thestruggle alone, manlike. You have no choice but to do so. "

"I tell you I can't live without her. Where is she? I will go myself--"

"You will never know from me. What right have you to ask her to sinkwith you? That's what it means. There are people who think that awife's obligation has no bounds, that she _must_ sink, if her husbandchoose to demand it. Let those believe it who will. What motive shouldrender such a sacrifice possible to her? You know she cannot love you. Pity? How can she pity you in such a sense as to degrade herself foryour sake? Neither you nor she nor I hold the creed that justifies suchmartyrdom. Am _I_ to teach you such things? Shame! Have the courage ofyour convictions. You have released her, and you must be content toleave her free. The desire to fetter her again is ignoble, dastardly!"

He would neither be shamed nor convinced. With desperate beseechings, with every argument of passion, no matter how it debased him, he strovefrantically to subdue her to his purpose. But Miriam was immovable. Atlength she could not even urge him with reasonings; his prostratefrenzy revolted her, and she drew away in repugnance. Reuben'ssupplication turned on the instant into brutal rage. 

"Curse your obstinacy!" he shouted, in a voice that had strained itselfto hoarseness. 

The door opened, and Mallard, who had come to see whether Elgar wasstill here, heard his exclamation. 

"Out of the house!" he commanded sternly. "March! And never let me seeyou here again. "

Reuben rushed past him, and the house-door closed violently. 

Then Miriam's overstrung nerves gave way, and for the first timeMallard saw her shed tears. She described to him the scene that hadpassed. 

"What ought I to do? She must be warned. It is horrible to think thathe may find her, and persuade her. "

They agreed that she should go to Cecily early next morning. In themeantime she wrote to Eleanor. 

But the morning brought a letter from Reuben, of a tenor which seemedto make it needless to mention this incident to Cecily. 

"I had not long left you, " he wrote, "when I recovered my reason, andrecognized your wisdom in opposing me. For a week I have been drinkingmyself into a brutal oblivion--or trying to do so; I came to you in anerveless and half imbecile state. You were hard with me, but it wasjust what I needed. You have made me understand--for to-day, at allevents--the completeness of my damnation. Thank you for dischargingthat sisterly office. I observe, by-the-bye, that Mallard's influenceis strengthening your character. Formerly you were often rigorous, butit was spasmodic. You can now persevere in pitilessness, an essentialin one who would support what we call justice. Don't think I am writingironically. Whenever I am free from passion, as now--and that is seldomenough--I can see myself precisely as you and all those on your side ofthe gulf see me. The finer qualities I once had survive in my memory, bat I know it is hopeless to try and recover them. I find itinteresting to write a book about it, but it would be of the kind thatstudy the processes of my degradation. I should like to write a bookabout it, but it would be of the kind that no one would publish. 

"I hope I may never by chance see Cecily; I have a horrible convictionthat I should kill her. Why shouldn't I tell you all the truth? Myfeeling towards her is a strange and vile compound of passions, but Ibelieve that hatred predominates. If she were so unfortunate as to comeagain into my power, I should make it my one object to crush her to myown level; and in the end I should kill her. Perhaps that is thedestined close of our drama. Even to you, as I confessed, I feltmurderous impulses. I haven't yet been quite successful in analyzingthis state of mind. The vulgar would say that, having chosen thedevil's part, I am receiving share of the devil's spirit. But to give athing a bad name doesn't help one to understand it. 

"Don't let this terrify you. I am going away again, to be out of reachof temptation. I know, I know with certainty, that the end in some formor other draws near. I have thought so much of Fate, that I seem tohave got an unusual perception of its course, as it affects me. Keepthis letter as a piece of curious human experience. It may be the lastyou receive from me. "

Something less than a month after this, Edward Spence, examining hiscorrespondence at the breakfast-table, found a French newspaper, addressed to him in a hand he recognized. 

"This is from Seaborne, " he said to Eleanor, as he stripped off thewrapper. 

He discovered a marked paragraph. It reported a tragic occurrence in astreet near the Luxembourg. The husband of an actress at one of theminor theatres in Paris had encountered his wife's lover, and shot himdead. The victim was "un jeune Anglais, nomme Elgare. "

The sender of this newspaper had also written; his letter containedfuller details. He had seen the corpse, and identified it. Could he doanything? Or would some friend of Mrs. Elgar come over?

Eleanor carried the intelligence first of all to Roehampton. In herconsultation with the Mallards, it was decided that she, rather thanMiriam, should visit Cecily. She left them with this purpose. 

It was possible that Cecily had already heard. On arriving at thehouse, Eleanor was at once admitted, and went up to the sitting-room onthe second floor; she entered with a tremulous anxiety, and the firstglance told her that her news had not been anticipated. Cecily wasseated with several books open before her; the smile of friendlywelcome slowly lighting her grave countenance, showed that her minddetached itself with difficulty from an absorbing subject. 

"Welcome always, " she said, "and most so when least expected. "

The room was less bare than when she first occupied it. Pictures andbooks were numerous; the sunlight fell upon an open piano; an easel, onwhich was a charcoal drawing from a cast, stood in the middle of thefloor. But the plain furniture remained, and no mere luxuries had beenintroduced. It was a work-room, not a boudoir. 

"You are still content in your hermitage?" said Eleanor, seatingherself and controlling her voice to its wonted tone. 

"More and more. I have been reading since six o'clock this morning, andnever felt so quiet in mind. "

Her utterance proved it; she spoke in a low, sweet voice, its musiconce more untroubled. But in looking at Eleanor, she became aware ofveiled trouble on her countenance. 

"Have you come only to see me? Or is there something--?"

Eleanor broke the news to her. And as she spoke, the beautiful facelost its calm of contemplation, grew pain-shadowed, stricken with pangsof sorrow. Cecily turned away and wept--wept for the past, which inthese moments had lived again and again perished. 

It seemed to Spence that his wife mourned unreasonably. A week or morehad passed, and yet he chanced to find her with tears in her eyes. 

"I have still so much of the old Eve in me, " replied Eleanor. "I amheavy-hearted, not for him, but for Cecily's dead love. We all have asecret desire to believe love imperishable. "

"An amiable sentiment; but it is better to accept the truth. "

"True only in some cases. "

"In many, " said Spence, with a smile. "First love is fool's paradise. But console yourself out of Boccaccio. 'Bocca baciata non perdeventura; anzi rinnuova, come fa la luna. '"

THE END