CHAPTER LVI_Sandra Belloni — Volume 7

On a wild April morning, Emilia rose from her bed and called to mind a

day of the last year's Spring when she had watched the cloud streaming

up, and felt that it was the curtain of an unknown glory. But now it

wore the aspect of her life itself, with nothing hidden behind those

stormy folds, save peace. South-westward she gazed, eyeing eagerly the

struggle of twisting vapour; long flying edges of silver went by, and

mounds of faint crimson, and here and there a closing space of blue,

swift as a thought of home to a soldier in action. The heavens were like

a battle-field. Emilia shut her lips hard, to check an impulse of prayer

for Merthyr fighting in Italy: for he was in Italy, and she once more

among the Monmouth hills: he was in Italy fighting, and she chained here

to her miserable promise! Three days after she had given the promise to

Wilfrid, Merthyr left, shaking her hand like any common friend.

Georgiana remained, by his desire, to protect her. Emilia had written to

Wilfrid for release, but being no apt letter-writer, and hating the task,

she was soon involved by him in a complication of bewildering sentiments,

some of which she supposed she was bound to feel, while perhaps one or

two she did feel, at the summons. The effect was that she lost the true

wording of her blunt petition for release: she could no longer put it

bluntly. But her heart revolted the more, and gave her sharp eyes to see

into his selfishness. The purgatory of her days with Georgiana, when the

latter was kept back from her brother in his peril, spurred Emilia to

renew her appeal; but she found that all she said drew her into

unexpected traps and pitfalls. There was only one thing she could say

plainly: "I want to go." If she repeated this, Wilfrid was ready with

citations from her letters, wherein she had said 'this,' and 'that,' and

many other phrases. His epistolary power and skill in arguing his own

case were creditable to him. Affected as Emilia was by other sensations,

she could not combat the idea strenuously suggested by him, that he had

reason to complain of her behaviour. He admitted his special faults,

but, by distinctly tracing them to their origin, he complacently hinted

the excuse for them. Moreover, and with artistic ability, he painted

such a sentimental halo round the 'sacredness of her pledged word,' that

Emilia could not resist a superstitious notion about it, and about what

the breaking of it would imply. Georgiana had removed her down to

Monmouth to be out of his way. A constant flight of letters pursued them

both, for Wilfrid was far too clever to allow letters in his hand-writing

to come for one alone of two women shut up in a country-house together.

He saw how the letterless one would sit speculating shrewdly and

spitefully; so he was careful to amuse his mystified Dragon, while he

drew nearer and nearer to his gold apple. Another object was, that by

getting Georgiana to consent to become in part his confidante, he made it

almost a point of honour for her to be secret with Lady Charlotte.

At last a morning came with no Brookfield letter for either of them. The

letters stopped from that time. It was almost as if a great buzzing had

ceased in Emilia's ears, and she now heard her own sensations clearly.

To Georgiana's surprise, she manifested no apprehension or regret. "Or

else," the lady thought, "she wears a mask to me;" and certainly it was a

pale face that Emilia was beginning to wear. At last came April and its

wild morning. No little female hypocrisies passed between them when they

met; they shook hands at arm's length by the breakfast-table. Then

Emilia said: "I am ready to go to Italy: I will go at once."

Georgiana looked straight at her, thinking: "This is a fit of indignation

with Wilfrid." She answered: "Italy! I fancied you had forgotten there

was such a country."

"I don't forget my country and my friends," said Emilia,

"At least, I must ask the ground of so unexpected a resolution," was

rejoined.

"Do you remember what Merthyr wrote in his letter from Arona? How long

it takes to understand the meaning of some, words! He says that I should

not follow an impulse that is not the impulse of all my nature--myself

altogether. Yes! I know what that means now. And he tells me that my

life is worth more than to be bound to the pledge of a silly moment. It

is! He, Georgey, unkind that you are!--he does not distrust me; but

always advises and helps me: Merthyr waits for me. I cannot be instantly

ready for every meaning in the world. What I want to do, is to see

Wilfrid: if not, I will write to him. I will tell him that I intend to

break my promise."

A light of unaffected pride shone from the girl's face, as she threw down

this gauntlet to sentimentalism.

"And if he objects?" said Georgiana.

"If he objects, what can happen? If he objects by letter, I am gone. I

shall not write for permission. I shall write what my will is. If I see

him, and he objects, I can look into his eyes and say what I think right.

Why, I have lived like a frozen thing ever since I gave him my word. I

have felt at times like a snake hissing at my folly. I think I have felt

something like men when they swear."

Georgiana's features expressed a slight but perceptible disgust. Emilia

continued humbly: "Forgive me. I wish you to know how I hate the word I

gave that separates me from Merthyr in my Italy, and makes you dislike

your poor Emilia. You do. I have pardoned it, though it was twenty

stabs a day."

"But, why, if this promise was so hateful to you, did you not break it

before?" asked Georgiana.

"I had not the courage," Emilia stooped her head to confess; "and

besides," she added, curiously half-closing her eyelids, as one does to

look on a minute object, "I could not see through it before."

"If," suggested Georgiana, "you break your word, you release him from

his."

"No! if he cannot see the difference," cried Emilia, wildly, "then let

him keep away from me for ever, and he shall not have the name of friend!

Is there no difference--I wish you would let me cry out as they do in

Shakespeare, Georgey!" Emilia laughed to cover her vehemence. "I want

something more than our way of talking, to witness that there is such a

difference between us. Am I to live here till all my feelings are burnt

out, and my very soul is only a spark in a log of old wood? and to keep

him from murdering my countrymen, or flogging the women of Italy! God

knows what those Austrians would make him do. He changes. He would

easily become an Austrian. I have heard him once or twice, and if I had

shut my eyes, I might have declared an Austrian spoke. I wanted to keep

him here, but it is not right that I--I should be caged till I scarcely

feel my finger-ends, or know that I breathe sensibly as you and others

do. I am with Merthyr. That is what I intend to tell him."

She smiled softly up to Georgiana's cold eyes, to get a look of

forgiveness for her fiery speaking.

"So, then, you love my brother?" said Georgiana.

Emilia could have retorted, "Cruel that you are!" The pain of having an

unripe feeling plucked at without warning, was bitter; but she repressed

any exclamation, in her desire to maintain simple and unsensational

relations always with those surrounding her.

"He is my friend," she said. "I think of something better than that

other word. Oh, that I were a man, to call him my brother-in-arms!

What's a girl's love in return for his giving his money, his heart, and

offering his life every day for Italy?"

As soon as Georgiana could put faith in her intention to depart, she gave

her a friendly hand and embrace.

Two days later they were at Richford, with Lady Gosstre. The journals

were full of the Italian uprising. There had been a collision between

the Imperial and patriotic forces, near Brescia, from which the former

had retired in some confusion. Great things were expected of Piedmont,

though many, who had reason to know him, distrusted her king. All

Lombardy awaited the signal from Piedmont. Meanwhile blood was flowing.

In the excitement of her sudden rush from dead monotony to active life,

Emilia let some time pass before she wrote to Wilfrid. Her letter was in

her hand, when one was brought in to her from him. It ran thus:--

"I have just returned home, and what is this I hear? Are you utterly

faithless? Can I not rely on you to keep the word you have solemnly

pledged! Meet me at once. Name a place. I am surrounded by misery and

distraction. I will tell you all when we meet. I have trusted that you

were firm. Write instantly. I cannot ask you to come here. The house

is broken up. There is no putting to paper what has happened. My father

lies helpless. Everything rests on me. I thought that I could rely on

you."

Emilia tore up her first letter, and replied:--

"Come here at once. Or, if you would wish to meet me elsewhere, it shall

be where you please: but immediately. If you have heard that I am going

to Italy, it is true. I break my promise. I shall hope to have your

forgiveness. My heart bleeds for my dear Cornelia, and I am eager to see

my sisters, and embrace them, and share their sorrow. If I must not

come, tell them I kiss them. Adieu!"

Wilfrid replied:--

"I will be by Richford Park gates to-morrow at a quarter to nine. You

speak of your heart. I suppose it is a habit. Be careful to put on a

cloak or thick shawl; we have touches of frost. If I cannot amuse you,

perhaps the nightingales will. Do you remember those of last year? I

wonder whether we shall hear the same?--we shall never hear the same."

This iteration, whether cunningly devised or not, had a charm for

Emilia's ear. She thought: "I had forgotten all about them." When she

was in her bedroom at night, she threw up her window. April was leaning

close upon May, and she had not to wait long before a dusky flutter of

low notes, appearing to issue from the great rhododendron bank across the

lawn, surprised her. She listened, and another little beginning was

heard, timorous, shy, and full of mystery for her. The moon hung over

branches, some that showed young buds, some still bare. Presently the

long, rich, single notes cut the air, and melted to their glad delicious

chuckle. The singer was answered from a farther bough, and again from

one. It grew to be a circle of melody round Emilia at the open window.

Was it the same as last year's? The last year's lay in her memory faint

and well-nigh unawakened. There was likewise a momentary sense of

unreality in this still piping peacefulness, while Merthyr stood in a

bloody-streaked field, fronting death. And yet the song was sweet.

Emilia clasped her arms, shut her eyes, and drank it in. Not to think at

all, or even to brood on her sensations, but to rest half animate and let

those divine sounds find a way through her blood, was medicine to her.

Next day there were numerous visits to the house. Emilia was reserved,

and might have been thought sad, but she welcomed Tracy Runningbrook

gladly, with "Oh! my old friend!" and a tender squeeze of his hand.

"True, if you like; hot, if you like; but I old?" cried Tracy.

"Yes, because I seem to have got to the other side of you; I mean, I know

you, and am always sure of you," said Emilia. "You don't care for music;

I don't care for poetry, but we're friends, and I am quite certain of

you, and think you 'old friend' always."

"And I," said Tracy, better up to the mark by this time, "I think of you,

you dear little woman, that I ought to be grateful to you, for, by

heaven! you give me, every time I see you, the greatest temptation to be

a fool and let me prove that I'm not. Altro! altro!"

"A fool!" said Emilia caressingly; showing that his smart insinuation had

slipped by her.

The tale of Brookfield was told over again by Tracy, and Emilia

shuddered, though Merthyr and her country held her heart and imagination

active and in suspense, from moment to moment. It helped mainly to

discolour the young world to her eyes. She was under the spell of an

excitement too keen and quick to be subdued, by the sombre terrors of a

tragedy enacted in a house that she had known. Brookfield was in the

talk of all who came to Richford. Emilia got the vision of the wretched

family seated in the library as usual, when upon midnight they were about

to part, and a knock came at the outer door, and two men entered the

hall, bearing a lifeless body with a red spot above the heart. She saw

Cornelia fall to it. She saw the pale-faced family that had given her

shelter, and moaned for lack of a way of helping them and comforting

them. She reproached herself for feeling her own full physical life so

warmly, while others whom she had loved were weeping. It was useless to

resist the tide of fresh vitality in her veins, and when her thoughts

turned to their main attraction, she was rejoicing at the great strength

she felt coming to her gradually. Her face was smooth and impassive:

this new joy of strength came on her like the flowing of a sea to a,

land-locked water. "Poor souls!" she sighed for her friends, while

irrepressible exultation filled her spirit.

That afternoon, in the midst of packing and preparations for the journey,

at all of which Lady Gosstre smiled with a complacent bewilderment, a

card, bearing the name of Miss Laura Tinley, was sent up to Emilia. She

had forgotten this person, and asked Lady Gosstre who it was. Arabella's

rival presented herself most winningly. For some time, Emilia listened

to her, with wonder that a tongue should be so glib on matters of no

earthly interest. At last, Laura said in an undertone: "I am the bearer

of a message from Mr. Pericles; do you walk at all in the garden?"

Emilia read her look, and rose. Her thoughts struck back on the creature

that she was when she had last seen Mr. Pericles, and again, by contrast,

on what she was now. Eager to hear of him, or rather to divine the

mystery in her bosom aroused by the unexpected mention of his name, she

was soon alone with Laura in the garden.

"Oh, those poor Poles!" Laura began.

"You were going to say something of Mr. Pericles," said Emilia.

"Yes, indeed, my dear; but, of course, you have heard all the details of

that dreadful night? It cannot be called a comfort to us that it enables

my brother Albert to come forward in the most disinterested--I might

venture to say, generous--manner, and prove the chivalry of his soul;

still, as things are, we are glad, after such misunderstandings, to prove

to that sorely-tried family who are their friends. I--you would little

think so from their treatment of me--I was at school with them. I knew

them before they became unintelligible, though they always had a turn for

it. To dress well, to be refined, to marry well--I understand all that

perfectly; but who could understand them? Not they themselves, I am

certain! And now penniless! and not only that, but lawyers! You know

that Mrs. Chump has commenced an action?--no? Oh, yes! but I shall have

to tell you the whole story."

"What is it?--they want money?" said Emilia.

"I will tell you. Our poor gentlemanly organist, whom you knew, was

really a baronet's son, and inherited the title."

Emilia interrupted her: "Oh, do let me hear about them!"

"Well, my dear, this unfortunate--I may call him 'lover,' for if a man

does not stamp the truth of his affection with a pistol, what other means

has he? And just a word as to romance. I have been sighing for it--no

one would think so--all my life. And who would have thought that these

poor Poles should have lived to convince me of the folly! Oh, delicious

humdrum!--there is nothing like it. But you are anxious, naturally.

Poor Sir Purcell Barren--he may or may not have been mad, but when he was

brought to the house at Brookfield--quite by chance--I mean, his body--

two labouring men found him by a tree--I don't know whether you

remembered a pollard-willow that stood all white and rotten by the water

in the fir-wood:--well, as I said, mad or not, no sooner did poor

Cornelia see him than she shrieked that she was the cause of his death.

He was laid in the hall--which I have so often trod! and there Cornelia

sat by his poor dead body, and accused Wilfrid and her father of every

unkindness. They say that the scene was terrible. Wilfrid--but I need

not tell you his character. He flutters from flower to flower, but he

has feeling Now comes the worst of all--in one sense; that is, looking on

it as people of the world; and being in the world, we must take a worldly

view occasionally. Mr. Pole--you remember how he behaved once at

Besworth: or, no; you were not there, but he used your name. His mania

was, as everybody could see, to marry his children grandly. I don't

blame him in any way. Still, he was not justified in living beyond his

means to that end, speculating rashly, and concealing his actual

circumstances. Well, Mr. Pericles and he were involved together; that

is, Mr. Pericles--"

"Is Mr. Pericles near us now?" said Emilia quickly.

"We will come to him," Laura resumed, with the complacency of one who saw

a goodly portion of the festival she was enjoying still before her. "I

was going to say, Mr. Pericles had poor Mr. Pole in his power; has him,

would be the correcter tense. And Wilfrid, as you may have heard, had

really grossly insulted him, even to the extent of maltreating him--a

poor foreigner--rich foreigner, if you like! but not capable of standing

against a strong young man in wrath. However, now there can be little

doubt that Wilfrid repents. He had been trying ever since to see Mr.

Pericles; and the very morning of that day, I believe, he saw him and

humbled himself to make an apology. This had put Mr. Pole in good

spirits, and in the evening--he and Mrs. Chump were very fond of their

wine after dinner--he was heard that very evening to name a day for his

union with her; for that had been quite understood, and he had asked his

daughters and got their consent. The sight of Sir Purcell's corpse, and

the cries of Cornelia, must have turned him childish. I cannot conceive

a situation so harrowing as that of those poor children hearing their

father declare himself an impostor! a beggar! a peculator! He cried,

poor unhappy man, real tears! The truth was that his nerves suddenly

gave way. For, just before--only just before, he was smiling and talking

largely. He wished to go on his knees to every one of them, and kept

telling them of his love--the servants all awake and listening! and more

gossiping servants than the Poles always, by the most extraordinary

inadvertence, managed to get, you never heard of! Nothing would stop him

from humiliating himself! No one paid any attention to Mrs. Chump until

she started from her chair. They say that some of the servants who were

crying outside, positively were compelled to laugh when they heard her

first outbursts. And poor Mr. Pole confessed that he had touched her

money. He could not tell her how much. Fancy such a scene, with a dead

man in the house! Imagination almost refuses to conjure it up! Not to

dwell on it too long--for, I have never endured such a shock as it has

given me--Mrs. Chump left the house, and the next thing received from her

was a lawyer's letter. Business men say she is not to blame: women may

cherish their own opinion. But, oh, Miss Belloni! is it not terrible?

You are pale."

Emilia behind what she felt for her friends, had a dim comprehension of

the meaning of their old disgust at Laura, during this narration. But,

hearing the word of pity, she did not stop to be critical. "Can you do

nothing for them?" she said abruptly.

The thought in Laura's shocked grey eyes was, "They have done little

enough for you," i.e., toward making you a lady. "Oh!" she cried; "I can

you teach me what to do? I must be extremely delicate, and calculate

upon what they would accept from me. For--so I hear--they used to--and

may still--nourish a--what I called--silly--though not in unkindness--

hostility to our family--me. And perhaps now natural delicacy may render

it difficult for them to..."

In short, to accept an alms from Laura Tinley; so said her pleading look

for an interpretation.

"You know Mr. Pericles," said Emilia, "he can do the mischief--can he

not? Stop him."

Laura laughed. "One might almost say that you do not know him, Miss

Belloni. What is my influence? I have neither a voice, nor can I play

on any instrument. I would--indeed I will--do my best my utmost; only,

how even to introduce the subject to him? Are not you the person? He

speaks of you constantly. He has consulted doctors with regard to your

voice, and the only excuse, dear Miss Belloni, for my visit to you to-

day, is my desire that any misunderstanding between you may be cleared.

Because, I have just heard--Miss Belloni will forgive me!--the origin of

it; and tidings coming that you were in the neighbourhood, I thought--

hoped that I might be the means of re-uniting two evidently destined to

be of essential service to one another. And really, life means that,

does it not?"

Emilia was becoming more critical of this tone the more she listened.

She declared, her immediate willingness to meet Mr. Pericles. With

which, and Emilia's assurance that she would write, and herself make the

appointment, Laura retired, in high glee at the prospect of winning the

gratitude of the inscrutable millionaire. It was true that the absence

of any rivalry for the possession of the man took much of his sweetness

from him. She seemed to be plucking him from the hands of the dead, and

half recognized that victory over uncontesting rivals claps the laurel-

wreath rather rudely upon our heads.

Emilia lost no time in running straight to Georgiana, who was busy at her

writing-desk. She related what she had just heard, ending breathlessly:

"Georgey! my dear! will you help them?"

"In what possible way can I do so?" said Georgiana. To-morrow night we

shall have left England."

"But to-day we are here." Emilia pressed a hand to her bosom: "my heart

feels hollow, and my friends cry out in it. I cannot let him suffer."

She looked into Georgiana's eyes. "Will you not help them?--they want

money."

The lady reddened. "Is it not preposterous to suppose that I can offer

them assistance of such a kind?"

"Not you," returned Emilia, sighing; and in an under-breath, "me--will

you lend it to me? Merthyr would. I shall repay it. I cannot tell what

fills me with this delight, but I know I am able to repay any sum. Two

thousand pounds would help them. I think--I think my voice has come

back."

"Have you tried it?" said Georgiana, to produce a diversion from the