The night was warm under a slowly-floating moon. Full of compassion for
the poor girl, who had moved him if she had failed in winning the
assembly, Wilfrid stepped into the garden, where he expected to find her,
and to be the first to pet and console her. Threading the scented
shrubs, he came upon a turn in one of the alleys, from which point he had
a view of her figure, as she stood near a Portugal laurel on the lawn.
Mr. Pericles was by her side. Wilfrid's intention was to join them. A
loud sob from Emilia checked his foot.
"You are cruel," he heard her say.
"If it is good, I tell it you; if it is bad; abominable, I tell it you,
juste ze same," responded Mr. Pericles.
"The others did not think it very bad."
"Ah! bah!" Mr. Pericles cut her short.
Had they been talking of matters secret and too sweet, Wilfrid would have
retired, like a man of honour. As it was, he continued to listen. The
tears of his poor little friend, moreover, seemed to hold him there in
the hope that he might afford some help.
"Yes; I do not care for the others," she resumed. "You praised me the
night I first saw you."
"It is perhaps zat you can sing to z' moon," returned Mr. Pericles.
"But, what! a singer, she must sing in a house. To-night it is warm,
to-morrow it is cold. If you sing through a cold, what noise do we hear?
It is a nose, not a voice. It is a trompet."
Emilia, with a whimpering firmness, replied: "You said I am lazy. I am
not."
"Not lazy," Mr. Pericles assented.
"Do I care for praise from people who do not understand music? It is not
true. I only like to please them."
"Be a street-organ," Mr. Pericles retorted.
"I must like to see them pleased when I sing," said Emilia desperately.
"And you like ze clap of ze hands. Yez. It is quite natural. Yess.
You are a good child, it is clear. But, look. You are a voice
uncultivated, sauvage. You go wrong: I hear you: and dese claps of zese
noodels send you into squeaks and shrills, and false! false away you go.
It is a gallop ze wrong way."
Here Mr. Pericles attempted the most horrible reproduction of Emilia's
failure. She cried out as if she had been bitten.
"What am I to do?" she asked sadly.
"Not now," Mr. Pericles answered. "You live in London?--at where?"
"Must I tell you?"
"Certainly, you must tell me."
"But, I am not going there; I mean, not yet."
"You are going to sing to z' moon through z' nose. Yez. For how long?"
"These ladies have asked me to stay with them. They make me so happy.
When I leave them--then!"
Emilia sighed.
"And zen?" quoth Mr. Pericles.
"Then, while my money lasts, I shall stay in the country."
"How much money?"
"How much money have I?" Emilia frankly and accurately summed up the
condition of her treasury. "Four pounds and nineteen shillings."
"Hom! it is spent, and you go to your father again?"
"Yes."
"To ze old Belloni?"
"My father."
"No!" cried Mr. Pericles, upon Emilia's melancholy utterance. He bent to
her ear and rapidly spoke, in an undertone, what seemed to be a vivid
sketch of a new course of fortune for her. Emilia gave one joyful
outcry; and now Wilfrid retreated, questioning within himself whether he
should have remained so long. But, as he argued, if he was convinced
that the rascally Greek fellow meant mischief to her, was he not bound to
employ every stratagem to be her safeguard? The influence of Mr.
Pericles already exercised over her was immense and mysterious. Within
ten minutes she was singing triumphantly indoors. Wilfrid could hear
that her voice was firm and assured. She was singing the song of the
woods. He found to his surprise that his heart dropped under some
burden, as if he had no longer force to sustain it.
By-and-by some of the members of the company issued forth. Carriages
were heard on the gravel, and young men in couples, preparing to light
the ensign of happy release from the ladies (or of indemnification for
their absence, if you please), strolled about the grounds.
"Did you see that little passage between Laura Tinley and Bella Pole?"
said one, and forthwith mimicked them: "Laura commencing:-'We must have
her over to us.' 'I fear we have pre-engaged her.'--'Oh, but you, dear,
will do us the favour to come, too?' 'I fear, dear, our immediate
engagements will preclude the possibility.'--'Surely, dear Miss Pole, we
may hope that you have not abandoned us?'--'That, my dear Miss Tinley, is
out of the question.'--'May we not name a day?'--'If it depends upon us,
frankly, we cannot bid you do so.'"
The other joined him in laughter, adding: "'Frankly' 's capital! What
absurd creatures women are! How the deuce did you manage to remember it
all?"
"My sister was at my elbow. She repeated it, word for word."
"Pon my honour, women are wonderful creatures!"
The two young men continued their remarks, with a sense of perfect
consistency.
Lady Gosstre, as she was being conducted to her carriage, had pronounced
aloud that Emilia was decidedly worth hearing.
"She's better worth knowing," said Tracy Runningbrook. "I see you are
all bent on spoiling her. If you were to sit and talk with her, you
would perceive that she's meant for more than to make a machine of her
throat. What a throat it is! She has the most comical notion of things.
I fancy I'm looking at the budding of my own brain. She's a born artist,
but I'm afraid everybody's conspiring to ruin her."
"Surely," said Adela, "we shall not do that, if we encourage her in her
Art."
"He means another kind of art," said Lady Gosstre. "The term 'artist,'
applied to our sex, signifies 'Frenchwoman' with him. He does not allow
us to be anything but women. As artists then we are largely privileged,
I assure you."
"Are we placed under a professor to learn the art?" Adela inquired,
pleased with the subject under such high patronage.
"Each new experience is your accomplished professor," said Tracy. "One
I'll call Cleopatra a professor: she's but an illustrious example."
"Imp! you are corrupt." With which my lady tapped farewell on his
shoulder. Leaning from the carriage window, she said: "I suppose I shall
see you at Richford? Merthyr Powys is coming this week. And that
reminds me: he would be the man to appreciate your 'born artist.' Bring
her to me. We will have a dinner. I will despatch a formal invitation
to-morrow. The season's bad out of town for getting decent people to
meet you. I will do my best."
She bowed to Adela and Tracy. Mr. Pole, who had hovered around the
unfamiliar dialogue to attend the great lady to the door, here came in
for a recognition, and bowed obsequiously to the back of the carriage.
Arabella did not tell her sisters what weapons she had employed to effect
the rout of Mrs. Chump. She gravely remarked that the woman had
consented to go, and her sisters thanked her. They were mystified by
Laura's non-recognition of Emilia, and only suspected Wilfrid so faintly
that they were able to think they did not suspect him at all. On the
whole, the evening had been a success. It justified the ladies in
repeating a well-known Brookfield phrase: "We may be wrong in many
things, but never in our judgement of the merits of any given person."
In the case of Tracy Runningbrook, they had furnished a signal instance
of their discernment. Him they had met at the house of a friend of the
Tinleys (a Colonel's wife distantly connected with great houses). The
Tinleys laughed at his flaming head and him, but the ladies of Brookfield
had ears and eyes for a certain tone and style about him, before they
learnt that he was of the blood of dukes, and would be a famous poet.
When this was mentioned, after his departure, they had made him theirs,
and the Tinleys had no chance. Through Tracy, they achieved their
introduction to Lady Gosstre. And now they were to dine with her. They
did not say that this was through Emilia. In fact, they felt a little
that they had this evening been a sort of background to their prodigy:
which was not in the design. Having observed, "She sang deliciously,"
they dismissed her, and referred to dresses, gaucheries of members of the
company, pretensions here and there, Lady Gosstre's walk, the way to
shuffle men and women, how to start themes for them to converse upon, and
so forth. Not Juno and her Court surveying our mortal requirements in
divine independence of fatigue, could have been more considerate for the
shortcomings of humanity. And while they were legislating this and that
for others, they still accepted hints for their own improvement, as those
who have Perfection in view may do. Lady Gosstre's carriage of her
shoulders, and general manner, were admitted to be worthy of study. "And
did you notice when Laura Tinley interrupted her conversation with Tracy
Runningbrook, how quietly she replied to the fact and nothing else, so
that Laura had not another word?"--"And did you observe her deference to
papa, as host?"--"And did you not see, on more than one occasion, with
what consummate ease she would turn a current of dialogue when it had
gone far enough?" They had all noticed, seen, and observed. They agreed
that there was a quality beyond art, beyond genius, beyond any special
cleverness; and that was, the great social quality of taking, as by
nature, without assumption, a queenly position in a circle, and making
harmony of all the instruments to be found in it. High praise of Lady
Gosstre ensued. The ladies of Brookfield allowed themselves to bow to
her with the greater humility, owing to the secret sense they nursed of
overtopping her still in that ineffable Something which they alone
possessed: a casket little people will be wise in not hurrying our Father
Time to open for them, if they would continue to enjoy the jewel they
suppose it to contain. Finally, these energetic young ladies said their
prayers by the morning twitter of the birds, and went to their beds, less
from a desire for rest than because custom demanded it.
Three days later Emilia was a resident in the house, receiving lessons in
demeanour from Cornelia, and in horsemanship from Wilfrid. She expressed
no gratitude for kindnesses or wonder at the change in her fortune, save
that pleasure sat like an inextinguishable light on her face. A splendid
new harp arrived one day, ticketed, "For Miss Emilia Belloni."
"He does not know I have a second Christian name," was her first remark,
after an examination of the instrument.
"'He?'" quoth Adela. "May it not have been a lady's gift?"
Emilia clearly thought not.
"And to whom do you ascribe it?"
"Who sent it to me? Mr. Pericles, of course."
She touched the strings immediately, and sighed.
"Are you discontented with the tone, child?" asked Adela.
"No. I--I'll guess what it cost!"
Surely the ladies had reason to think her commonplace!
She explained herself better to Wilfrid, when he returned to Brookfield
after a short absence. Showing the harp, "See what Mr. Pericles thinks
me worth!" she said.
"Not more than that?" was his gallant rejoinder. "Does it suit you?"
"Yes; in every way."
This was all she said about it.
In the morning after breakfast, she sat at harp or piano, and then ran
out to gather wild flowers and learn the names of trees and birds. On
almost all occasions Wilfrid was her companion. He laughed at the little
sisterly revelations the ladies confided concerning her too heartily for
them to have any fear that she was other than a toy to him. Few women
are aware with how much ease sentimental men can laugh outwardly at what
is internal torment. They had apprised him of their wish to know what
her origin was, and of her peculiar reserve on that topic: whereat he
assured them that she would have no secrets from him. His conduct of
affairs was so open that none could have supposed the gallant cornet
entangled in a maze of sentiment. For, veritably, this girl was the last
sort of girl to please his fancy; and he saw not a little of fair ladies:
by virtue of his heroic antecedents, he was himself well seen of them.
The gallant cornet adored delicacy and a gilded refinement. The female
flower could not be too exquisitely cultivated to satisfy him. And here
he was, running after a little unformed girl, who had no care to conceal
the fact that she was an animal, nor any notion of the necessity for
doing so! He had good reason to laugh when his sisters talked of her.
It was not a pleasant note which came from the gallant cornet then. But,
in the meadows, or kindly conducting Emilia's horse, he yielded pretty
music. Emilia wore Arabella's riding-habit, Adela's hat, and Cornelia's
gloves. Politic as the ladies of Brookfield were, they were full of
natural kindness; and Wilfrid, albeit a diplomatist, was not yet mature
enough to control and guide a very sentimental heart. There was an
element of dim imagination in all the family: and it was this that
consciously elevated them over the world in prospect, and made them
unconsciously subject to what I must call the spell of the poetic power.
Wilfrid in his soul wished that Emilia should date from the day she had
entered Brookfield. But at times it seemed to him that a knowledge of
her antecedents might relieve him from his ridiculous perplexity of
feeling. Besides though her voice struck emotion, she herself was
unimpressionable. "Cold by nature," he said; looking at the unkindled
fire. She shook hands like a boy. If her fingers were touched and
retained, they continued to be fingers for as long as you pleased.
Murmurs and whispers passed by her like the breeze. She appeared also to
have no enthusiasm for her Art, so that not even there could Wilfrid find
common ground. Italy, however, he discovered to be the subject that made
her light up. Of Italy he would speak frequently, and with much
simulated fervour.
"Mr. Pericles is going to take me there," said Emilia. "He told me to
keep it secret. I have no secrets from my friends. I am to learn in the
academy at Milan."
"Would you not rather let me take you?"
"Not quite." She shook her head. "No; because you do not understand
music as he does. And are you as rich? I cost a great deal of money
even for eating alone. But you will be glad when you hear me when I come
back. Do you hear that nightingale? It must be a nightingale."
She listened. "What things he makes us feel!"
Bending her head, she walked on silently. Wilfrid, he knew not why, had
got a sudden hunger for all the days of her life. He caught her hand
and, drawing her to a garden seat, said: "Come; now tell me all about
yourself before I knew you. Do you mind?"
"I'll tell you anything you want to hear," said Emilia.
He enjoined her to begin from the beginning.
"Everything about myself?" she asked.
"Everything. I have your permission to smoke?"
Emilia smiled. "I wish I had some Italian cigars to give you. My father
sometimes has plenty given to him."
Wilfrid did not contemplate his havannah with less favour.
"Now," said Emilia, taking a last sniff of the flowers before
surrendering her nostril to the invading smoke. She looked at the scene
fronting her under a blue sky with slow flocks of clouds: "How I like
this!" she exclaimed. "I almost forget that I long for Italy, here."
Beyond a plot of flowers, a gold-green meadow dipped to a ridge of gorse
bordered by dark firs and the tips of greenest larches.