THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY

“Hic intus homo verus certus optumus recumbo, Publius Octavius Rufus, decuno.”

Mallard stood reading this inscription, graven on an ancient sarcophagus preserved in the cathedral of Amalfi.  A fool, probably, that excellent Rufus—­he said to himself,—­but what a happy fool!  Unborn as yet, or to him unknown, the faith that would have bidden him write himself a miserable sinner; what he deemed himself in life, what perchance his friends and neighbours deemed him, why not declare it upon the marble when be rested from all his virtues?

“Here lie I, Ross Mallard; who can say no good of myself, yet have as little right to say ill; who had no faith whereby to direct my steps, yet often felt that some such was needful; who spent all my strength on a task which I knew to be vain; who suffered much and joyed rarely; whose happiest day was his last.”

Somehow like that would it run, if he were to write his own epitaph at present.

The quiet of the dim sanctuary was helpful to such self-communing.  He relished being alone again, and after an hour’s brooding had recovered at all events a decent balance of thought, a respite from madness in melancholy.

But he could not employ himself, could not even seek the relief of bodily exertion; his mind grew sluggish, and threw a lassitude upon his limbs.  The greater part of the day he spent in his room at the hotel, merely idle.  This time he had no energy to attack himself with adjurations and sarcasms; body and soul were oppressed with uttermost fatigue, and for a time must lie torpid.  Fortunately he was sure of sleep to-night; the bell of the cathedral might clang its worst, and still not rob him of the just oblivion.

The next day he strayed into the hills, and there in solitude faced the enemy in his heart, bidding misery do its worst.  In imagination he followed Reuben Elgar to Naples, saw him speed to Villa Sannazaro, where as likely as not he would meet Cecily.  Mallard had no tangible evidence of its being Reuben’s desire to see Cecily, but he was none the less convinced that for no other reason had his companion set forth.  And jealousy tormented him sorely.  It was his first experience of this cruellest passion:  what hitherto had been only a name to him, and of ignoble sound, became a disease clutching at his vitals.  It taught him fierceness, injustice, base suspicion, brutal conjecture; it taught him that of which all these are constituents—­hatred.

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

Ah, bright, gentle, sweet-faced Cecily!  Inconceivable to her this suffering that lay upon her friend.  How it would pain her if she knew of it!  With what sad, wondering tenderness her eyes would regard him!  How kindly would she lay her soft hand in his, and entreat him to be comforted!