It was not an artistic impulse only that had brought Mallard to Italy, after three years of work under northern skies.  He wished to convince himself that his freedom was proof against memories revived on the very ground where he had suffered so intensely.  He had put aside repeated invitations from the Spences, because of the doubt whether he could trust himself within sight of the Mediterranean.  Liberty from oppressive thought he had long recovered; the old zeal for labour was so strong in him that he found it difficult to imagine the mood in which he had bidden good-bye to his life’s purposes.  But there was always the danger lest that witch of the south should again overcome his will and lull him into impotence of vain regret.  For such a long time he had believed that Italy was for ever closed against him, that the old delights were henceforth converted into a pain which memory must avoid.  At length he resolved to answer his friends’ summons, and meet them on their return from Sicily.  They had wished to have him with them in Greece, but always his departure was postponed; habits of solitude and characteristic diffidence kept him aloof as long as possible.

Evidently, his health was sound enough.  He had loitered about the familiar places in Naples; he took the road by Pompeii to Sorrento, and over the hills to Amalfi; and at each step he could smile with contemptuous pity for the self which he had outlived.  More than that.  When he came hither three years ago, it was with the intention of doing certain definite work; this purpose he now at last fulfilled, thus completing his revenge upon the by-gone obstacles, and reinstating himself in his own good opinion, as a man who did that which he set himself to do.  At Amalfi he had made a number of studies which would be useful; at Paestum he had worked towards a picture, such a one as had from the first been in his mind.  Yes, he was a sound man once more.

Tempestuous love is for boys, who have still to know themselves, and for poets, who can turn their suffering into song.  But to him it meant only hindrance.  Because he had been a prey to frantic desires, did he look upon earth’s beauty with a clearer eye, or was his hand endowed with subtler craft?  He saw no reason to suppose it.  The misery of those first months of northern exile—­his battling with fierce winds on sea and moorland and mountain, his grim vigils under stormy stars—­had it given him new strength?  Of body perhaps; otherwise, he might have spent the time with decidedly more of satisfaction and profit.

Let it be accepted as one of the unavoidable ills of humanity—­ something that has to be gone through, like measles.  But it had come disagreeably late.  No doubt he had to thank the monastic habits of his life that it assailed him with such violence.  That he had endured it, therein lay the happy assurance that it would not again trouble him.