The Emancipated

way among vehicles of every possible and impossible description; where cocchieri crack their whips and belabour their hapless cattle, and yell their "Ah-h-h! Ah-h-h!"-where teams of horse, ox, and as

blic staircase and climb through the dusk, with all possible attention to where you set your foot, past the unmelodious beggars, to the Ponte di Chiaia, bridge which spans the roadway and looks down upon its crowd and clamour as into a profound valley; thence proceed uphill on the lava paving, between fruit-shops and sausage-shops and wine-shops, always in an atmosphere of fried oil and roasted chestnuts and baked pine-cones; and presently turn left into a still narrower street, with

. On each story are two tenements, the doors facing each other. In 1878, one of the apartments at the very top-an ascent equal to that of a moderate mountain-was in the possession of a certain Signor

town of Sowerby Bridge, in Yorkshire. This finished, he threw open the big windows, stepped out on to the balcony, and drank deep draughts of air from the sea. In the street below was passing a flock of she-goats, all ready to be milked, each with a bell tinkling about her neck. The goat-herd kept summoning his customers with a long musical whistle. Mallard leaned over and watched the clean-fleeced, slender, graceful animals with a smile of pleasure. Then he amused himself with something that was going on in the house opposite. A woman came out on to a balcony high up, bent over it, and called, "Annina! Annina!" until the

and was ready to set out, when some one knocked. He

peii," said Elg

he 'Sole'? I shall be ther

everal days, so we s

resently parted with renewed assura

y at a stall that glowed and was fragrant with piles of fruit. Heedless of the carriage-drivers who shouted at him and even dogged him along street after street, he sauntered in the broad sunshine, plucking his grapes and relishing them. Coming out by the sea-shore, he stood for a while to watch the fishermen dragging in their nets-picturesque fellows with swarthy

y that a movement of his limbs might accompany his busy thoughts, he went along by the seashore, and so at length, still long before midday, had come to Pozzuoli. A sharp conflict with the swarm of guides who beset the entrance to the town, and again he escaped into quietness, wandered among narrow streets, between blue, red, and yellow houses, stopping at times to look at some sunny upper window hung about with

t clear to a succession of rhetorical boatmen that he was not to be tempted on to the sea, he could sit as idly and as long as he liked, looking across the sapphire bay and watching the bright sails glide hither and thither With the help of sunlight and

aces that looked upon him. They were those of his mother and sisters, thought of whom carried him to the northern island, now grim, cold, and sunless beneath its lowering sky. These relatives st

in use by his employers, and derived benefit from it. He was a man of habitual gravity, occasionally severe in the rule of his household, very seldom unbending to mirth. Though not particularly robust, he employed his leisure in long walks about the moors, walks sometimes prolonged till after midnight, sometimes begun long before dawn. His acquaintances called him unsociable, and doubt less he was so in the sense that he could not find at Sowerby Bridge any one for whose socie

to become a designer of patterns. The result was something more than his father had expected, for Mr. Doran, who had his abode at Sowerby Bridge, quickly di

res by unknown men who had a future-at the sale of his collection three Robert Cheeles got into the hands of dealers, all of them now the boasted possessions of great galleries; a passionate lover of music-he had been known to make the journey to Paris merely to hear Diodati sing; finally, in common rumour a profligate whom no pruden

ng, they became intimates, and Mr. Mallard had at length some one with whom he found pleasure in conversing. He did not long enjoy

him. Mrs. Mallard was given to understand that no expenses were involved save those of the lad's support in Manchester, where Banks lived, and Mallard himself did not till long after know that his friend had paid the artist a fee out of his own pocket. Two things did Mallard learn from Doran himself which were to have a marked influence on his life-a belief that only in landscape can a painter of our time hope to do really great work, and a limitless contempt of the Royal Academy. In Manche

over Europe; he lived with Bohemian society in every capital; he kept adding to his collection of pictures (stored in a house at Woolwich, which he freely lent as an abode to a succession of ill-to-do artists); and finally he was struck with paralysis whilst conducting to their home the widow and child of a young painte

s to appoint a residence for Cecily, if for any reason she could not remain with Mrs. Elgar. This occasion soon presented itself, and Cecily passed into the care of Doran's sister, Mrs. Lessingham, who was just entered upon a happy widowhood. Mallard, most unexpectedly left sole trustee, had no choice but to assent to this arrangement; the only other home possible for the girl was with Miriam at Redbeck House, but Mr. Baske did not look with favour on that proposal. Hitherto, Mr. Trench, the elder trustee, who lived in Manchester, had alone been in personal relations with Mrs. Elgar and little Cecily; even now Mallard did not make the personal acquaintance of Mrs. Elgar (otherwise he would doubtless have met Miriam), but saw Mrs. Lessingham in London, and for the first time met Cecily when she came to the south in her aunt's care. He knew what an extreme change would be made in the manner of the girl's education, and it caused him some mental trouble; but it was clear that Cecily might benefit greatly in health by travel, and, as for the

th which of them he was the more closely linked. What but mere accident put him in contact with the world which was Cecily's? Through her aunt she had aristocratic relatives; her wealth made her a natural member of what is called society; her beauty and her brilliancy marked her to be one of society's orn

in the ears in trying to represent to himself how Cecily would

ears ago, its scene in London, should have reminded him that he could stand a desperate wrench when convinced that his life's purpose depended upon it. Here were three years of trusteeship before him-he could not, or would not, count on her marrying before she came of age. Her letters would s

the thought of something more than friendship had been suffered to take hold upon his imagination, it held with terrible grip, burning, torturing. He had come simply to meet Cecily; there was the long and short of it. It was

aintance with her had been unbroken from the time when she was in his mother's care to now. Irritation immediately scattered the thoughts Mallard had been ranging; he could barely make a show of amicable behaviour; a cold fear began to creep about his heart. The next morning he woke to a new phase of his conflict, the end further off than ever. Unable to command thought and feeling, he preserved at least the control of his action, and could persevere in the resolve not to see

finished and he had begun to stretch his limbs, wearied by remaining in

It only needed this to complete our enjoyme

more sober pace. Mallard rose with his grim smile, and of course forgot that it is customary to doff one

at lunch, we were speculating on such a chanc

ve had my

boat over to Bale. Sup

id Cecily, her face radiant. "He can

t was selected and a bargain struck, the original demand made by the artless sailors being of course five times as much as was ever p

singham?" Mallard

way from India-a military gentleman, and a more military lady, and a most military son,

such a light must have altered her behaviour immediately. Altered in what way? That he in vain tried to imagine; his knowledge of her did not go far enough. But he could not be wrong in attributing unconsciousness to her. Moreover, with the inconsistency of a man in his plight, he r

rry not to see you occa

rning his head, he felt sure that Mrs. Baske had been observant of h

orrow morning," he said, "jus

?" asked Cecily, with in

for a moment also. Can you tell me

two and three, if y

in her eyes were fixed on him, and again they fell with som

w he felt his interest reviving. Surely she was as remote from him as a woman well could be, yet his attitude towards her had no character of intolerance; he half wished that he could form a closer acquaintance with her. At present, the thought of calm conversation with such a woman made a soothing contrast to the riot excited in him by Cecily.

age; she had, he believed, no intimate friend; at all events, she had none who also knew him. Girls, to be sure, had their own way of talking over delicate points, just as married wo

ation; she had a lucid brain; of late she had mingled and conversed with a variety of men and women, most of them anything but crassly conventional. It was this very aspect of her training that had caused him so much doubt. And he knew by this time what his doubt principally meant; in a measure, it came of native conscientiousness, of prejudice which testif

at her face effulgent with the joy of life. She who could not speak without the note of emotion, who so often gave way to lyrical outbursts of delight, who was so w

reflective mind, was that any reason why she should probe subtly the natural appearance of her friend, and attribute to him that which he gave no sign of harbouring? Why must she be mysteriously conscious of his inner being, rather than take him ingenuously for what he seemed? She had instruction and wit, but she was only a girl; her experience was as good as nil. Mallard repeated that to himself as he looked at Mrs. Bask

her pleasure. Her face proved that at all events the physical influences of this day in the open air were beneficial. The soft breeze had brought a touch of health to her cheek, and languid inat

seemed to him that he had himself been well contented; it dwelt in his memory with a sunny glow. He saw Cecily's unsurpassable grace as she walked beside him, and her look of winning candour turned to him so often, and he fancied that it had given him pleasure to be with her. And pleasure there

shall talk of Baiae in L

ope

ll events, when some one happens to speak to me of Mr. Mallard's pictures, I shall win c

en I have pai

no pleasure to me to

in talking w

contained almost a hint of his hidden self, and he had not yet allowe

no sign of turning grey," repli

ould hold four persons; the ordinary public carriages have convenient room for two only, and a separation was necessary. Mallard succeeded in catching Spence's eye, and made him understand with a savage look that he was to take Cecily with him. This ar

ionship; she looked curiously both at Cecily and at Mallard whilst it was going on. The first remark which the artist ad

ther again at Pompeii

e!" Miriam asked constrainedly. She had

e dined togethe

naturally slow at first, but they had a long drive b

his plans-of what he is going to

s only. He has l

y faith in the

spoke, Miriam looked at him in a way that he fel

worth doing. Whether his perseverance will

to put a value on your friendship, and I think you may s

another, Mrs. Baske. For ill-yes, that is often seen; but

id you ar

her. Mallard felt something like compassion; yet not ordinary compassion either, for at the same time he had a desire to break down this reserve, and see still more of what she felt. Curious; that ev

in his own strength. One can be encouraged in eff

ence. He put a

encouraged him to

ot discou

ent would probably be the result if

hecked the growth of friendliness between them in its very beginning. He remained mute for a long time, until th

the San Carlo d

o?" she asked

ope

t Mrs. Baske's proximity was an aid, but that it would be still more so if he could move her to any unusual self-revelation. He had impulses to offend her, to irritate h

eatres," Miriam r

osing much

very differe

action the scorn implied in this rejoinder. He noted th

of an artist must seem to you frivolous, if not someth

kind of life," Miriam replied

happening to catch Cecily's face as it looked

bjects on which Miss D

flagrant absurdity was too great. The subject attracted him like an evil tempt

which a particular man is capable. For in

ultimately she spoke. The voice suggested that

unds do you

im painfully literal. Irony meant intellect; mere scorn or pride might signify anything but that. And he was hoping to find reserves of po

the ground of re

ut looking at him, she said, in a voice which seemed rather to

ard, that I meant n

s your belief that it can have only one meaning, the same for all, involving certain duties of which there can be no question, and admitting certain rela

ose that I take upon

sult of your mental habits that y

hrough Pozzuoli, and she appeared to forget the discussion in looking ab

still regard me as doubtfully employed. Art does not seem to you an end of sufficien

sponsibility on any one who

and just when he had an

believe it employs all my best natural powers as no other would. As for highest in the absolute sense, that is a differe

same kind of doubt about his meanin

peak contemptuous

here pain is the most obvious fact, the task of

sed to hear

st characteristic of her, th

Mrs. B

a little, bu

eeling, but your interests seem to

ru

i; it approached the sea-shore, where the gentle breakers were beginnin

" Miriam resumed abruptly, "you claim, I su

knew that the words "serving mankind" were a contemptuous use of a phrase

g. "Art may, or may not, serve such a purpose; but be assu

aim, then, even

e imagine how distasteful the wo

you are employing your

ughed, partly at the simplicity of the question, partly be

nother thing. I have heard men speak of my kind of art as 'the noble pursuit of Truth,' and so on. I don't care for such phrases; they may mean something, but as a rule come of the very spirit so opposed to my own-that which feels it

tened in a

is fortunate that you happen to fi

events, do pe

d upon hi

in believing that his duty

y effort," he

d you," Miriam sai

really pleased with the kind of life he has too long been leadin

words, and on a subj

n be made a man of steady purpose by considerations that h

de no

any a man whom you would esteem. I am sorry that I have lost your confidence, but that is b

ered, then

hts, Mr. Mallard, and sp

f each other than we did. Fo

nged were mere remarks upon the scenery. Both carriages drew up at the gate of t

ny Miss Doran the

tain

rriage; and, as it drove off, he look

onverse. Her companion being still less so, they reac

gettable day," Cecily