PART II

[Illustration: LADY HAMILTON AS CIRCE

_From the painting by G. Romney_]

T H E

D I V I N E L A D Y

A Romance of Nelson and Emma Hamilton

BY

E. BARRINGTON

AUTHOR OF “THE LADIES” AND “THE CHASTE DIANA”

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

1924

COPYRIGHT, 1924

BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.

Published, June, 1924

Second Printing, June, 1924

Third Printing, July, 1924

Fourth Printing, July, 1924

Fifth Printing, August, 1924

Sixth Printing, August, 1924

Seventh Printing, September, 1924

Eighth Printing, October, 1924

Ninth Printing, November, 1924

Tenth Printing, December, 1924

Eleventh Printing, January, 1925

Twelfth Printing, February, 1925

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY

=The Quinn & Boden Company=

B O O K M A N U F A C T U R E R S

R A H W A Y N E W J E R S E Y

PREFACE

As I sat, years ago, in the Admiral’s cabin of Nelson’s flag-ship, the

_Foudroyant_, the thought of this romance came to me, for this ship was

the sea-shrine of that great but errant passion. She is a wreck now, her

stranded ribs are green with weed, her bones are broken in the wash of

the tide. A grave at sea amidst the answering thunder and flash of guns

would have been a nobler ending.

But the story, with all its love, cruelty and heroism, remains alike

beyond oblivion, condemnation or pardon. It is. It has its niche beside

the other great passions which have moulded the world’s history. For if

Nelson knew himself when he declared that Emma was part and parcel of

the fire breaking out of him, without her inspiration Trafalgar might

not have been.

I have treated it imaginatively, yet have not, as I think, departed from

the essential truth which I have sought in many famous biographies such

as Mahan’s, Sichel’s, Laughton’s and others.

Yet the best biographies of Emma are the lovely portraits Romney left of

his Divine Lady, and of Nelson the best is the sea-cathedral, the

_Victory_, at rest in the last home port he sailed from to his splendid

doom. From these all the rest of the story might well be reconstructed.

E. BARRINGTON

Canada

CONTENTS

PART I

I HOW GREVILLE MET HER 3

II THE ACQUAINTANCE RIPENS 22

III THE EXPLOSION 36

IV PEACE AND CATSPAWS 49

V THE RIFT 63

VI THE FAIR TEA MAKER 77

VII DISCUSSION 88

VIII THE BARGAIN 99

PART II

IX THE BARGAIN CONCLUDED 115

X THE GREAT ADVENTURE 128

XI ADVANCE AND RETREAT 140

XII THE BEGINNING 153

XIII THE PROCESS 170

XIV THE WAY TO TRIUMPH 185

XV ACHIEVEMENT 203

XVI TRIUMPH 219

PART III

XVII NELSON (1793) 235

XVIII THE NEAPOLITAN COURT 245

XIX DIPLOMACY 261

XX THE NILE 280

XXI THE GARDEN OF ARMIDA 295

PART IV

XXII THE MERIDIAN 315

XXIII CIRCE 331

XXIV DESCENT 352

XXV FANNY 366

XXVI PARTING 386

XXVII SUNSET 406

PART I

The Divine Lady

CHAPTER I

HOW GREVILLE MET HER

SHE sat by the window and sang, and as she sang the children on the

green outside clustered under the elms in little groups to listen to the

delicious voice, for she sang carelessly glad, like a thrush alone in a

leafy bower. Clear resonant notes pouring from a pillared throat

magnificently strung for its work and behind it a passionate vitality

that sent the crystal stream welling from the hidden springs of the

heart.

Should he upbraid

I’ll own that he prevail,

And sing as sweetly as the nightingale.

Say that he frown, I’ll say his looks I view

As morning roses newly dipped in dew.

She trilled and rippled, and put her head aside to see the hat she was

trimming with flowers, and paused to consider, and trilled again, and

looped the chain of notes in the purest soprano half unconsciously, more

occupied with the hat than with the song, and stopped—the hat became

engrossing. A little head appeared at the window.

“Do it again, lady. ’Tis so pretty!”

Even that audience was not despicable. She put the hat down, leaned her

bare arms on the sill and put her heart into the singing. The woman in

the next house thrust a sour face out at the window.

“You run along to your play, you brats! Wasting time listening to the

like of that!” Then, as they helter-skeltered off, to herself: “That

Mrs. Hart; any one to look at her can see what _she_ is!”—and flung the

window to. The song stopped abruptly. She turned in a fury as if to

fling back defiance, then stopped, flushing scarlet, and stood stiff in

the middle of the floor; the hat at her feet, the day spoilt for good

and all.

“’Tis a pitiful, wicked, brutal shame,” she cried, “that do what I will,

go where I will, I can never get rid of it. And ’tisn’t as if ’twas my

fault. If those misses yonder had had my upbringing, had lived as I did,

slept where I did, they’d have done the same, I warrant, for all they

step along so cool and genteel now.” She flung out a tragic arm toward

the window. Two young ladies, full-skirted, large-hatted, with muslin

fichus, crossed discreetly over chaste bosoms in the mode of 1782, were

pacing sedately over the pleasant green common, past the wall of the

churchyard. Lest they should need a more stringent guard than their own

modesty, a well-fed footman with full-blossomed calves followed them,

his gilt-headed staff and the gold lace on his livery gleaming in June

sunshine, his high-fed face turned with a furtive air towards the

curtains that hid the fair fury. The young ladies themselves shot a

veiled glance apiece under drooping brims in that direction, for there

was much healthy curiosity afloat on and about Paddington Green

concerning that modest establishment.

Who could be surprised there should be? Take a placid suburb near to and

yet remote from the scandals of London, place about its drowsy green the

small respectable houses of Edgware Row chiefly inhabited by faded

spinsters and decorous widows living out their declining days under the

guidance of the church bells, and in the one vacant house of this Row

set suddenly a handsome youngish man whose studied simplicity of dress

cannot hide his fashion and consequence, and a young girl so beautiful

that in a country where beauty itself partakes of the nature of sin, she

must at once be found guilty until proved innocent—and mark what

happens.

Of course it happened. Emma made a few timid advances when first she was

set up as housekeeper. She spoke to the next door Mrs. Armitage across

the paling of the little garden, and offered a loaf of bread when that

lady was loudly regretting that the baker had forgotten his call. It was

refused with a thorny precision which conveyed that bread from such

hands was poison. When little Jemmy Barrett fell and grazed his knees,

she stanched the wounds, filled his hands with sugar biscuits and led

the howling culprit tenderly to the Barrett home among its syringa

bushes across the Green. The first suspicious glance of Mrs. Barrett

supposed her guilty of the howls, and explanation only produced a

frosty, “Very obliging in you, I’m sure. Jemmy, if you don’t stop that

noise—” and Emma, eyeing the child wistfully (for reasons), turned and

walked away, followed by looks of greedy curiosity that drew heads from

several windows. The clergyman’s wife called, but did not repeat the

visit. “My dear, I have discovered that the servant, the cook, is her

own mother,” cried the lady in the study of that divine, “and sure one

knows what to think in such cases. Do pray make enquiry about Mr.

Greville. ’Tis a name that bespeaks nobility, and the girl, for all her

looks—”

Her looks! Here comes the difficulty, for how describe, how convey in

any words, the beauty that nature bestows but once or twice in a

century. There was not a great artist but later tried to give it living

and glowing on his canvas, and not one of them but would own that, his

best done, there was still the Unattainable laughing or sighing forever

beyond his reach. Perhaps that most unbishop-like prelate, the Bishop of

Derry, summed her up best when he cried, “God was in a glorious mood

when he made Emma”—and yet that too needs detail if you are at all to

picture her fascinations. Item: two lips indifferent red, in

Shakespeare’s fashion? No, no, that may do for an Olivia but will not

serve such a paragon as Emma. Let us essay the impossible and at least

fall in good company, for all tried, and every man of them failed.

She was the perfect height, long-limbed, full-bosomed for a girl of her

age, the hands and feet not delicate, and conveying the notion of

physical strength and power as did also the fine throat and marble

moulded arms. For her figure alone she was noticeable—it was to be seen

slender, melting, flowing within her draperies, and every movement as

full of ease as a cat’s that need never stop to consider its swiftness

or slow subsidence into a luxurious coil for sleep or blinking at the

fire. Coming up behind this girl, you must needs take note of her grace,

the slow turn of the head on the long throat, the rhythm of curving arms

and pleading hands (for she had many and uncommon gestures), the lovely

length from hip to heel. Her body spoke for her and promised abundantly

for her face.

Indeed, she was a wave of the ocean of beauty tossed by the breeze of

youth. Should she be described? See how Romney has given her as a

Bacchante, arch chin turned over her shoulder, eyes and mirthful mouth

laughing deliciously to each other and to the happy fauns supposed out

of sight. She will lead the dance in the woods, and sit beneath the

black shade dappled with moonlight, wooing and wooed, in the clasp of

strong arms with a hot cheek pressed to hers. Yet again—Circe, grave

with a ruined passion, standing in noble height with down-pointing rod

of enchantments, reversing her spell on her man-souled beasts; or a

reading Magdalen, pensive, robed from head to knee in streaming auburn

hair curling into gold at the tendrilled ends. Ah, but such hair as

that, though it may be for Magdalens, is not for such as retire to caves

and bury themselves in theology! Far otherwise.

Yet no picture of them all was as lovely as herself. The large limpid

eyes of violet-grey might be hinted on canvas, no more, and what artist

could give that signature of a freakish planet—a brown spot swimming in

the liquid deeps of one. She owned that she herself considered it an

absurdity, but, veiled in delicious lashes, or flashed at you in

glittering laughter, it won hearts. Her mouth was divine—the sweet

upward curves, the full lower lip with its twin cherries—and even that

was not its charm of charms, for the changing expressiveness of it was

beauty’s self, and after that point no man could any more inventorize,

but was tangled hand and foot in the blue glance that netted him, the

sweet smile that completed his ruin.

And hers—for what should be the fate of a girl like this born to a

village blacksmith in an English village where dull days repeated dull

days in everlasting sequence? Surely nature was ironic in locking such a

bird in such a cage—a bird made for the wild woods and wild mating—a

star dancing in the laughing dark. London beckoned the country lass

along a road paved with hope and ignorance, and dropped her like ripe

fruit hung on a stem too slender, into the mud, where the flies crowd

and buzz over the crushed and muddied sweetness. For after a few

half-hearted attempts at domestic service comes a darkness. Ugly rumours

hang about it. Its implications were not perhaps quite clear to

herself—but be it as it may, a girl of fifteen may plead for pity. Let

us take her own account of it to Romney, who befriended as well as

immortalized her: “Oh, my dear friend, for a time I own, through

distress, my virtue was vanquished, but my sense of virtue was not

overcome.”

Let us leave the darkness then and make no attempt to turn light upon

the obscene figures that move through it about this child. She must have

yearned, did yearn, for some position where the day could bring security

and not violent and terrible change. Could one hope to find it in the

arms of a King’s officer of the Navy, a light-hearted fool who is the

first clear figure in the patchwork pictures of her life?—a man, it

must be said, with no eye for the amazing woman hid in the immature girl

as the conquering Aphrodite sleeps in the rough block of marble. He saw

her beautiful, as many Susans and Pollys please a sailor’s fancy;

snatched at the beauty and bruised it in the snatching, and passed on.

So a black hoof may bruise the meadow-sweet, and tramp on knowing

nothing. He found no more in this wonder than two months would exhaust,

and sailed away to his destiny, leaving the way dimly open through many

turns and obstacles to a mightier sailor than he who was to call the

castaway “the most precious jewel that God ever sent on earth.”

But the man bruised her—broke some sincerity, some wide-eyed trust in

her soul that life could never restore. And again she was flung on her

pitiful resources and again comes a hiatus which there is no accurate

knowledge to fill.

Again she struggled for some security. Could it be found this time with

a gay, fox-hunting, rollicking young squire of Sussex, easy alike in his

cups and amours, Sir Harry Fetherstonchaugh?—“Fetherstone,” his

cup-companions called him. He needed a pretty “whoman,” as poor Emma

spelt it, to sit at his table when the company was not too drunk to

appreciate feminine charm—and was proud of her astonishing beauty much

after the manner of King Ahasuerus, who also hoped to dazzle his

sycophants and create envy by disclosing the charms of Queen Vashti at

his banquets.

But Vashti proudly declined to be an exhibit, and so did not Emma. She

did her best to please. She smiled, and could not tell for the life of

her how to hit the mean between friendly reception and familiarity with

these men who were equally ready to tally-ho with Sir Harry in the

field, and make love to his lovely mistress after dinner. She shared

their sport, riding with the best of them, wild bright hair streaming

from her velvet cap as she galloped furiously over the swelling Sussex

Downs with the blue sea below. Never a man could outride her; and not

one of them but wondered at the brilliant beauty, the brilliant cheeks

and eyes, the rushing vitality of this lovely creature Sir Harry had

picked up, God knows where, to be the envy of half a county. She sat

behind her tray of tea in the old drawing-room, where the ghostly

crucifix is reflected from nowhere in a great mirror and none can tell

how, and tried to put on the modest graces of a Lady Fetherstonehaugh

when some bold arm was thrust about her waist, and must for all her

efforts subside into the kitchen giggle and the scuffle and escape.

She did not, however, always escape, for Destiny, whom beauty must draw

like a lover, was at her heels again with the ironic smile that is no

lover’s, God knows!

The Honourable Charles Greville, younger son of the Earl of Warwick,

conferred his honourable company upon Sir Harry, merely for a shooting

party—no long visit, for the brainlessness of these masculine

gatherings had no attraction for him. One went, because in his world men

shot or hunted and could not take their proper place in it if they did

not, but it was impossible that a man of real attainments could please

himself long in the company of a mere man of sport and fashion and his

boon companions crowding foolishly about him.

Mr. Greville did not drink, save in a gentlemanly moderation. He shot in

moderation; in moderation he hunted; and the amours of an uncelibate

life were also in moderation, governed by a due regard to expenditure.

But he was an amateur, a dilettante of beauty, for all that—beauty in

woman, but still more in chaste Greek statuary, in noble Etruscan vases

with figures dancing upon them in a long-dead joy; in strange crystals,

coins, and all the fascinating stuff that Time picks up on the seashore

of Eternity and drops from his pack as he goes on to the next adventure,

forgetting the last. And not only for himself must he collect (and

indeed could do little enough because of this limited income), but also

for his uncle, Sir William Hamilton, who was Ambassador in Naples; a

very distinguished virtuoso indeed and all but final authority on the

art of Greece and Rome.

So, armed with all his well-born graces and a prudence beyond his years,

Mr. Greville came down to Up Park, his latest sacrifice on the altar of

fashion. There might be a pretty maid-servant to chuck under the chin;

there would certainly be the glorious champagne of the air on the wild

Downs, not to mention Sir Harry’s cellars, and—Lord, he had forgotten

that!—there would be Sir Harry’s new mistress to ridicule when he

returned to the clubs. The last had been a common enough little slut;

indeed, a man of birth might well wonder how another might amuse himself

with such poor company when ladies of family were by no means

unapproachable and less costly in more ways than one if discreetly

wooed.

Mr. Greville was never to forget, however, in the course of a long and

virtuous life, how he first saw the new charmer.

When he arrived at Up Park, it was a gay autumn afternoon, a light air

crisping the dry leaves of the great copper beeches ere it tossed them

to the earth, the late dahlias flaunting in the gardens, and the

chrysanthemums in rows. Sir Harry was at the great hall-door with two

grooms, both doing their utmost to control as magnificent a horse as

Greville had ever clapt eyes on, a great bony bay thoroughbred, plunging

and trembling, mad with nerves and spirits, quivering and sweating. A

lady’s saddle was on his back, and a girl in riding dress and feathered

hat stood on the steps of the portico, watching him so keenly that she

never noted Greville winding up the garden from the park. Sir Harry was

swearing like a trooper. I spare my readers the greater part of his

oaths, since they are out of fashion and therefore useless. One rests

familiar, however.

“I tell you, Emily, you shall not. And what’s more, I’m damned if I

don’t flog you instead of the horse if you attempt it. That beast must

be broken—if they break every bone of him, before man or woman can

master him. How dare you order him round, you damned hussy!—”

And so forth, and so forth, the grooms with an eye apiece on the horse

and another on the lady. Greville stopped to watch the contest. Her face

he could not see for she was sideways on to him, but the figure in her

habit was pleasing.

Not a word did she say. She stood leaning against a pillar, watching.

“Take him away!” shouts Sir Harry, “and if you, damned etc., sons of

etc., bring him round again before I tell you myself, I’ll,” again etc.

A flute-like voice from the lady: “Suppose you’d permitted me, Sir

Harry, what would you have betted I couldn’t master him?”

“Suppose I’d been fool enough to permit it, I’d have bet you fifty

guineas you’d be a broken heap of bones in five minutes, and serve you

right!” growls Sir Harry, turning to lounge in. The grooms turned also,

she still watching—a statue in marble repose. Then, a most astonishing

thing. While they were yet but a few steps away, she flew down the steps

like a lapwing, and, with the horse held as it was on either side, she

got one hand on a groom’s shoulder, the other on the pommel, made a wild

scramble for the stirrup and was on his back before you could say Knife.

She could not get her leg over the pommel in the hurry, but had her wits

about her, her foot fast in the stirrup and a smart cut with her whip

for either groom that sent them back smarting and swearing, and so off

and away like a whirlwind—her right leg settled into safety at last,

and Sir Harry stamping and screaming in the portico.

“Lord save us!” says Greville, and stopped dead to see the end of it.

She could not control the beast at first, and they tore madly over the

flower-beds, cutting down the dahlias and wreaking ruin among the

rose-bushes. The grass flew behind the pounding hoofs, the wild eyes

shot flame, and the raging north wind might have been his sire, as he

tossed the girl on his mighty back.

“The nymph and the centaur!” says Greville, watching coolly. “I’ll back

the nymph, however!”

He did right, though it was even betting as yet, and Sir Harry made

matters the worse for her by running yelling down the wide path, the

pale grooms at his heels. She did a little more work in the garden for

which the gardeners would bless her next day and then she lifted him

magnificently over against the great laurel hedge at the bottom. Would

he give in to her? Not he, if he knew it! He swerved sharp, and all but

tossed her into the green level on the top, then up the garden again.

Greville caught Sir Harry’s arm: “You fool, you! Be still, or you’ll

kill the woman.”

Down the garden they thundered once more, she riding gloriously, teeth

clenched and wild hair flying, and put him at it again, and over, over

like a bird in flight, not brushing the topmost leaf with flying hoof.

“Stand clear! I’ve got him!” she screamed, and so off and away in the

park, where if she could stick on she could ride him silly, and so they

lost sight of her, riding hell for leather.

The two gentlemen met in a condition that forbade formal welcome between

host and guest.

“Did you see that—madwoman?” cries Sir Harry, his eyes glaring over

purple cheeks.

“By the Lord, yes!” says Greville, even his cool blood beating fast.

“And a finer sight I never saw—woman and horse alike.”

“You’ll see her brought home on a shutter as sure as I stand here. Go

down the park, Bates, and be ready.”

“I back the lady!” Greville turned and ran sharp for the paling above

the ha-ha that commanded the park, Sir Harry pounding in the rear. “I

back the horse!” he got out between his gasps, and fixed the bet at

fifty guineas with what breath was left. Greville took him.

She grazed a chestnut and stooped her head on the beast’s neck to avoid

the sweeping branches, and Greville quaked for his guineas. They swept

round the lake, and now she got her whip ready and cut him mercilessly

till he went like the devil. She put him at the long steep slope and

flogged him up it, and, to make a long story short, wit conquered wind

and it was not too long before he knew he was beat. And still she did

not spare him. Down the slope, but turned and up again, until he stopped

dead, dropping his ears, running with sweat, a conquered brute.

So she let him stand awhile, herself now drooping on the saddle, languid

from the fierce struggle, and there they stood like weariness itself on

the green sward with the trees above him. At last, she turned him

towards home and walked him very slowly back to where the two men were

waiting.

It may be supposed Sir Harry was not in the best of tempers—a hundred

guineas to pay for an afternoon’s contradiction sweetens no man’s

blood—but he had found time to say the needful about Greville’s visit

before the wearied pair came up to them, and Greville time to think

himself lucky his excitement had stood him fifty guineas to the good. He

was curious to see the girl’s face. Of course Sir Harry’s oaths and the

general course of events had taught him the lady’s situation.

“Mrs. Hart, I conclude?” he questioned.

“The same, and a man deserves what he gets for saddling himself with

a—. If he spent his whole substance on a jilt like that, he’d get

nothing for his pains but ingratitude and worry to drive him mad.”

“My dear sir, let us at least thank her for an exhibition of the finest

tussle I ever saw between man and brute. You certainly have picked up a

very uncommon companion, and I’m told all the world envies you her

beauty.”

That struck the right note. The cloud thinned somewhat on the

proprietor’s brow.

“Why, as to that, the girl’s well enough,” says Sir Harry grudgingly,

“and I know a beauty as well as another. But I give you my word, sir,

that that horse is manageable—I’ll swear he is!—compared to Mrs. Hart.

She’ll have her way, she will, if she dies for it, and kicks up the

devil’s dust if she doesn’t. A wife itself couldn’t be more of a

termagant. The least we may expect from a woman like that is submission,

and I dare assure you—”

But here the culprit came up, slowly undulating with the horse’s tired

walk, and looked Mr. Greville over, but took no heed of him.

The feathered hat was somewhere in the park; the sleeve of her habit

torn half away by a ripping branch, and a breadth of the skirt hung like

a lowered flag. But there was no flag lowered in her eyes, or the lift

of her head, though her voice was as wooing as a ring dove’s—soft,

fluty, a most remarkable voice, as indeed everything about this young

woman was remarkable.

“Oh, Sir Harry, forgive me, I entreat you. I believe ’twas the devil

possessed me, but when I saw him going off I must needs tear after him

if it cost me my soul alive. ’Tisn’t the guineas. I wouldn’t accept one

of them if you threw them at me, but I had to win the bet. Oh, Sir

Harry, don’t be hard on me—you that’s the finest horseman yourself in

Sussex. You know what it is!”

She drooped toward him sweetly, her eyes caressing him.

“You wouldn’t wish me to be a coward!” she said.

Her hair hung almost to the horse’s fetlock as she stooped, all gold and

gloss in the smooth auburn curves. Greville had never seen so long. She

might ride like Godiva and be decent. Her eyes—were they violet, blue,

or deepest grey? Her beauty amazed the man. It stung like strong drink.

“I’m so tired!” she said with a child’s pout on exquisite lips. “Oh,

help me down, Sir Harry.”

“You got up, you can get down!” says Sir Harry, and slouched up the

step, calling to Bates over his shoulder to take the brute round.

She looked at Greville, releasing her leg for the slide. He came forward

without a word, but smiling, and she slid into his arms—a good weight

he felt her—and so stood beside him on the steps.

“He’s awful angry with me, isn’t he?” she said with a dipping sparkle in

her eye and a jerk of her thumb over her shoulder. Her accent was

village—he placed it somewhere Chester-way—but not unpleasing, as,

indeed, what could be unpleasing in that voice? Her h’s uncertain—that

was the flaw. Short of Venus Aphrodite even divinest beauty must have

its vulnerable spot, and the great ladies were to jeer at her for this

later. But she dazzled the man for all the dropped letters.

“Awful!” he said, “yet I don’t blame him, madam. You ran the risk of

smashing the most beautiful thing in the world, and that thing his own

peculiar treasure. For I imagine I address Mrs. Hart? The gentleman left

us to our own introductions.”

“The same!” says she, dropping a curtsey. “Well, but, sir, you saw

yourself how ’twas! Now, the man I could admire would have took me in

his arms and said, ‘Emily, that was a sight and a fight I won’t forget,

and I wished all Sussex here to see it and cry Bravo!’”

“Madam, exactly what I myself felt!” says Mr. Greville sedately. “Shall

I carry out the scene as you sketch it?”—and extended his arms.

She laughed like a very minx from between her hair, and ran up the

steps. At the top her whole expression changed and, putting back her

hair with her hands, she stood there tall in the long folds of cloth,

and with a certain dignity about her.

“Sir, I would not have you suppose me always like this, and since I am

hostess here, I ask your name and welcome you to Up Park.”

He bowed profoundly to fall in with this new mood.

“Madam, your most obedient. My name is Greville, Charles Greville, a

long-standing acquaintance of Sir Harry Fetherstonehaugh.”

She curtseyed with propriety.

“Sir, the housekeeper will show you your usual chamber. Will you please

enter?”

He did so, and saw the shining locks dim in the dark old hall; and there

the servants took possession of him, and she went winding slowly up the

stair. His curiosity was riveted on her.

She appeared at the table for dinner, evidently forgiven, very plainly

dressed in a clear white dimity with blue ribbons, her hair turned back

from the forehead, disclosing the loveliest white brow, the undergrowth

of auburn advancing upon it in ripples, as when the tide comes in

softly. The mass was supported with a white fillet bound about the head

Greek fashion; and yet what could such a girl know of the goddesses who

in marble or more perishable clay kept the connoisseur company in his

London abode? He, however, recognized the touch and marvelled.

She looked down the table at Greville and smiled discreetly, but perhaps

saw more than the quick glance indicated. A handsome man with cold,

neatly-chiselled features, we have him still to the life in fine

mezzotint, the eyes somewhat too deep and eager to convince the

beholder, and a little of his scrutinizing, valuing air about it for

all; the hair clubbed and powdered—a man of noble breeding impossible

to pass for plebeian in a revolution if it were to save his life. A

self-possessed and dignified young man of thirty. Four other men were

present, including Sir Harry, and certainly this was the pick of the

basket. Fair Emma knew it, as women know all such lore, instinctively,

although for certain her life had not been passed with Grevilles.

“He looks like a great lord!” she thinks, trying to recall how fish

should be eaten in elegant company. “No knife—a fork and a crust?—yes,

that’s it.”

She talked little at dinner, smiling slightly when addressed, and eating

little also. The ladies of Mr. Greville’s society would trifle with

their food, and push it aside with hand disdainful. She had fortified

herself for this display by a huge hunch of cake upstairs and a bowl of

creamy milk, for those roses and lilies were not nurtured on air.

When the covers were removed, Sir Harry, now warm and generous with

wine, gave the gentlemen a running account of the tussle, and demanded

of Greville to bear witness whether Mrs. Hart hadn’t rode like a damned

jockey, and whether a man could keep up anger against a girl that showed

such spunk, for all she was a disobedient little vixen that might think

herself lucky she had a whole bone in her skin that night.

Greville assented—the finest sight he had seen, says he, and with Sir

Harry’s pardon might he propose they drink Mrs. Hart’s very good health

on it?—which they accordingly did with three times three, and the

heroine modestly retired to make tea in the drawing-room with Mrs.

Apton, the housekeeper, for company until the men lurched in, and Mrs.

Apton scuttled off.

Lurched, all but Greville. He was as cool as a cucumber, for the

situation was too good to be misted with the fumes of wine. Moreover, he

was never one to heat his brain for nothing though he could take his

glass like a gentleman. He placed himself opposite Emma, across the

broad hearth, that he might study her on the sly. Sir Harry called on

her for a song, and the dilettante in Greville prepared to be displeased

with all but the sight of those beautiful lips opening their portals to

melody. What could be expected?—the peacock, the pheasant, have voices

worse than the scritch of the jay, and beauty is too often

peacock-toned. She sang without accompaniment, if it be not Sir Harry’s

snores half way through, a ballad such as village pedlars will not have

forgotten, but the words pleasing, the tune simple and striking; “The

Raggle-taggle Gipsies, O!” and gave it with a fine dash and spirit.

Last night I lay in a goose-feather bed

With my good lord beside me, O,

To-night I’ll lie in a tenant’s barn

Whatever may betide me, O.

And so forth; the Countess tripping down the stair with all her maids

about her to meet the black fire of the gipsy lover’s eyes and her fate.

But the song itself slid off Greville, his taste was more on the

Italian, the “Luce bella” order, with quirks and trills and brilliant

fioriture, and the girl knew nothing of that. Yet she held him

fixed—the voice was glorious, strong and clear and true on the notes; a

noble instrument for passion, and nobly used, for her bosom expanded,

her throat pulsed like a bird’s and she poured it forth till the high

ceiling rang again. And not only so, but the drama! The first verse, she

sang sitting demurely, the great lady tripping down the stair with a

thought for the velvet of her robes, the set of the pearl chains in her

hair. Then rose, and the voice quickened, and at the last she flung her

arms abroad and drew the wild air of the moors into her lungs. Freedom,

freedom!—the pearl chains torn away and the barefoot woman following

her man to hell if he called her. Wild fire shone in her eyes to answer

the gipsy flame.

“I’m off with the raggle-taggle gipsy, O!” and stopped breathless, white

arms gleaming above her head; then dropped them, and sat down demurely,

the life fading from her face.

“Brava, brava!” cries Greville, applauding with ringing hands. For what

was he an amateur of gem and crystal if he did not know a jewel when he

saw it, and this, by all the Olympians, was a jewel! Sir Harry never

budged in his sleep, the others listened warm and drowsy.

“Sing again, Mrs. Hart,” says one, and again she sang, but what did not

stir so much this time; a rose and nightingale business, a little

mawkish, and yet with high notes touched most wonderfully.

“A prima donna if trained!” thinks Greville. “And that face! Lord help

us! The luck of that fool!” and cast the tail of his eye contemptuously

on the unconscious Sir Harry.

“Have you seen any good acting, Madam?” Greville came across to the

chair beside her, while the other men drowsed or talked foxes.

“Why, I’ve been to the play a few times, sir, here and there, not to say

I know anything about it. I saw Mrs. Siddons play Lady Macbeth. Lord,

how awful! My flesh did creep on my bones when she came in with the

candle, gliding like a ghost all in white. Like so!”

She caught up a vase for the candle and moved slowly toward him with

dead eyes turned inward on some horror, the head thrown back, mouth

open, jaw a little dropped, clenched hands drawn back, a ghastly terror

creeping about her. He stared spellbound. Wonderful—not sleep, but Fear

incarnate, frozen in the bonds of sleep. She passed Sir Harry and

tripped against his extended foot, and all but fell, recovering herself

with a laugh.

“I near broke the vase that time!” says she laughing, and called it

“vawse.” “I declare, Sir Harry, if I had, ’twas your fault. Why don’t

you go to bed if you must stretch out like that!”

It waked them up, and presently Sir Harry began to troll a hunting

chorus, and the men bore him company, and she took herself off laughing

still and waving her hand at the door.

But when Greville sat in his room by the fine bursting flaming fire of

beech logs he could think of nothing else. Her beauty; that was enough

alone. Her voice, her posturing! Dim thoughts rolled and shaped in his

mind.

“I wonder what Hamilton would think of her!” (For so he called his

twenty-year older uncle. They were friends more than uncle and nephew

from the beginning.) “All the Aphrodites come to life with a touch of

the Medusa, and a strong dash of Euphrosyne. And what else, I wonder!”

He could not settle it and went to sleep on that.

CHAPTER II

THE ACQUAINTANCE RIPENS

DURING the next few days Greville watched her with ever-growing

interest, and diagnosed her with the cool precision but discriminating

admiration which he brought to his cabinets of rarities. It was easy to

understand why and how Sir Harry had picked her up and easy also to

judge that her lease of his affections (if they could be so called)

would be brief and terminable on the resolve of the principal party. Sir

Harry would have the submission of a whipped dog, and try as she would

(and she tried her best by fits and starts) the girl could not crawl to

his feet. She was too full of abounding animal energy, not to speak of

force of character, to be tame, and, like most women of the uneducated

classes, saw no reason for controlling her tongue. Out it all came with

a burst when she was moved either to anger or pleasure.

“Fetherstone can’t control her, for her awe must be founded on respect

and she has no respect for him. He is too much a man of her own class in

essentials. She fathoms him through and through and don’t see anything

superior to herself. If she met her superior, and he with a firm hand

over her, she could be modelled into something to astonish the

world—the only world she can ever move in.”

So thinks Greville and in the reflections which occupied him believed he

knew where that superior could be found. She was meanwhile a fascinating

study. Not by any means the woman of pleasure, so he decided—not

mercenary, far more impassioned on the heart than the physical side;

candid to danger-point when moved; defiant to her own hurt. Rather, she

impressed him as one snared far less through temperament than by

circumstance and the fact of her astonishing beauty. Such a girl would

be attempted, persecuted, bribed wherever she went, and not only so but

condemned to something very like starvation if she refused. For

instance, what wise woman would take such a Helen into her service; and

if she did, how otherwise than as the merest drudge, for the girl was

nearly as ignorant and untaught as the wild rabbits in the park. He

ascertained that she could read and, after a fashion, write, but no

more. Then what choice had she? Who could blame this poor butterfly

blown down a chill wind out to sea? All her glorious gifts were natural.

It would be a pursuit as interesting as any collecting to pass them in

review, catalogue them, and see what they were worth in the market—a

better market than the mere sale of her body to the first comer. She was

capable of other reaches of beauty than this, he believed. He watched

her always.

She came out with the guns sometimes, a thing no lady of breeding would

have done, and tramped the deep fallows along with them, and through the

copses and spinneys and the dry fern where Sir Harry’s tall deer showed

branching antlers. And the hard exercise that would have made a fine

lady swoon did but bring the divinest flush to the cheeks of this

daughter of the hedgerows, and brightened her great limpid eyes until

they beamed like stars. Greville would have given much to know what she

herself made of her life, what her hopes were. The best he could see was

the chance that one of Sir Harry’s boon companions might take a liking

for her when the Up Park episode should finish and so start another

connection. Meanwhile he was witness to the queerest scenes, in which he

tried to comprehend the girl’s personality and found it baffling.

There was the evening when Squire Weldon of Harting—more than a little

overseas—declared and swore he believed that no woman could own such

sheaves of hair and he would wager the half of it was false.

“And for why I think so,” says he, with drunken cunning. “I observe you

wear always that kind of ribbon bandage to hold it up and hide where the

true joins the false—a neat little trick and becoming. Now I knew a

woman in Bedford and her hair was to her knees—” and so forth,

maundering on, the girl with a book of pictures on her knee pretending

not to notice him.

“Emily!” commanded Sir Harry, rousing himself in his chair. “You show

that gentleman he’s mistook, for I won’t have my belongings disparaged.

I say you’re a perfect beauty, and if any one denies it I’ll prove him

in the wrong. Take that ribbon off your head and let them see, one and

all!”

He carried so much wine that Greville reflected with an inward laugh

’twas lucky he stopped at the ribbon. Would she refuse? He would like

her the better if she did, and he had seen her thwart her master on a

lesser matter. She might yet be a Vashti.

The men sat staring and laughing. Did she refuse? Not she! A glow

coloured her face—not anger, but pleasure and pride. Her eyes

glittered.

“If any one says it isn’t my own I’ll show him what God gave me!” cries

she, and began unknotting her ribbon.

We all know that fillet binding her glorious auburn waves. Romney

painted it, lingered over it, loved it. It was true Greece, though she

never guessed it; the Bacchante’s wear when with girt-up robe she runs

through the woods, shouting her wild fellows from their lairs to follow

Him of the leopard skin and the thyrsus. We see it to-day in her

pictures that cannot die while beauty lives.

A few swift dexterous turns of the hand and she flung down the ribbon at

her feet, and pulling out a few pins stuck them in her mouth like a

maid-servant, and then shook her head. Down rolled the torrent, a royal

mantle, chestnut woven with gold, and so veiled her near to the ankles.

She turned herself about to show the smooth undulations feathering into

pure gold at the tips.

“There’s for you!” cries Sir Harry. “Has any of you a girl to match

that? You may pull it if you will, Weldon, to see if it isn’t tight

where it grows. Hold it out, Emily.”

She held it out like wings shining to either side, the men marvelling.

There was enough and to spare of the praise and comment that fed her

vanity then. But Greville said nothing, though her seeking eye turned in

his direction, and presently the cards were got out and the heroine

knotted the locks up with simulated carelessness and so went off to the

upper end of the room with her book, forgotten in the gamble.

He stood out and followed her after a while, sitting near her out of

ear-range but well within eye-shot of Sir Harry. No risks for Greville.

He asked her what pictures amused her, and to his surprise she turned

the book and showed him a fine set of Flaxman’s illustrations to the

Iliad and Odyssey; figures beautiful, severe, dignified; the pure and

perfect line that in so much resembled her own surpassing grace. On the

open page the goddess Calypso, loose robe flowing in noble folds,

directed the shipwright labours of Ulysses, clear-featured, akin to

heaven but bound to earth by love.

“Where on earth did you get this?” says he in astonishment.

“In the liberary,” replied Mrs. Hart, struggling with the redundant

syllable.

“And do you like it? Do you understand it?”

“Not a word. But it pleases me. The women are fine to look at. I dress

as near that as I can. What are they?”

“Goddesses,” condescended Mr. Greville, smiling superior.

“What’s a goddess?” was the next question.

He explained as best he could, and, unwilling to lose the opportunity

for a lesson, finished with some emphasis by saying that they knew their

own worth and were above the mean vanities and tempers of common women.

Therefore were they loved and respected.

“You mean,” says she, as sharp as a needle, “that I shouldn’t rage the

way I’m apt. I know you saw me smack Betty’s face t’other day when she

let fall the tea on my muslin gownd. Well, I wouldn’t have done it if

I’d known you was coming. I know, too, I anger Sir Harry, answering

back, and that’ll be the worse for me. But what am I to do if I feel

that way? I’m fit to burst my girdle sometimes. Things do so anger me.”

“You make a great mistake in such behaviour, since you invite my

opinion.” His very voice awed her, with the clear-cut vowels and

consonants and the cool distinction of phrase and manner. Sir Harry

spoke like a Sussex gentleman, but Greville like a prince, she thought;

there was a serene remoteness about him, as from the height of a throne,

which was sufficiently alarming, but attracting also.

She was woman enough to sense his contempt of Sir Harry, and that in

itself set him high. Suddenly her eyes gloomed. She grew reckless.

“And what does it matter what I do? Here to-day and gone to-morrow as

the saying is? The likes of me end in a ditch mostly. A short life and a

merry one, say I! I’ll go my own way, and let them that don’t like me

leave me!”

Greville was in no way stirred. He turned a leaf or two and considered

the illustrations. Then, with studied politeness:

“You mistake very much, madam, if you consider your career so hopeless.

You have gifts that might be improved and win you a secure position. At

present you throw them away—if you will allow me to be frank—in

vulgar”—he hesitated delicately at the word—“tantrums that bring you

to a lower level than you merit. ’Tis a great pity.”

Her mood changed again instantly.

“Oh, sir, I beseech you not call me madam. I’m but a poor country girl,

and it confuses me that I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels.

Call me Emily, and for God’s sake advise me, for I don’t see no end to

all this, but slipping back in the mud. You must know Sir Harry’s temper

is violent. Look here, bend this way. He won’t see.”

She lifted the muslin sleeve, lightly tied with ribbon, doing this with

a wary eye on the other end of the room, and disclosed an arm like

country cream but disfigured with black bruises above the elbow. The

print showed the grip of a man’s powerful hand on the softness.

“No doubt you vexed him, yet it should not be.” Greville motioned her to

pull down the sleeve. “But I would have you know, Emily—since that name

is your wish—that life is a thing to be made much as we would have it.

You have good looks, a voice that if trained would bring you notice, and

I should not despair of an actress’s career if you was taught, but if

you can’t govern yourself and take pains there’s no hope, for you can

never be respected.”

He harped on this string, you observe. It was perhaps not difficult to

see how she coveted applause and the general good opinion. But respect!

“Oh, sir, who could respect a girl like me?”

The beautiful forlorn grey eyes were so appealing that Greville, having

carefully noted that she sat with her back to the card players, crossed

his silk-clad legs indolently and unbent a little.

“There’s no position where respect can’t be won. I am acquainted with

Mrs. Wells—a lady whose is the very position you hold here—and so far

as she is known she is universally respected. Does she flame and quarrel

with those about her? No. Does she overstrain sentiment and imagination

and always consider herself slighted unless every eye is upon her? Not

she! Does she make foolish and vulgar exhibitions of her charms for the

pleasure of other men besides him to whom she owes her home? No, indeed.

She is well-governed, discreetly alluring, diffuses a charming serenity,

and has the pleasing art to retain a lover as a friend when she passes

on to the next happy possessor.”

The wisdom of the Serpent, and Eve listening fascinated. Though a little

beyond her in some respects, Greville’s calm enthusiasm aroused her own.

“That’s a real lady!” she said, looking down pensively, “but I fear ’tis

beyond me.” Then, flashing suddenly into the personal. “How do you know

her so well, sir? No, I don’t like the woman! I’ll not imitate her.”

Greville withdrew his chair by an inch. He uncrossed his legs and was

dignified.

“If this were not the speech of a pettish child, I should rebuke it

severely! How I knew Mrs. Wells is not of importance. But to illustrate

what I wished to mark, the lady has been and is under the protection of

men of the highest birth and breeding. From them she has studied good

manners and—”

“Oh, Mr. Greville, answer me this only: Is she with you?”

The face was so eager and troubled that he again relaxed a little.

“Certainly not, but I have the satisfaction to meet so agreeable a

person at a friend’s house occasionally and think her an excellent

example for a young woman like yourself. A man must always respect

discretion in a woman and if—”

Again interruption, the words bubbling out unrestrained:

“Oh, I’ll learn of her, indeed I will. She wouldn’t have pulled down her

hair to let the men see. Couldn’t I tell the dislike in your eye! But

why _didn’t_ you approve? Tell me and I’ll do my best to comprehend you.

Oh, what a friend I might have in you could I deserve it! No one in this

world ever spoke to me before, nor cared a straw but to make me pass the

time for ’em.”

Mr. Greville assumed his best didactic style; the one that angered many

men, but, expressed in his beautiful enunciation, impressed women from

duchesses downward to the mesdames Wells of his acquaintance.

“No, I could not approve. Sure you can see it is to make your favours

cheap, and what is cheap is scorned. Men other than the one who protects

you should be treated with a perfectly agreeable good humour, but a

decent reserve, and of all things you should avoid to anger the man on

whose bounties you depend.”

“Bounties!” cried the fair listener, and instantly controlled herself,

with heaving bosom.

“Bounties!” repeated the instructor firmly. “He takes you to decorate

his home and enhance his comforts, and though Sir Harry had not the

breeding to object to that particular display you often cross him more

than is proper. I don’t myself approve of his method. Were a girl of

your abilities in my possession I should have her educated. I believe

you might repay it.”

There was a pause. A long one. Then, softly clasping her hands and

regarding him with dewy eyes, the pupil said in a whisper:

“Oh, would that I was! Would that I was!”

That ended the conversation at the moment, for Greville rose

immediately, and with a light remark began studying the pictures on the

wall, walking slowly round the room, his arms behind him, until he

joined the card players again, and complimented Sir Harry on his

possessions, when the game ended. He did not, however, allude to the

most surprising of them and was guarded afterwards in his approaches to

it. Yet the conversation was renewed from time to time and always on the

same lines, her possibilities, faults, conduct, and the hope which might

tinge the future should she deserve better.

There was a sheltered spot in an angle of the house where she sat when

the sun shone, and here he would surprise her sometimes with her

book—trying to master what the author would be at. Once, with writing

materials, improving her writing. It was touching and the eyes looking

up beneath her gipsy hat, soft in its shadow, were more touching still.

“I do my best, Mr. Greville—a poor best!” said she, raising the

ill-formed characters to his notice. “Ah, if I’d but been educated, what

a girl I might have been! There’s no chance without it.”

She was as pat as his echo. That was her way, though he did not

understand it. She took her colour _chameleon_ fashion from the leaf

that sheltered her, and was boisterous and hoyden with Sir Harry, quiet

and engaging with him, and had a hundred other qualities behind ready to

match those she came across. Was there any real fixed personality under

it all? God knows! Her moods were as volatile as they were passionate at

the moment.

Now and always, she was the pupil to Greville’s condescension. It served

her as usefully as it did him later. They fitted like a mosaic.

He looked down at the straggling letters, the blot at the top, the

spelling.

“Indeed you advance, Emily, and when I leave I have no objection if you

write me your news once or twice. ’Tis possible I may be here in

February and renew the acquaintance.”

“Acquaintance!” she cried with warmth. “No—I don’t understand that

word, Mr. Greville. You’ve given me the wish to improve, and I count you

for a friend indeed. I’ll study two hours each day faithfully until I

have the happiness to see you once more.”

She meant it probably at the moment, yet most certainly would not fulfil

the promise with the master’s eye removed to London, but this did not

occur to Greville’s estimate of his influence.

“You do yourself justice, my dear Emily. I have a sincere wish to see

you improve and—”

She caught one word and caressed it with lingering sweetness.

“Your dear Emily! Can the poor unhappy girl be Greville’s dear Emily?

Oh, how happy for me could that be possible, but no, it never, never

will be. And do you go soon?”

“In four days, but you will not pass wholly from my mind. I shall wonder

occasionally if Emily is studious and loves her work.”

“She will, she shall!” cries the pupil softly, “and when you come again

you shall say, ‘Mrs. Wells is admirable, but Emily too improves and

behaves as I would have her.’ Oh, Greville, Sir Harry yesterday flung

his boot after me because I wouldn’t bring him t’other and Hawkins was

downstairs, and indeed my temptation was to fly upon him and drive the

boot at his head. But not me. I recalled your words and advanced and

fetched it. ‘Sir,’ says I, politely, ‘I won’t imitate your bad manners.

Here’s your boot, and I’ll desire Hawkins to come to you when I go

down!’ Was that well?”

“Excellent—on the whole!” says Greville, qualifying, “but you might

have left out the bad manners. Men don’t love to be reproached. A gentle

endearing sweetness would have served your turn better. Again, don’t

suppose I defend Sir Harry, but it is the woman to bend and adapt

herself suavely to the man’s requirements.”

With tear-filled eyes she owned him in the right and promised to repay

his interest by gratefully doing as he bid her.

Her docility delighted him. He knew it sincere, as indeed it was, and

supposed it not so much a mere vein of gold as the basis of her nature.

What he could not estimate was that the violent scenes with Sir Harry,

the rollicking songs and jests with his companions, were equally natural

and a part of her many-coloured temperament. She was exactly what her

surroundings might be. Life, for her, was a drama and she played the

part the moment allotted, boldly adapting herself to her fellow actors.

She reflected their own personalities in increased vividness, eager only

to catch and retain the part of prima donna, be it what it would. This

was instinctive. She was ignorant that she caught Greville by his desire

to instruct and prose, to express his store of maxims where they would

be heard with reverence and exalt him by displaying a masterpiece of his

own discovery, whether woman or crystal. Yet she did it, and had she

held a chart of his mental windings, could not have done it better.

Is this the secret of the immortal siren who flashes out on us from so

many conquering faces down the pages of history—to catch and repeat a

lover, but with the added passion of sex and temperament on honeyed lips

ripe for kisses? The Greeks, it may be, aimed at this truth in declaring

that in the Trojan Helen every man beheld his heart’s delight in the

form he best loved; which, we may believe, will mostly be the reflection

of himself. It was no nymph, but the boy Narcissus, who fell in love

with his own image in the pool, and does this eternally.

He had several brief passages with her before the four days passed, and

each time she grew on him surprisingly. It was against his code to

meddle with another man’s mistress, and entirely against his inclination

to incur the complications it would ensure. Sir Harry would resent with

loud complaint and oath any such poaching and the clubs would ring with

his honest indignation. Greville, be sure, had no intention of upsetting

his own quiet comfort and running the risk of making himself ridiculous

for a woman of Emily Hart’s character, but was equally determined that

he would not lose sight of her.

Their real parting took place the day before he left and it was in the

park, where he met her returning from an errand of mercy to some old

goody in the village, her basket swinging in her hand, and a furred

cloak about her that made her bloom most exquisitely soft and fair. He

commended her kind heart, which indeed was no more than justice, and did

not mention that he had seen her from his window and had hastened down

by the short cut through the garden for a last word. This would have

made her too confident.

“We are to part to-morrow, Emily,” says he with a certain solemnity,

“and since I cannot repeat it in public, let me hope my words will not

be forgotten, for all your future must now depend on your conduct. You

are not seventeen, and prosperity and security may yet be yours if you

are discreet and govern your impulses. _There_ is the whole secret.

Impulse has been and will be your ruin unless controlled.”

It must certainly appear that this young man as he walked discoursing

beside her was a finished prig, the born preacher of an immoral

morality. Nature was a force he dreaded and despised, and he had

carefully pruned and grafted it in his own case so that no rebellious

shoots and tendrils should trouble his peace. In spite of all his wise

saws and modern instances, it was in this girl to burst into a tropic

luxuriance of blossom that must wreathe her with crowns undreamed of in

his arid philosophy, and make the world itself marvel. Had she pruned

and trimmed and clipped as she tried her best to do for his sake, that

strange and brilliant future had never been.

She promised, however, passionately, and with a warmth he thought

excessive, adding:

“And may I write to you, Greville, and will you despise my poor letters,

and will you still interest yourself for my good and write to tell me

so?”

“You may certainly write to me if the need arises, my dear Emily, for

your attention to all I say convinces me you have good qualities.

Naturally I cannot write to you. This would be to treat Sir Harry in a

way I neither can nor will, and might have unpleasant consequences. Let

me know if anything should occur to part you from him, and when that day

comes I believe you may find he will make a provision for you that shall

mark his esteem for your conduct.”

Provision was not in her view; the fact that Greville was passing out of

her life, possibly for ever, drowned that and all else. She caught his

hand, and looked at him with quivering lips.

“Oh, how shall I thank you for your divine goodness to a poor girl like

me? Oh, Greville, Greville, don’t forget me! But you won’t for all

you’re such a great gentleman and makes Sir Harry and all the rest look

like Sussex boors. And your knowledge—What is there you don’t know?

Things I never even heard tell of and can’t never hope for. Oh, if I

never see you again—and Heaven forbid it, for you _must_ come in

February—I’ll remember you till my dying day, and say ‘Greville didn’t

despise the poor Emily. He knew she had a heart to feel his words that

he honoured her with—and to love him! To love him!’”

She was sobbing now hysterically. He looked around with swift caution

and drew her into the shade of a copse of evergreens uncommanded by the

windows of the house, for this emotion must not be seen. Here he

exhorted her to compose herself, and in vain.

It was inevitable, since she could not, that he should put his arms

about the lovely mourner. Her cheek rested against his, their lips met,

the basket lay forgotten at their feet.

She was obliged to remain a while in the shade to wipe the tears from

her face when he strode off to join the other gentlemen coming back from

their shooting. He never looked back.

Next day in the hall, Mrs. Hart curtseyed charmingly to Mr. Greville’s

bow as he said farewell, half deafened by Sir Harry’s ringing

exhortations to return in February.

CHAPTER III

THE EXPLOSION

GREVILLE did not return in February. He had other and more important

invitations and time a little dulled the strong impression Emily Hart

had made upon him. She had written more than once, dutiful ill-spelt

letters, monuments of labour—love’s labour, and not wholly lost.

He had also seen her twice, for she insisted with Sir Harry on coming up

to London to visit her mother, a simple, good-natured old body, now

decorated with the remarkable name of Mrs. Cadogan (Heavens knows why!)

and, through Greville’s own influence, serving as cook in the family of

one of the numerous Hamilton and Greville connections. He had not wholly

approved of the step of coming to London. Her enthusiasm and energy, far

from warming his tepid blood, rather alarmed him than otherwise. He

declined to see her but in Mrs. Cadogan’s presence and, though

condescending and encouraging on the moral-immoral lines, was guarded.

That anxiety for her mother’s company might mislead Sir Harry but could

not himself. Months passed after the last visit with a letter or two,

and then a silence. It certainly did not flatter him to believe he might

be forgotten and that she was adjusting herself so comfortably to Sir

Harry that outside interests were fading. Yet it might be so. The brief

letters certainly showed no sign of study or improvement—she must

therefore value his exhortations more lightly. That irked him somehow.

It touched both curiosity and vanity, and breaking his almost invariable

rule he wrote her a few friendly lines—no more.

He sat one morning in his London house in his embroidered Turkish

dressing-gown, arranging a small cabinet of gems and intaglios belonging

to his uncle, Sir William Hamilton, for which he had made himself

responsible on their arrival in London. His letter acknowledging them

lay on the table beside him.

“My dear Hamilton,” it began, for so he always called this almost

brother-uncle, “I never saw anything more beautiful than this Medusa on

agate. Your usual good fortune always attends you—” and so forth. His

whole mind was on this as he moved and replaced the beautiful fossils of

antique art with delicate fingers. He wished, indeed, at least a part of

them were his own, for a schedule of expenses had given him some

discomfort the night before, and it was clearly a choice between cutting

down certain luxuries and selling one or two treasures to make both ends

meet. A younger son of a great family is often face to face with these

little difficulties. It is hard to be the same flesh and blood as the

elder brother and see all the money, land, and nearly all the

consideration flow in that channel, leaving the younger dry.

“A rich wife? True—but then—”

The gems occupied him now. He was bending over the cabinet in deep

attention when his man brought in a post letter, ill-scrawled and

sealed, with drops of wax about it as if the sender had suffered from

extreme haste and agitation.

It fell into that calm, retired atmosphere of extreme culture and quiet

like a meteor from another and more volcanic world of upheavals, but it

did not hurry Charles Greville though he knew the hand. He still

continued his delicate work until all were neatly sorted, the cabinet

locked and the key in his pocket. And not till then did he slit the

paper with a silver knife, and spread the big sheet open before him. The

postmark was Chester, which somewhat surprised him.

Good Lord!—that brutal beast Sir Harry! He was turning her loose on the

world, an expectant mother and without a guinea—a girl of seventeen!

Yet even before he read the rest his prudence had suggested the thought

that as likely as not she had brought it on herself by some unpardonable

levity. Caution—caution! That was the basis of all his thoughts as he

read. It went on like the cry of a tortured, unreasoning animal, a hare

caught in a gin awaiting its murderer. That would not have moved him,

but this stirred him somewhat.

“Yesterday did I receve your kind letter. It put me in some spirits for

believe me I am allmost distrackdid. I have never hard from Sir H and he

is not at Lechster now, I am sure. I have wrote 7 letters and no anser.

What shall I dow? Good God, what shall I dow? I can’t come to town for

want of mony. I have not a farthing to bless myself with and I think my

friends looks cooly on me. I think so. O. G. what shall I dow? Oh how

your letter affected me when you wished me happiness. O. G. that I was

in your possession or in Sir H’s what a happy girl would I have been!

Girl indeed! What else am I but a girl in distres—in reall distres. For

God’s sak, G. write the minet you get this, and only tell me what I am

to dow. Direct same whay. I am allmos mad. Oh for God’s sake tell me

what is to become on me. O dear Greville write to me. Write to me. G.

adieu and believe yours for ever, Emily Hart. Don’t tell my mother what

distres I am in, and do afford me some comfort.”

A strange letter for a man of his age to be faced with since it did not

concern him personally. He sat staring at it with distaste, seasoned

with pity. Girls must expect to suffer who have no safeguards in a world

made for and by men, but after all she was very young, and Sir Harry,

with his abounding plenty, a brute. He sat long, for there was much to

consider—even more for himself than for her. He drew up two mental

columns for and against what she was obviously praying for. He liked the

girl after a fashion; her docility pleased him; her passionate and

submissive adoration of his own greatness won him; her beauty stirred

him more than any he had ever beheld. Here he paused for a swift review

of the past and deciding that so it certainly was, passed on to the next

consideration. Now if he were to take a little home for her in the

suburbs and make it his headquarters he might well sell or let this

great mansion in Portman Square and thus pass the time in modest

retrenchment until he could find the exactly suitable heiress who must

ultimately become the Honourable Mrs. Charles Greville and provide him

with unlimited means for the purchase of articles of _virtu_. This

economy might be a most valuable matter to him at the present moment.

And lastly, there was pity. Greville’s heart was not as mineralogical as

his collections. It must be a petrifaction through and through if he

were not stirred to compassion by this hopeless plight of despairing

youth. It was not that. He remembered the great impassioned eyes, dewy

with tears, looking into his own in the evergreen copse. He remembered

the long embrace. He remembered her almost frantic joy when she stepped

from the coach in London from those visits to her mother, the so-called

Mrs. Cadogan, and found him waiting for her with his superfine air of a

great gentleman who dropped these favours as trifles from chilly

altitudes. How lovely she had been, all sparkling, smiling, trembling,

gay as a daffodil tossing on a spring breeze. And he remembered, for in

this gentleman prudence was his foremost virtue, that the fact of Mrs.

Cadogan’s presence in London would relieve him from much responsibility

should he decide to be gracious, and furthermore that he had heard she

was an unsurpassable cook. She would naturally follow her daughter’s

fortunes if needful and be a faithful steward of her interests.

Yet on the other side must be set the uncertainties of such a

connection. Naturally it would not reflect on his own character, but he

knew Emily’s temper uncertain, and her conduct to himself while in Sir

Harry’s possession certainly suggested possible levities which he would

not for one moment endure. Yet again, why should he? A very modest

provision would always free him, especially with Mrs. Cadogan in the

background.

And though he had no money to fling about idly he had quite sufficient

for discreetly conducted pleasures. Above all, he hoped and expected

everything from Emily’s obedience and the amazed gratitude which any

condescension now would rivet to him unmovably. He could imagine her

saving every expense, waiting in tender submission on his every look,

lovely, worshipping—a sweeter Eve enclosed in a Paradise no other man

should enter. Would he expose her to the attentions of a set of

roisterers like Sir Harry’s companions? Never!

But the final thought that clinched his resolves was that never man

could own a more wonderful pupil. The more he reviewed and dissected,

the more certain he became that here was an uncut jewel of many carats

and facets. To cut, to polish, to make her a lady, a woman of demirep

fashion, a brilliant Aspasia, singing, posing, acting, the desired of

all desires—this would be fame and envy in his world, and contempt for

the boor who had tossed her away like a common pebble.

At last he saw his path. He drew the paper to him, read it once more and

set himself to the answer. In short, he had decided he could rule her.

“My dear Emily, I do not make apologies for Sir H.’s behaviour

to you, and altho’ I advised you to deserve his esteem by your

good conduct, I own I never expected better from him. It was

your duty to deserve good treatment from him, and it gave me

great concern to see you imprudent the first time you came from

the country, as the same conduct was repeated when you was last

in town, I began to despair of your happiness. To prove to you

that I do not accuse you falsely I only mention five guineas and

half a guinea for coach. But, my dear Emily, as you seem quite

miserable now I do not mean to give you uneasiness but comfort,

and tell you I will forget your bad conduct to Sir H. and

myself, and will not repent my good humour if I find you have

learned by experience to value yourself and preserve your

friends by good conduct and affection.

I will now answer your letter.

You tell me your friends look coolly on you; it is therefore

time to leave them; but it is necessary for you to decide some

points before you come to town. You are sensible that for the

next three months your situation will not admit a giddy life if

you wished it. After you have told me Sir H. neither provides

for you nor takes any notice of your letters, it might appear

laughing at you to advise you to make Sir H. more kind and

attentive. I do not think a great deal of time should be lost,

for I have never seen a woman clever enough to keep a man who is

tired of her. But it is a great deal more for me to _advise you

never_ to see him again and write only to inform him of your

determination. You must, however, do either the one or the

other. You may easily see, my dear Emily, why it is absolutely

necessary for this point to be settled before I can move one

step. If you love Sir H. you should not give him up.

But besides this, my Emily, I would not be troubled with your

connections (excepting your mother) and with Sir H.’s friends

for the universe. My advice is then to take a steady resolution.

I shall then be free to dry up the tears of my lovely Emily and

give her comfort. If you do not forfeit my esteem perhaps my

Emily may be happy. You know I have been so by avoiding the

vexation which frequently arises from ingratitude and caprice.

Nothing but your letter and your distress could incline me to

alter my system, but remember I never will give up my peace or

continue my connection one moment after my confidence is

betrayed. If you should come to town and take my advice you

should take another name. By degrees I would get you a new set

of acquaintances, and by keeping your own secret I may expect to

see you respected and admired. Thus far as relates to yourself.

As to the child, its mother shall obtain its kindness from me

and it shall never want. I enclose you some money: do not throw

it away. God bless you, my dearest lovely girl, take your

determination and let me hear from you once more. Adieu, my dear

Emily.”

He read this epistle through twice (with certain passages omitted here),

then folded and sealed it with his usual impeccable care. He knew it

must shine like a rainbow in blackest clouds through the rain-wet eyes

that would read it.

“I have three safeguards,” he reflected, as he impressed it with his

seal of a flying Eros in cornelian, “money—she has none, nor prospects.

The child, for who else will spend a doit on it? And gratitude—unless

the old lady, her mother, urges her on to make a better market of such

beauty.”

It will be observed that Greville put gratitude last. He prided himself

on his knowledge of the human and especially the feminine heart. So he

finally despatched his letter.

Next day he wrote to his dear Hamilton, between whom and himself ran a

pleasant link of exchanged piccadilloes as well as of articles of

_virtu_. He was wont to dissect the immoral in his reflections to

Hamilton as well as in his own heart, and he did it now, dwelling

slightly on the arrangement he contemplated and fully on his reasons for

making it. He did not spare his Emily’s past. An immaculate one would

have appeared as absurd in Sir William’s eyes as his own in such

circumstances, and there was no thought of concealment. But it afforded

an opening for the reflections on women which he privately judged worthy

to be classed with the epigrams of the mighty, and, indeed, they were

pretty well for a man of thirty odd. Thus he wrote of the weaker vessel.

“With women I observe they have only resource in art, and there is to

them no interval between plain ground and the precipice, and the springs

of action are so much in the extreme of the sublime and the low that no

absolute dependence can be given by men—” and so forth—Rochefoucauld

and water, but very impressive to Sir William Hamilton, who, though the

elder, was deeply influenced by his handsome nephew’s worldly skill and

finesse. Greville, at all events, did justice to Emily’s beauty, or as

he now insisted on calling her, “Emma’s,” that name being in vogue as a

romantic variant, and as such gladly adopted in the change he suggested.

“Emma,” he wrote, “is the most amazing beauty that ever my eyes lit on.

I long, my dear Hamilton, for your opinion to support mine that on the

whole she is quite unequalled in either of our memories. Contemplating

her from the point of view of a student of the perfect standard of the

antique I know no alteration I could have recommended either in face or

figure unless it were possibly a little more delicacy of the hands and

feet. Her masses of hair spring from a brow as low and broad as the

Clytie’s, the length and roundness of her throat suggest our Roman

Venus, the moulding of back and bosom the Stooping Venus, and—”

But why continue? All that he and Sir William had ever passed in

delighted review in Italy was summoned to draw the fairest picture in

the elder man’s mind that words could frame or memory paint. “And even

this falls short of the reality,” ended the letter. “Could you imagine a

man being such a ruffianly fool as to fling away such a jewel—the

perfectest modern-antique that ever human eye beheld? I hope to make her

a really economic housekeeper, for you know my needs are urgent and the

house in Portman Square a terrible drain on my resources. I shall now

proceed to let it.”

Sir William in reply expressed himself as passionately desirous to see

the Renaissance beauty, as he termed her. “Your Emma reads like one of

the sumptuous Venetian beauties whose calm and noble lines recall the

antique dignity of the great Roman families. May it not be long ere I

feast my eyes upon your choice.”

Greville could not acquiesce in the epithet, “calm.” He had met Emma at

the office of the Cheshire coach a few days before and had much ado to

prevent her flinging her arms about him in public in her glowing delight

and enthusiasm. He warded this off, however, until they were in the

hackney coach, and there, do what he would, she fell upon his shoulder

sobbing and laughing in a breath.

“I knew—I knew at Up Park that something was to come of it. Oh,

Greville, I knew you could not be so kind to me for nothing. Sure I was

made to serve and love you, and is it really, really true I am to be

with you and keep your house? Oh, indeed, you shall never have to

complain of me. Every word I speak shall be considered, every action—”

He tried in vain to stem the outflow and finding that impossible

submitted with patience for the length of a street and then turned the

subject to her journey. Had he sent her an ample supply of money? She

felt in her pocket beneath her long cloak and displayed a little, shabby

purse with a half guinea and some loose shillings.

“Did I calculate so near as that? I would have sent you more had I

known.” He spoke with compunction, looking at the remainder.

“Oh, Greville, you sent nobly; but there was a poor old woman in the

coach, going to see her sick son at Greenwich, and a sailor too, and I

couldn’t see her want for a meal and a drop of something warm to comfort

her poor old heart, and I gave her—”

Greville’s cold eye arrested her. She looked up almost trembling.

“You gave her _my_ money!”—with an awful pause between each word. “A

guinea? Emma, you are hopeless. Indeed, I have no hopes of you. A

heedless, wasteful girl! _When_ will you consider?”

A pause, her head hanging down like a flower in the rain. Not a word to

say for herself.

He relented presently and she revived as quickly as a dog beaten and

then received into favour. Eagerly she promised amendment.

“I must give, Greville. I can’t say no somehow, but I promise and

declare to you it shall never be more than a halfpenny at one time. Will

you allow that? Just one halfpenny.”

Even Greville was wrung into a smile. No, he would not mind that. It was

agreed.

He left her with Mrs. Cadogan, beheld the meeting—a little awed by his

stately presence—viewed with condescension the two rooms chosen at his

expense, and then departed. He did not intend to see either again until

the house at Edgware Row, Paddington Green should be ready for

occupation, and its new mistress ready to take up her duties.

Her situation repelled his fastidiousness, though she carried it with

the physical indifference and health of the peasant to whom such matters

are a trifle in nature’s way, and her cloak was womanly draped about

her.

By a coincidence he met Sir Harry Fetherstonehaugh two nights later at

Almack’s and was obliged to submit to a greeting he would have avoided

if he could.

“Why, how was it you never came down this winter? I don’t know as I ever

saw the birds stronger on the wing. I had the old set down and plenty

good sport.”

“And hunting?” asked Greville.

“Good, take it for all. No long hard frosts. Oh!—you heard the little

girl I had down there has left me, did you? Emily Hart.”

“I think I did, now you mention it.” Greville was idly looking at the

dancers in the room beyond. Sir Harry could not flatter himself he was

interesting his audience.

“Yes, and if you hear it spread about I was harsh with her, I beg you’d

contradict it. I hear as how Weldon should say he’d have given her a

home had he known the facts. Well, sir, the facts were these: That girl,

she’d kick up the very devil’s own dust if you crossed her in anything,

and I ask your reason, is a man to expect this from a mere slut? And

then, she didn’t know how to behave to the men I brought down. Either

held herself away and wouldn’t look at ’em if they didn’t please her, or

was too friendly if they did. Mind, I don’t mean to accuse her of more

than a hail fellow well met, but who, I ask you, was madam to indulge

herself in her whims when all she was to think of was how to please

_me_?”

Greville responded in an indistinct murmur. He was undoubtedly relieved

to find the indictment no heavier. It might have been one to give a blow

to his dreams of quiet settlement.

“So I just upped and said we must part, and, had she shown a spark of

good nature, even then might have relented—”

“Excuse me, I see a man I must speak with—urgent business. Return

soon!” Greville shot out, and so away with him and left the baronet

staring. The more so as he joined no man, but an extremely dignified and

beautiful lady of middle age, the famous Duchess of Argyll, formerly

Duchess of Hamilton and cousin of Greville’s uncle, Sir William

Hamilton. Stars of such magnitude scarcely shone in Sir Harry’s personal

heaven, and he looked on a little sourly while Greville, perfectly at

his ease, squired the great lady into the dancing room, laughing and

talking.

“I wonder now did I make any mess of what I was saying about that little

spitfire!” he thought to himself. “I wouldn’t lose Greville’s good word,

so I wouldn’t. But I’m glad to be rid of her for all! A man wants a new

face about him and must be master and more.”

As I dismiss Sir Harry here, his future fate may be given. A pretty and

virtuous girl, the daughter of one of his village labourers, caught his

roving fancy next and would have none of his secret approaches. It is

possible that Mrs. Hart’s adventures, well known in the village, served

as a beacon in dangerous seas. She rebuffed him quietly but firmly, and

the more he floundered, the deeper the hook pierced his gills. He was a

man who could not endure defeat, but must have the victory however

ruinous the cost. His friends watched the struggle with an interest

chiefly expressed in heavy wagers, yet even this circumstance, though

perfectly well known to him, could not save him from a much happier fate

than he deserved. For the girl married him and made him an excellent

wife and Lady Fetherstonehaugh, and a sensible, well-conducted mistress

of his great house, in breeding and temper matching him far better than

a lady of quality. A man who has erred less has often been less happily

suited than this gentleman who did not get his deserts.

Greville, however, never used her ladyship as an example of instruction

for his Emma, considering that this amazing circumstance might excite

hopes of an order the very last he wished to enter her mind, and it was

not till many years later she knew the fate of her ancient admirer. She

could laugh at it then for reasons Greville could never in his wildest

dreams have anticipated.

So events drew on. The “little Emma” was born and despatched to her

mother’s distant village of Hawarden for tending, and that her

neighbourhood might not inconvenience her young mother’s protector.

And thus Mrs. Hart became Greville’s housekeeper in Edgware Row, with

Mrs. Cadogan’s invaluable aid in the background.

CHAPTER IV

PEACE AND CATSPAWS

A MORE modest, decorous life than that in Edgware Row could scarcely be,

setting aside the initial impropriety. The past fell away from her like

a nightmare that daylight effaces and a young wife nestling in her

husband’s shelter could scarcely be more domestic than Emma. True, there

came the reports of the little Emma from Hawarden and there were her

small bills to be paid as a reminder, but Greville did this without

comment, and who, thought her mother, could feel the existence of that

pretty little innocent to be criminal, look at it how you would! That

was hardly Greville’s point of view. He was apt to consider any allusion

to the child a lapse of taste and to repel it.

And certainly there was plenty else to occupy her thoughts. Emma kept

the accounts, for a curry and a soup were more good Mrs. Cadogan’s

accomplishment than writing and ciphering. The accounts were perhaps not

on the most scientific principle, but they served and were duly laid

before the master every Monday. Here we have the day account for 29th

October, 1784:

Baker’s bill, one week £0 — 4 — 11

Butter bill, one week 5 — 1

Butcher 7 — 8½

Gloves 1 — 6

Coach 1 — 0

Poor man — ½

Apples — 2½

Wherefrom we can deduce no guilty splendours, but a healthy appetite for

bread and butter, and a promise kept to Greville to be straitened in

that fairest virtue, charity. The gloves too, even multiplying the sums

somewhat in view of the value of money a hundred and forty years gone

by; such gloves would scarcely have pleased the consummate Mrs. Wells or

her sisterhood. One must own to a slight disproportion in her milliner’s

bill, for “Mrs. Hackwood, £4—12—6” stares us in the face. Yet let the

censorious remember it was the end of October, winter approaching, and

velvet more suitable than straw, and ask himself what he supposes the

hats that adorn the brow of beauty to-day cost their happy possessors.

No, Greville had nothing to complain of on the score of extravagance. It

is said the household expenses did not amount to more than £100 a year

or thereabouts, and that Emma received but £30 a year for all her

adornments.

He had certainly reason to thank his cook and housekeeper alike. It

enabled him to take her education in hand more seriously than he had at

first intended, and as it proceeded his interest grew. His love also?

That must be judged on the consequences.

“It is time for us to start for Cavendish Square, Emma, and the hackney

coach waits,” says Greville, alert and clean-shaven, one bright May

morning. “Romney is to study you for Circe to-day. Bring the white robe

he desired.”

A fair dishevelled head looks round the door with dismay in its eyes.

“What, not ready yet? ’Tis most inconsiderate in you, especially when

you are aware the coachman charges for his time. I hate unpunctuality.”

“Oh, but I was doing the flowers, Greville. You said you liked a vase on

the dining-table. You don’t suppose I can be in two places at once.”

She has got the word _vase_ correctly now, but it does not mollify her

lord.

“Leave those flowers instantly. How long will you take to arrange your

hair and make yourself suitable?”

“Twenty minutes; I can’t do it under. And what’s more, I won’t try.”

“Twenty minutes! Do you consider no one’s time of value but your own?”

The head retreats, and steps are heard on the stairs and a clear

impertinent voice chanting:

Should he upbraid I’ll own that he prevail,

And sing as sweetly as the nightingale.

No simple ballad now, but trills and shakes in the purest soprano

imaginable; art decorating nature. And every trill and roulade, as he

reflects indignantly, she owes to Charles Greville and to him alone. It

was like a handful of bright spring water flung in his distinguished

face.

Greville never acted hurriedly. He wrote a few words, folded and sealed

them, went out to the hackney coachman and, desiring him to take the

note to Mr. Romney in Cavendish Square, paid and dismissed him. The

coach rolled slowly away and Greville sat down to read his magazine. He

looked at his watch. Twenty minutes passed; twenty-five. There was a

noise of hurrying footsteps overhead, the opening and shutting of

drawers, the click of the wardrobe door he knew so well, Mrs. Cadogan’s

heavy weight pounding up the stair to the rescue. He turned another leaf

and made a few notes. Half an hour.

Presently a rush downstairs; a flying figure in white with straw hat and

ribbons, May herself in colour and bloom bursting impetuous into the

room.

“Oh, it shall never happen again, Greville. Never, I swear.”

“It certainly never shall!” said he, placing his marker in the page and

laying it down.

“Good Lord! What’s gone with the coach?” cried Emma, running to the

window.

“The coach is nearing Cavendish Square with an intimation to Romney that

the sitting won’t take place. And, though I did not mention it to

Romney, no further sittings will take place unless I meet with a humble

apology and very different conduct. What! is his valuable time to be

wasted and mine also for your insufferable impertinence? Fie, Emma!”

She grew pale with angry emotion. Never was a face that more faithfully

reflected her moods. She could not hide them if she would.

“What! you’ve sent the coach away for a few dirty minutes like that?

You’re a cruel man, so you are! And me that loves sitting for my

pictures. I was doing the flowers to please you and this is my thanks.

I’ll have you know I’m not a slave if I _am_ an unhappy girl that has to

endure every kind of hard usage. You’re a grand gentleman and I’m

nothing, but I wouldn’t treat you like that. I’ll not see you again this

day!”

She tore off her hat, her lawn cloak, and flung them on the floor. She

dashed into the next room and tearing the flowers out of the vase flung

them into the garden. Finally, upstairs with her like a whirlwind and

Circe is heard to bang her door and lock it.

Greville, with the bell, serenely summons Mrs. Cadogan, curtseying and

affrighted.

“Have the goodness to inform Mrs. Hart that I go to London and stay this

night and possibly longer with her Grace the Duchess of Argyll. I shall

need no dinner until further notice.”

He collects such possessions as he needs and departs with more than

usual stateliness, and Mrs. Cadogan pounds upstairs the moment the door

closes after him and rattles the handle of Circe’s retreat.

“Let me in, Emy. ’Tis me, no one else. He’s gone, more like an ice

stature than a man. Oh, Emy, you’ll pull down the house over our heads

with your rages and follies. Let me in, I tell you. What man d’ye

suppose will stand such tantrums, and you that owe him the very bread we

eat. And little Emma the same!”

Silence. Mrs. Cadogan waxes eloquent at the key-hole.

“He’s off to London to stay with his duchesses and the like and he’ll

want no dinner until he orders it again, and for all you know he’ll

never come back!”

“Let him stay away then!” says a muffled tragic voice, evidently from

the depths of the pillow. “You won’t need to fry the fish for dinner.

That’s all the difference.”

“You fool, you!” says the pursy old lady outside and begins slowly to

retreat to the stair-head, making her departure as noisy as possible

that she may be recalled.

In a moment the door was open and Emma in crumpled white gown and

loosened hair framed in it, a hand on either jamb.

“Where did he say he was going?”

“To some duchess. I don’t know who. Yes, Gargyle, or something.”

“Then I’m going out too. I shall go to Romney’s. Give me the basket.”

With furiously flushed cheeks, she began smoothing her hair and the

rumples from her dress, a bitter sense of slighting contempt spurring

her to defiance. She would not eat, would not delay, would have a

hackney coach, and so off with her to Cavendish Square and Romney.

You are to imagine her entering that home of her delight with a softly

falling footstep, for it came upon her always with the calm experienced

in leaving busy streets behind and breathing the dim quiet of a church

with shapes of silent beauty in jewelled window and faint gold,

illuminated only by steadfast altar lights. This was her paradise, her

church, for this girl of the people was a true believer of the religion

of beauty; its priestess also, for she protested its creed in every

lovely movement, in delicious voice and melting attitudes, and often

winged hearts higher than they knew as they watched her. She was no

priestess like the heavy-lidded women who served dark goddesses in

Assyrian or Egyptian temples to snare men’s souls in the bird-lime of

the pit; yet, for all this, she brought men infallibly to her level when

they loved her; dyed them, all but Greville, of her own colour, and

whether that level was in the heights or the depths, let the reader

judge as this history unrolls. Certainly, two, the greatest, thanked God

they had known her, whatever the loud-mouthed world might say. And of

these, one was Romney.

The studio was large, and full of light as clear and thin as water from

the tall north window. He sat bending over a table with his back to her,

as though making some sketch-note that had suddenly struck his fancy. He

did not hear the door open, but when her foot touched the bare floor, he

said without moving, “Emma! Come in, child,” and went quietly on with

his work.

She set down the little basket which carried cakes of her own making and

butter and fresh eggs from the farm beyond the Green, and, coming up

behind him, put her hand on his shoulder to see his dream shape itself

on paper, until her hair brushed his ear. She knew well that as you

never wake a child suddenly from sleep, so it must also be with such as

Romney.

He took no heed of her—so deep was their harmony—but with the hand on

his shoulder, worked peacefully on.

It was herself, of course; for all that time, submerged in the

loveliness and charm of her, he scarcely had another thought. He was

making a study in wash for the Circe—the cave, the rocks, a hint of the

gracious figure emerging like light from the womb of darkness; the

chaotic beginning of the lovely world to be.

Not a word between them. The big old clock in the corner ticked

solemnly, the silent figures on the easels pursued their dreams, the

noise of traffic outside had sunk into a lulling murmur, and though she

could no more have worded it than have flown, the eternal peace of Art

stole into her heart and made her quarrel with Greville a transient

impertinence. “You were born for better things than that,” an inward

voice said, coming from the quiet, and her very soul assented.

After awhile he pushed the paper away and looked up at her, his glance

still dull with abstraction. A plain rugged face of strongly marked

features and powerful jaw; the extinguished-looking eyes heavy with the

melancholy that was to drown him later, and the mouth of the

dreamer—whether in tone or colour—passionately sensitive as her own.

Their eyes beheld each other a moment, and then hers dropped as she fell

on her knees beside him, and put her head on his knee.

“Dear Mr. Romney, I’m ashamed of myself. I am, indeed. You make me what

I should be, all beauty and wonder, scarce treading the earth, and I so

far below it. Only this very morning I wasted your precious time and

didn’t come because of a miserable quarrel with Greville. You painted me

as Serena, and I’m all tumult and folly; not worth your notice.”

“Why, what’s o’clock?” he asked, feeling for his big repeater. His

dialect matched her own, for Romney too was a child of the people. “I

didn’t know, child; the time went. Two hours late! Well, well, not

wasted anyhow. It’s shaping, it’s shaping. Just stand there in front a

minute, and put up your left arm—so!—arresting, commanding. You’re a

witch, reversing the spell that turned men into beasts. The other arm

hangs down. Take my mahl-stick in your hand for a rod, pointing

downwards, the magic gone out of it.”

He looked at her a moment as she melted slowly into the attitude he

desired. Instinctively she poised herself on the ball of the left foot,

a pose of wonderful strength and lightness, the lifted hand arresting

the pressing beasts.

“You lovely creature!” he said softly, with a kind of tender awe. Then,

thinking aloud, went on, “No, but the face! Not right. Depress the chin

a little; the eyes level and strong; but—no—I’ll tell you the story.

The woman in the goddess betrays her because her lover leaves her. She’s

frightened, for her own power means nothing to her beside him. He has

conquered her, for all she’s a goddess. The heavenly thing obeys the

earthly, but with majesty. Can you do it?”

“I know,” she cried, “I know!” and steadied like marble on the instant,

her features composing themselves into calm. No sorrow, a solemn awe, a

noble shame, a deep immortal regret that darkened the eyes and locked

the lips in eternal silence; and so stood Divinity by the waters of

oblivion she may not stoop to drink forever.

He looked at her, rapt, his hands idle on the table, absorbing her

passionately. Not an eyelash flickered until he released her with a long

sigh, and then, as it were, floated up to the surface of common things

once more.

“There was never any one like you, never will be!” he said slowly. “You

know, you feel without telling. You’re the thing you seem. Who told a

girl like you how goddesses look when they have lit on earth and find

themselves betrayed?”

She smiled and shook her head. That was a secret to herself, but she

knew her nature responsive as Æolian strings to a breeze; never a

vibration passed over her from man or thing but waked its sister-echo in

her heart.

“I think often you’d have been a great actress,” he said in his slow

way, as she got the papers off the table, laying them neatly on the

ground to be replaced exactly in the same order. She went to the corner

cupboard where he kept his loaf, set the kettle on the shabby little

stove, and while it heated, fixed the saucepan beside it and got out her

eggs and butter and cakes, and, full of deft housewifely cares, spread

his scanty cups and spoons on the table, and made ready the little meal

for two; and put the teapot on and the steaming eggs, and so set him

down and herself beside him and was ready for talk.

He watched her, fascinated. Those studio meals were not infrequent and

always they were his delight. He was to remember them with an ache

nothing could cure when she had taken her beauty and kindness to a land

strange and far, where she was the adored of many but to none the star

of hope, the golden Dawn she had become to him. But to-day was to-day,

and the future veiled, and he smiled as she pulled up the cracked chair,

too uncertain for his weight, and perched herself on the edge.

“Two eggs for each of us!” says she. “And those cakes, Mr. Romney,

they’re fine! We got the recipe, mother and me, from an old Scotchie

that came from Edinburgh. They just melt in your mouth as crisp as

fritters. And then I’ll mend that hole in your sleeve if you’ll slip off

your coat. And I’ll tell you my troubles.”

The soothing sunshine of her presence! He ate mechanically at first and

then with keen enjoyment. Indeed, the little saucepan went on again, but

this time for scrambled eggs with a flick of the sauce he kept to season

his daily mutton chop when time failed him for the chophouse.

“Food for the gods!” he called it, and left the plate so clean that she

declared she might almost spare herself the trouble to wash it up. And

then she whipped off his coat and set to with her needle.

“There’s never a thing you do but what makes a picture!” he said with

eyes that could not be satisfied. “Now—the way you sit, the light

falling on the curls above your ear—ah, well! The troubles, child, the

troubles. What are they?”

“My temper, as usual,” says she, stitching for dear life. “Mr. Romney, I

can scarce look you in the face for fear you’ll despise the fool that

can govern herself no more than a child. I do improve—God knows I try

hard enough—but still ’twill out when Greville or another vexes me,

even though I know I pull down my shelter with my own hands. And for

nothing that matters a brass farthing! To-day I was late and he flung it

in my face, any man would, and I must needs answer back, and off he went

to his grand friends.”

Watching, he saw a tear splash on the brass button of his coat, but said

nothing. He let her unpack her heart.

“I often fear it won’t last forever.” Her voice was quivering now. “For

it’s three years, and that’s a long time for a man’s heart though but a

day to a woman’s. He said, when we began, that he never knew a woman

clever enough to keep a man that was tired of her. Mr. Romney, is he

tired of me?”

Down went the coat on her knee, and two swimming eyes invited his

judgment as that of heaven, two trembling hands extended to receive

sentence.

“Child, how can I tell?” the Mentor answered tenderly. “To me it seems

that your infinite variety mocks the very word _tire_, but indeed I know

not these men of fashion who love themselves so well that there’s but

little room for a woman’s face in their heart. But you should not vex

him without cause. Greville loves his ease. Even my bat’s eyes can see

that far. But that he can throw such a jewel away I’ll never credit till

I see it.”

She shook her head disconsolate.

“I’m the most ungrateful girl on earth. I know it. Sure he sent me to

the sea and I ill, when he was off to his uncle’s new estates at

Milford. And he let me have little Emma with me, and not a grumble out

of him over my bills, which was wonderful indeed, though heaven knows I

kept them as low as low! And yet in spite of it, I can’t always hold my

miserable tongue, though I love him with all my heart and soul and shall

forever.”

“And you that I thought was modelling yourself on Serena in the poem!”

said Romney, with the ghost of a smile. “I don’t think you’ll ever rival

that lady, somehow, and for my part I don’t wholly wish you should. But

Greville likes ease, and to see his pupil do him honour. Teaching and

lecturing’s his master passion and every time you kick over the traces

you disparage his own method to him. That’s more than half the trouble.”

“I know, I know! And, sure, to please God and Greville is my only aim.

Oh, Mr. Romney, if we could see a little ahead, if we could know what’s

coming! He’ll turn his poor Emma off one day, and then—”

“Then she’ll know there’s a man smudges paint on canvas would rather

starve than she should want! But I think better of Greville’s

discrimination. You sit down here presently and write him a pretty

letter, and I’ll send it to the big house he’s at, and it will bring him

back to-morrow. But don’t anger him again. What is it but to stick a

knife in your own breast?”

She told him he was right, and resumed her stitching, and he watched her

with his heart in his eyes—his divine lady, his child, his muse; all

and one, and more that he could never put in words. If Laura possesses

Petrarch, and Dante, Beatrice, to the end of time, so most surely does

Emma possess the man who will not let her die, who with strong magic

caught and fixed ghost after ghost of her beauty upon canvas to make the

world eternally her lover.

When he resumed the coat and she had gravely considered the effect, head

on one side appraising, she got his pen and paper, and sat down to her

task. She wrote with ease now, and though the spelling was still

deplorable the hand was no worse than many a woman of quality’s.

She had been strongly moved that day, always indeed strongly moved

herself with the picture of her griefs, and as she wrote the tears were

so thick in her eyes that the letters swam before them.

“O my dearest Greville, don’t think on my past follies, think on

my good, little as it has been. O Greville, when I think on your

goodness, your tender kindness, my heart is so full of gratitude

that I want words to express it. But I have one happiness in

view, which I am determined to practice, and that is evenness of

temper. For endead I have thought so much of your amiable

goodness when you have been tried to the utmost that I will,

endead I will manege myself and try to be like Greville. There

is nothing like bying expearance. O Greville, think on me with

kindness. Think on how many happy days weeks and years—I

hope—we may yett pass. And endead, did you know how much I love

you, you woud freely forgive me any passed quarrels. I have done

nothing but think of you since, and O Greville, did you but know

when I so think, what thoughts, what tender thoughts, you would

say ‘Good God, and can Emma have such feeling sensibility? No, I

never coud think it. But now I may hope to bring her to

conviction, and she may prove a valluable and amiable whoman!’

True, Greville, and you shall not be disappointed. I will be

everything you can wish.”

Her own pathos had moved her to such a pitch by this time that she could

write no more and was forced to borrow Romney’s handkerchief to dry her

streaming eyes before she could sign and fold the letter.

“It’s all true, every word of it, and I don’t expect ever to be happy

more, but, oh, Mr. Romney, did you but know how _good_ I feel at this

moment!” said she, when the missive was despatched. “Never, never can I

so burst out again. ’Tis the blessed quiet in this dear place that aids

me, and your friendly presence. And now I must go. Wish me forgiven, for

without his love life is death to me and I would not ask to draw another

breath.”

She meant it to the full and her sweet face was like Congreve’s

“Mourning Bride,” until by good fortune, as Romney took her to the door

to call a coach for her, a Punch and Judy show came along the square,

and she must needs delay to see the antics, and very shortly was crying

for laughter as whole-heartedly as she had cried upstairs for sorrow.

The little crowd laughed with her, she leading with abandon that would

have driven Greville mad had he seen it, and Romney laughing behind her

with joy to see her cheered. Those two children of the people were much

at home with each other and with the people. Punch never held a merrier

assembly. As she turned finally to go Romney called her back a moment.

“Gavin Hamilton was here this morning and told me he hears Sir William’s

coming back from Naples to see to the estates his wife left him. You may

as well tell Greville, in case it’s news to him.”

She assented lightly, never guessing that Destiny, with the smile ironic

masked in triviality, was at her heels again, and went off to Edgware

Row at last gay as a lark and confident of forgiveness; sure in this

happy world all must be well; and Greville would be pleased to know his

uncle was coming. No censorious uncle he, but a sympathetic friend and

with an eye for beauty keen as Greville’s own. She promised herself an

unbending elderly admirer. Romney remained alone to think of her angelic

kindness and dear ways, and to touch and retouch his sketch while the

light lasted. He went forth then to his solitary chophouse. As for

herself, Greville was still sternly absent on her return, but her good

consoling mother had made a comfortable little roast of lamb for supper

and jam tarts to follow, and if the evening was not perfect bliss, at

least it was mighty endurable, and the jam tarts excellent to the

appetite of twenty healthy years.

CHAPTER V

THE RIFT

THE letter reached Greville at the stately house of her Grace the

Duchess of Argyll and was delivered into his hand as he sat with two

ladies so beautiful at their different ages that Paris might sooner have

devoured his apple, gold though it was, than run the risk of mistake in

awarding it to one or the other.

And lest it be believed that the romancer dresses all his ladies in

rainbow glories, I point out that the elder was the famous Elizabeth

Gunning—the double Duchess, as they called her—who had risen from

direst poverty by the victorious attack of her loveliness on the

embattled world, to be successively Duchess of Hamilton and Duchess of

Argyll, and the younger was Mrs. Crewe, that most fashionable of all

beauties, of whom it was said (in a world which knew not Emma!) that she

alone equalled or excelled the perfections of Elizabeth Gunning in the

days when she took the town by storm; a sweet, sleepy-eyed beauty,

gentle persuasion in every look, and a little delicate malice to season

the honey with ginger.

The ladies were dressed for a Court and were splendid in satins and

jewels. Greville, very much at home in that house, was festooning a

chain of diamonds to better advantage about Mrs. Crewe’s shoulders when

the letter made its appearance, the Duchess commenting on his fine

taste.

“There’s no man I know like you for taste, Greville,” says her gracious

Grace. “The Hamiltons are like that. How is it you pick up all these

notions? No wonder you’re fastidious.”

He put the letter carefully in his pocket with a spasm of anger that she

should dare pursue him there, and stood back to view his work.

“Mrs. Crewe sets it off even better than she did the other fashion. As

to my taste, ’tis formed on the antique, and what I’ve done is by no

means original. Thus the Roman Empress Faustina disposed her jewels to

catch the eyes of her gladiator lovers when she wearied of her

philosophic husband! Ah, madam, are not women the same in all ages?”

“They suit themselves to the men, who also don’t change, for all I see.

And if the Emperor was as dull as our philosophers to-day, I excuse her

Majesty.” Thus the Duchess.

“One may be dull without the excuse of philosophy to advertise it,”

replied Mrs. Crewe at the mirror, looking at her long swan’s throat,

glorious with diamonds. “Do but think of the Duke of Devonshire. It

gives me an indigestion to look at him. It runs in families. ’Tis

because Mr. Greville is half Hamilton that he’s such highly instructive

company.”

She shot a little ironic glance at him from under long lashes. The lady

knew very well that here was one who “could gaze without madness on

Amoret’s eyes”—eyes which had settled the fate of not lovers only but

of more than one contested election, for she had but to smile upon the

happy voters and they were won. Greville hated political women, and she

knew it. Hence the little scratch, a pat with velvet paw. But he was

stirred to discomfort nevertheless, for Mrs. Crewe was a thermometer for

measuring the liking of society, and had a smile graduated to its exact

temperature. Could it be possible the great world began to find him a

little tedious, a little _arrièré_? He was born older than any of them

to begin with and had relished a fossil when others were gambling,

tripping and soaking, and it was not always easy to conceal that their

amusements palled on him. And for the last three years he had permitted

himself to drop rather more into obscurity with his delightful pupil

than his reason could approve. She was troublesome sometimes, but yet

her amazing progress in the graces and accomplishments she owed him and

the masters he provided was a daily amusement and interest. And the

little house in Edgware Row was absolute comfort. The dish, chosen by

himself, and cooked perfectly to his taste, suited his liking and health

better than the sumptuous banquets of the great houses, and Emma’s

company, which required no tip-toe courtesy or courting, allowed him to

stand at ease in a way impossible with the fashionable ladies who

welcomed him, perhaps a shade more coldly than formerly. But—if he were

dropping out? To be forgotten is a much less easy process than

forgetting, and Mr. Greville must be received with acclaim wherever he

deigned to show himself. Was his season slipping by? He winced. She was

not worth it. No! not a day, not an hour should she stand in his light

if he were once persuaded of that. And economize as she would, still his

taste for the antique led him into irretrievable expense. That matter,

too, was becoming urgent.

He must control his tendency to pontificate. Sir William had warned him

of it once half jesting—Sir William, who was twenty years younger for

all the remorseless parish register.

He broke up his collegiate calm into smiles on the very fear of

disapproval, and executed a little adoration of Mrs. Crewe, yet not

enough to compel the Duchess to recall her own age. They discussed the

company to appear at the Court, and Mrs. Crewe flung another softly

feathered dart.

“Miss Middleton will be there,” says she. “I met Lady Middleton this

afternoon—a woman I swallow with difficulty. She detained me a whole

ten minutes to hear the story of the latest heart Miss Middleton has

strung with the other scalps at her girdle. ‘A most desirable prospect,

my dear’—she mimicked the proud mother—‘wealth, devotion; everything

but family. The father is Wade, the successful Irish merchant.’ Lord!

says I, what signifies family nowadays? If money is not worth a little

wading in the mud, what is?”

Greville laughed to hide discomfort. He knew perfectly well what was in

the air. He, the fastidious, the condescending, had distinguished Miss

Middleton with languid attentions. Of all the heiresses he had scanned

during the past three years, she appeared the most desirable, and

marriage with her the least unpleasant alternative. And the so-called

friends of his circle knew this perfectly and waited expectant, though

it would be decidedly more amusing (they owned) to see the gold cup slip

from his lip and my fastidious gentleman left in the lurch, if the luck

should turn that way.

“I dine there to-morrow and shall hear the news,” he said easily. “Lord,

how well you mimic Lady Middleton, madam! Had she no more news for you?”

“Not that will interest you, sir. Why, yes, now I think of it! I had

forgot, but no doubt you know it. She said she had met Gavin Hamilton,

suddenly back from Italy, and he told her Sir William will be returning

shortly. His wife’s death two years ago has given him things to look

into here. But no doubt you know this.”

“I shall by next mail, madam, but not yet. Very likely Gavin has a

letter in hand for me.”

“’Twill be agreeable to see Sir William again,” said the Duchess. “I

ever liked him best of my Hamilton relations. He will be well received

at Court too. The King never forgets his foster brother.”

She alluded to the fact that Lady Archibald Hamilton, Sir William’s

mother, had been _maîtresse en titre_ to Frederick, Prince of Wales,

George III’s father, a circumstance which had much advantaged Sir

William in life.

“I know no one with more agreeable manners,” she added. “In society he

has all the graces of a young man, and yet the savants are at home with

him. I hope with all my heart he finds a charming wife awaiting him in

England. He wants an Ambassadress in that big villa in Naples, and I

know no man who could make a more agreeable husband to a sensible woman.

He can’t expect to find a saint like your late aunt, Greville, but not

many women would refuse a man of his temper. Indeed, I have one in my

mind—”

Greville, quivering with uneasiness, begged to hear the name, but she

shook her head, laughing.

“No, no. These things are spoiled if told, but I shall throw them

together with all the art I can muster.”

“What her Grace decrees is done!” Mr. Greville said, bowing gallantly.

“My uncle will be infinitely indebted.”

He waited until the ladies graciously dismissed him, and then betook

himself to his club, so lost in thought that Emma’s letter lay totally

forgotten in his pocket.

Sir William coming home! Certainly he would be glad personally, but yet

the thought was full of unpleasant possibilities. He sat down in a quiet

corner as far removed from acquaintances as possible, and classified his

thoughts in his own methodic manner.

Lady Hamilton, his aunt, was now two years dead, and in one sense

Greville had never since known a perfectly unanxious moment. A saint, as

the Duchess said so lightly, she had much to complain of in her gay

husband’s gaieties, yet never had complained but bore all with an

undeviating sweetness. But he was not the man to be spurred to any

emulation by sainthood and in his own heart half blamed her piety for

forcing him to seek outside recreation.

It was even more easily found in Naples than elsewhere and especially in

a political backwater, as it was at that time, which left even an

Ambassador of Great Britain much at a loss to fill up the lazy delicious

days of sweet do-nothingness. But there were plenty to help him; a

charming and artistic English society; wandering sirens (like my Lady

Craven, the delight and ridicule of Horace Walpole) too numerous and

worthless to be listed. Nay, it was whispered that the Queen herself,

Marie Caroline, sister of the unhappy Marie Antoinette of France, had

found Sir William more agreeable than even ambassadors are wont to be to

the sovereigns to whom they are accredited.

And this state of affairs suited Greville excellently well. He was

attached to his uncle and wished him amusement in all sincerity. His own

position was secure in Sir William’s marriage, for it was childless, and

Lady Hamilton, his aunt, so deeply attached to himself that with Sir

William’s own affection his certainty of heirship to all the couple had

to leave was complete. Indeed, Sir William spoke of it openly and gave

Greville leave to mention it as a settled fact to any careful father

whose heiress he might ask in marriage. And then Lady Hamilton died.

It was a disagreeable shock to Greville in more ways than one. Sir

William, little over fifty, handsome, pleasing in the highest degree,

hospitable, open-handed, was once more in the market—but there needs no

expatiation. The case speaks for itself. And now he was returning to

London, the high position of an ambassadress in his hand to offer, the

loveliest land on earth as a home, and the rumour of a queen’s love to

intensify his fascinations. Why, what young fellow in London could stand

against him and his court favour? He would be married and done for, and

a little heir next year and more to follow, and he, Greville, would sink

into a young-elderly neglected man about town, too poor to keep up with

the great steeplechase of fashion, unless—

Unless? Two things. A rich marriage for himself, and decorous or

indecorous widowerhood for Sir William. He knew the town quite well

enough to know that his chances of the first were diminished instantly

an inclination of his uncle’s to marriage became known. Then what and

where was the solution of the difficulty? Miss Middleton? That subject

next passed in review. He knew that his advances had not been too warmly

received, and though it was incredible that any rumour of the Edgware

Row establishment could disturb Lord Middleton’s mind, women took

fanciful views and a whisper in Lady or Miss Middleton’s ear might have

done much harm there. He began to feel very strongly that Emma was a

disadvantage, that he had been drifting, that if he desired a wealthy

marriage he must return to a handsome house in London and bury himself

and his advantages no longer in obscurity. In short, that he must make a

complete change in his life. To this must be added the fact that he felt

he had amply redeemed his pledges to Emma, and that, though she had

become a delightful household companion in many ways, her temper was

still troublesome; her tastes, through all the veneer, still apt to be

unexpectedly coarse in grain here and there; and last, but far from

least, that even such beauty may pall, and that he began to be somewhat

tired of her.

Of course there would be difficulties with Emma, serious ones, but here

he by no means despaired. His own calm good sense and Sir William’s

counsel would carry him through and dispose of her comfortably. All

justice should be done her short of the unreason of injuring his own

career.

This was a matter which he could discuss freely with Sir William and

there could be no doubt what his advice would be. The means were the

only difficult question, and those could be arranged if two men of

experience put their heads together.

All this dismissed, he took out her letter and read it carefully. It did

not move him. He thought her bursts of repentance as facile as her

tempers. The fact was, and he often reproached her for it, she had too

much imagination, and, to Greville, imagination was the last folly,

almost the last crime. It meant the unpleasant faculty of seeing things

as they are not, of exaggerating every emotion, of leaving the straight

highway of fact for endless and perplexing aerial flights that ended in

cloud-land and involved unpleasant drops to earth, and bruised every

relation in life hopelessly. If she had but plodding good sense Emma

would be irresistible. Alas, no!—she would not be Emma.

He tore the letter into small bits for the waste-paper basket, disposed

of it, and entered into easy talk with an acquaintance. He would not go

home. She needed a lesson and should have it.

As a matter of fact, he neither returned nor wrote for a week, and Emma

was seriously frightened. The excuse was simple enough, a letter from

Sir William announcing his return and asking Greville to attend to some

business connected with his Welsh estates. It could have been done as

well from Edgware Row, but for the need of administering a sound lesson,

but Greville always pursued his settled way without flinching. Also,

there was a dinner at the Middletons.

She was in a state of abject submission when he got back, pale with

watching. Indeed, but for Romney’s upholding and the certainty which he

gained for her that Greville was still in town, she would have been

inclined to tear through the streets to find him anywhere, anyhow, and

it took all Romney’s persuasion to induce her to wait quietly.

She sank into a chair pale and sighing, as he entreated her—a deep

patient sigh. She was A Forsaken Lady in Dejection at the moment, with

drooped head and hanging hands.

“Ah, Mr. Romney, this is the reward for a most tender and passionate

love. You know how I have given my whole heart, my whole life; and no

woman ever did this but met her reward in cruelty.”

“I thought,” says Romney, blundering, “that you owed him much kindness.

Could you not, my dear, fix your mind on that rather than on anger which

you yourself owned deserved t’other day, and which I am certain will

soon pass?”

“Kindness!” she cried, the blood flowing crimson into lips and cheeks

with a sudden return to energy. “Kindness? That’s the way a huckster

would calculate it. Food, clothes, and lessons—lessons that I might

sing and draw for his diversion. That’s his kindness! And I’ve given him

in return beauty not thought despicable, and the love and tender

devotion of a true heart. When he had an oppression on the chest, didn’t

I poultice him and sit up near a week till I looked like a hag of

thirty? Didn’t I cook his broths with my own hands and wouldn’t let my

mother touch ’em; didn’t I run his errands and fetch and carry and sweep

his room and—”

She flung up her arms with an inspired gesture as she poured on and

became a denouncing goddess. Romney stared at her all unconscious of the

words, seeing only the Juno look, the offended majesty of the noble

attitude. What did it matter what she said so long as she could look

like that? He snatched charcoal and paper, and began with swift lines to

perpetuate the pose.

Enraged, she darted on the helpless man and seized the paper and tore it

across, glaring at him, a beautiful Fury.

“You too!” she cried. “Where’s your sympathy? I that have sat for you

hundreds of times and you never asked if I was weary, not so much as

once. Men are all the same; a woman’s not flesh and blood to feel and

suffer, she’s but a pastime or a slave; or a dog to be driven from the

door. Oh, the cruel, hateful world! Some day I’ll stick a knife into my

heart and make an end of it.”

Here a sob sent her back to the first pose because she could no longer

orate comfortably. She sank again into her chair, and Romney, all

trembling sympathetic fear, put out his delicate fibrous hand and

clutched hers softly yet strongly, and yearned over her and consoled her

with clumsy tenderness and bid her take courage, for though Greville

could never, never love her as he loved his child, his inspiration, yet

no man having tasted her beauty could ever cast his eye on another. She

herself was her security.

“But go back,” he entreated, “and vex him no more, my beloved lady. For

sure it only recoils on yourself. For my part, I can love Greville

because he brought you to me and so flooded my life with sunshine. ’Tis

my belief that one day he’ll marry you if you do but govern yourself.

Now be good and go home to be there when he comes, as I swear he will

and must.”

So he coaxed and wheedled her and got her back to the normal and into a

hackney coach, and so saw her depart; and not an hour too soon, for

Greville came back that day, and if all had not been ready for him it

would have been a coolness to start with.

But all was in apple-pie order, and she so sweetly humble, with her

white dress and soft submissive eyes, that what could he do but open his

arms and forgive her, and the more readily because the room was perfumed

with flowers, a _blanquette_ of veal done to perfection for his dinner,

with a morsel of fine old cheese to follow and a glass of Sir William’s

fine sparkling Burgundy to finish with the biscuits. And Mrs. Cadogan

had been at her polishing, and the silver on the table (for Mr. Greville

could eat in nothing meaner) was black velvet in the bowls of the spoons

and curves of the dish, and the glass sparkled like frost crystals to

the summer sunshine outside; and when Emma had cleared the table,

mellowed with comfort, he cried.

“I’ll take you to Ranelagh for an evening’s enjoyment. Put on your

prettiest gown and your blue hat, and my girl shall see the world and

the world see her.”

She flew upstairs, when the time came, all fire and joy, for this was a

rare treat and proved her fully restored to favour. It was the golden

sceptre extended to the fainting Esther. It cannot be said she made

herself beautiful, for God had done that for her once and for all, but

Greville exclaimed at her charming air as she came downstairs in a

considered hat that made her eyes look dark azure and her cheeks pink

carnations. Mrs. Cadogan, too, clasped her hands in delight and, being

accommodated with a glass of port, watched them smiling out of sight.

Yet it had been better if that enchanting pleasure had never been

embarked on, for look what happened!

Ranelagh, dim and beautiful save where earthly lights matched their rose

and golden jewels against the silver flood of moonlight; Ranelagh, with

shy secret walks where beauties far from shy might wander with happy

lovers and exchange a perilous kiss ere they came upon another pair

similarly engaged round the corner; Ranelagh, with gay little tables set

in open boxes so brilliantly lit that here the moonlight was vanquished

and a torrent of rainbow light poured upon the handsomest toilettes

available and the bright eyes and laughing lips of the London ladies.

They toured the gardens with all the discretion of a long married couple

observing the indiscretions of less fortunate people, and Greville

turned a neat point or two for her consideration as to the good breeding

of reserve in public, and then having engaged a box for supper, left

her, thinking he caught sight of the artist Gavin Hamilton and resolved

to introduce him to the Secret Beauty and have the usual congratulations

on his good fortune. Who but Emma! Giddy with the lights and music, the

just finished song of the prima donna of the evening, the softly muted

notes of the string orchestra, she sat well forward in the box to survey

the passing crowd in its gay kaleidoscope of colour. She leaned her arms

on the edge, she turned her face this way and that, looking for

Greville, wondering what kept him, and fully conscious that many faces

turned in her direction, and men and women alike looked up at the lovely

stranger—alone, equivocal, surely approachable! At least it could be

hoped so. The orchestra struck up again, this time in the gay strain

“Batti, batti,” her last lesson, her latest triumph. Heavens, what a

coincidence! Irresistible! Leaning out still, she began to sing, softly

at first, terrified at her own daring and the listening faces, then

louder, clearer, clearer, as the conductor caught the bright soprano

and, beckoning the orchestra with his stick, sent them back to the

accompaniment. Instantly she saw his intention and sprang to her feet on

the impulse, ardent and flushed. She that had never sung with an

orchestra before! She whose sole audience had been Greville, Romney, her

master, or a chance friend. And now, now, London was listening, or so it

seemed to her excited fancy. She could hear her own voice mounting,

soaring divinely in the delicious music. Louder, louder, clearer,

clearer, sure that silver note touched the very stars, and the people

were still as death to hear this new nightingale and the orchestra

softened and softened to give her room, and—Greville returned.

On the last phrase, and as the listeners broke out in thunders of

clapping, he returned, little guessing what voice embroidered the night

with silver. And as he looked at the box it was Emma, crimsoning to the

plaudits, bowing as though to the manner born, her fair hands crossed on

her heart.

In a pale fury that subdued him to the utmost deliberation he walked

into the box and beckoned her to come to the back.

“Let us instantly go away,” said he.

Conscious of her enormities, she faltered.

“Did I do wrong, Greville? I didn’t know. I thought to see you pleased

with my success.”

“Pleased!” Not another word did he utter. Supper was served and he cast

not a glance upon it, but paid the bill and walked out with Emma

trembling at his heels, leaving who would to eat it.

It was a descent from such Olympian dignity that later he must needs

explain how she had erred, for it was impossible for her to see it

without assistance. To her it was as natural to break into song as it is

to a bird, and enchanting to enchant others. What? Surely God made

beautiful voices and beautiful faces for the common joy. “And I knew I

could do it better than Ceritelli!” she added, quaking.

“You acted with your usual want of consideration—your usual lack of

taste and breeding.” His words were drops of sleet on a hot cheek. “It

convinces me, what I have long since thought, that there is not nor ever

can be any community of feeling between us. I have trained you now for

near four years, and yet the moment I leave you you can expose yourself

to the public view in a place where any woman with a rag of decency left

must be circumspect. And there you draw every eye upon you and make

yourself a spectacle for every coarse fellow or bad woman that cares to

look and listen. If your own good feeling don’t show you the horror of

such a proceeding I may talk for ever in vain. So I shall say no more. I

despair of you.”

Later, when cowed, she besought his forgiveness, he accorded it

dangerously.

“I forgive you because you are so coarse in fibre that you can never

learn. I do but waste breath. It is not your fault; after a fashion.

Yes. I forgive you. But to say that I can forget is impossible. These

things shape my view of your character, in which I own myself mistaken

from the beginning.”

She dared say no more, and the episode passed into silence, but it is

not too much to say that from that hour Emma’s fate was fixed, though

her lord and master would take his own time to announce his decision.

And as little did she think as he that Sir William Hamilton, whose

coming now drew near, was to be the very arbiter of that fate.

CHAPTER VI

THE FAIR TEA MAKER

EMMA had cause to realize how deeply she had offended, during the next

few days, for Greville assumed what she called his touch-me-not manner

and was coldly polite and distant. She dreaded that attitude with all

her soul for she knew neither what alienation it covered nor how to meet

it. In the class from which she sprang politeness is not uncommonly the

herald of fury, and she was always in expectation of a devastating

hurricane which never had come as yet but was surely due one day if she

could not control herself, and control herself she could not. It was

impossible for her to understand why the kiss-and-be-friends

reconciliation should not immediately follow a quarrel, for she “bore no

malice” herself, and could not imagine why any one else should do so.

She had no way of understanding the cleavage, the deep settled distaste

and alienation which her outbreaks produced in a man like Greville. To

him vulgarity and want of taste were more unpardonable than the fracture

of any commandment of the ten, and in his cool review of Emma the fact

that she had so much taste, and all of it so bad, set them universes

apart.

Beauty, economy, an oddly consorted pair, pleaded alike for Emma in the

calm rationalism of Greville’s mind. He knew very well he would not meet

that impassioned loveliness elsewhere—loveliness that might so easily

walk in satin and jewels, but for his sake contented itself with dimity

and a little gold chain stringing a miniature of himself. And he knew

also that never, never again would his needs be met with such

comfortable economy, and never again a cook like Mrs. Cadogan be at his

service without a salary that must bulk largely in his carefully kept

accounts. And yet, he was certain he was nearing the end of his tether

and could not endure the connection much longer.

Emma loved him passionately, tenderly, and that was but an aggravation

of the offense, for if a man cares no longer for a woman her love is the

last unbearable burden. _She_ cannot realize her love as any other than

a precious gift which common gratitude must repay with tenderness; she

will not, cannot understand that it has in it a touch of the revolting

to the man who desires her no longer. The immortal Don Juan seeking the

rainbow beauty always in the next field or on the dim horizon, confident

of finding her sooner or later, whispers in every man’s ear to have done

with this threadbare passion and find happiness in the next soft bosom

that the Eternal Feminine eternally offers—a field away, no more.

And at this time Miss Middleton’s quiet coldness and perfect restraint

of manner were contrasting almost daily with Emma’s floridity of speech

and over-emphasis of every gesture and attitude; or so it seemed to him.

For Greville possessed even to an extreme that fastidiousness which is a

kind of austerity in men who, having no austerity in morals, stress it

the more in taste. He required that women should be virginal in allure

though not in physical response, that they should be shy, cool, with a

frozen delicate sweetness to be melted difficultly by the most polished

approaches, and then enfolding the white snowdrop blossom in green

leaves even from a favoured lover or husband. Such was Miss Middleton as

far as he could judge. But Emma, all tropical perfumed luxuriance,

expanding a warm bosom to lavish sunlight, repelled him. He was

incapable of responding to such advances even in the first gust of

possession. There was far too much nature in her, whereas he wanted a

woman drilled by careful mother, school-mistress and dancing-master to

the last perfection of self-restraint for the sake of the adored; a

dainty figure of hoops and brocade in the costliest porcelain, and as

cold. Nature itself must be hooped, stay-laced, and set on high heels

before he could at all respect such an earth-smelling goddess.

Therefore Emma’s advances for pardon and love did but increase his

discontent. What he really would have chosen would be to retain the

invaluable Mrs. Cadogan and let the divine lady go, so oddly are some of

us constituted. But as the way to this was not clear at present he

merely chilled Emma with coldest reserve and waited on events.

“Can you _never_ forgive me, Greville?” she said wistfully one morning,

leaning over his chair after clearing away the breakfast china, and

setting a bowl of red roses at his elbow, as he read a catalogue of

antiques. He wore a dressing-gown of lavender silk with faint French

flowering and looked unapproachably aloof and distinguished in his great

chair. He turned a leaf calmly. As Romney had remarked with much

shrewdness, the most unforgivable offense was that Emma had now lived

with him for more than three years and yet had absorbed so little of his

teaching and the high example he set her of nature discouraged with cool

forms and ceremonies. The very word _nature_ was disagreeable to

Greville and the thing itself, exemplified under his nose every moment,

was rapidly becoming unbearable.

“Forgiveness is scarcely the word,” he answered without raising his

eyes. “I am not in the least angry with you, if that is your meaning. I

merely feel that your and my dispositions are worlds apart. Exhibitions

which give you pleasure to me appear odious, vulgar, revolting. Would

you have the kindness to draw the curtain a little over the right

window? The breeze comes in too strongly.”

She obeyed, lingering.

“Greville, do you think you see _no_ improvement in me to repay you for

all the trouble you’ve taken?”

Now he laid down his paper, leaned his head back and surveyed her.

“No, I should not say that. You were uneducated and ignorant three years

ago. You could sing a ballad with the vigour that nature gives—a poor

allowance, by the way. Now your voice is trained in the Italian style,

and, though you have hard work before you still, you can please the

connoisseur. Your drawing-master speaks well of you, and Romney

commended the landscapes you have lately attempted. You read

expressively, if the subject is not beyond you. I have been pleased to

see you reading Hayley’s “Triumphs of Temper,” from which you can

certainly take a needful lesson. Your manners are excessively improved.

You have laid aside the romping hoyden. I have seen you enter a room

like a lady. You have certainly a taste for simple becoming dress,

and—”

The praise was too much, too unexpected. She was at his knees in an

instant.

“Then you’re pleased! Oh, dear, dear Greville! Then you love me? You

know I tried to please my own Greville? Your poor Emma has not failed?”

Her sparkling, glowing face adored him. He continued with discouraging

serenity.

“In these respects, though you still need much tuition, you have not

failed. But what I aimed at, beyond all, was character. I wished to make

you valued and respected. And _there_ there is no improvement. You are

utterly unrestrained, and so far as I am a judge will never have the

secure future I hope for you.”

“What, Greville, not with you, who know, who pity me? Think what I was.

Oh, consider! A poor village girl, and London, and men—oh, consider, I

beseech you, what chance had I? Sure the faults in me were as little to

be helped as my want of book-learning. And I will cure them! Don’t you

_see_ me try?”

She caught his hand and fondled it passionately against her panting

bosom. He drew it away with reserve.

“This is exactly what I complain of. Always in extremes, making scenes,

overstraining feelings, raving, an exaggerated sensibility. If you could

but know its indecency, how it repels! But you cannot know. You never

will. I abandon the thankless task. One question: Have I not told you

_never_ to refer to that abominable past? Who ever heard Mrs. Wells drag

these unpleasant subjects into the light of day?”

“Mrs. Wells,” repeated Emma, and was hopelessly silent. Then, with the

utter want of tact she showed with Greville, must needs pester him

further, though timidly.

“But if you taught me all these things, Greville, was I not to make use

of them? Where was I to display them? Sure the time has come that you

will wish me to show off some of what I have learnt and—”

“Show off!” he echoed, with a scorn to which words are inadequate. She

still knelt, baffled.

“Pray get up and sit down, and let us change the subject. You have good

sense of a sort, Emma, when it serves your own turn. I expect Sir

William Hamilton here this afternoon, and I do most earnestly hope that

for the credit of my taste there may be no outbursts in his presence.

His good opinion is of consequence to me and I would not have him think

I have wasted three years on one I assured him I had such high hopes

of.”

The poor Emma was humbled to the earth by this time. Her terror of Sir

William combined with her love for Greville made her an easy victim.

“I promise,” she said in the measured tones which she knew he approved.

“I will try to get a victory over myself and seem to be happy though

miserable, for miserable I must be, Greville, if your heart does not

approve me.”

He uttered a word of encouragement and returned into his paper.

Behold the parlour prepared for the great, the expected guest at the

hour for tea; the neatly curtained windows open to admit a scented

breeze from the garden; Emma’s bowl of roses on the centre table; the

precious silhouette of Greville in its black frame on the mantelpiece;

Romney’s fine drawing of Emma in sepia and wash as a wistful-eyed

“Solitude” exploring far horizons, above it; the chairs plump and

cushioned for respected backs; the carpet soft and harmoniously

coloured; and a charming table of Sheraton workmanship spread with

finest damask and thin glittering silver beside the cups of egg-shell

porcelain. A delightful room though small, for everything about Greville

must be delicate and elegant, be it where it would. He had gone into

London to fetch Hamilton, and Emma, afraid to move so much as a chair

after the arrangements had met his approval, hovered between kitchen and

parlour to annoy Mrs. Cadogan with fears and comments. Had Watts sent

the fresh butter? The cream?

“You’d have heard of it if he hadn’t, girl, since ’twas you ordered it.

Here it is, yellow as buttercups and sweeter. Put it in yon big silver

milk jug, Emma. And look, here’s the strawberries, beauties, right

British Queens if I know anything. Carry in the dish. Here, girl, stop.

Put them leaves about them so they’ll peep out between with their fat

red cheeks. Now, ain’t that pretty? And now the bread and butter.”

“The cake, mother. Is it good?”

“Good? You just smell to it. A pound of everything, and as rich as rich.

And look at the Lisbon biscuits. You could all but blow them away. And I

made a few ham sandwiches in case his Lordship was hungry after the ride

out. Look, Emma, as pink as a dog’s tongue, and never a better ham was

cut. I think it’s as well to have the orange cordial I made the winter

before. Put it in a corner handy with the glasses. And now run up and

dress yourself real pretty.”

She did her utmost before the looking-glass bunched with muslin and pink

ribbons, and then went slowly down for her mother’s verdict.

“Will I do?”

“Do?” Mrs. Cadogan stood with arms akimbo on comfortable haunches and

took a liberal survey. “Why, yes. Your hair’s beautiful. I don’t know as

I ever saw you do it better. My, what a wheat stack of it you’ve got! I

like that blue ribbon tied above your ear. ’Tis uncommon. White musling

always suits you. Now turn about and I’ll pull out the bows of your

sash. There, that’s it. Now you go in and sit down quiet, and be

pretty-behaved to His Lordship, and may be he’ll leave Greville his

fortune and then he’ll marry you and I’ll see you a lady yet.”

These were comfortable prophecies and always tilted Emma’s spirits, for

she shared her mother’s easy-going optimism. But now she went slowly

into the parlour, and stood on a chair to have a last look in the fine

oval mirror Greville had set so tantalizingly high, then rearranged the

tea-table and finally sat down by the window. Hope was not kind to her

to-day. She was really dreadfully uneasy. Greville’s manner of late had

much undermined her confidence, and supposing Sir William should share

his disapproval—supposing Greville on the way out should “set him

against” her—what was to become of her?

She could hear the rattle of wheels far down the road, and her heart

beat violently. She started to the window. No, only old Dr. Whyte of the

Manor returning from the Bank. Lord, what a fright for nothing! Wheels

again, a fresh alarm, and Emma behind the curtain, fixed, scarcely

breathing. Yes, yes, at last. The coach came on, bearing her fate unseen

within it, and pulled up with a flourish at the door. One second she

watched to see Greville leap out, followed by a tall man of slight,

extremely elegant figure, and then, with a rush she was back in her

chair again with the book on her lap. No—no, that was too studied, that

would never do. They _must_ know she had heard them coming. She rose,

considered, shook out her skirts, and advanced with sedate sweetness to

the little hall and as Greville opened the door she stood there modestly

and gravely composed to welcome them. Instinct had served her rightly.

It was perfection’s self.

Sir William followed and through the open door the daylight came with

him and the summer scents of the garden. He saw before him a quiet girl

in white and blue ribbons with a pink rose stuck in the fichu that

crossed her bosom. Extremely young, fair and fresh as a posy of

primroses she seemed in the half light of the hall. That was the first

impression—innocence, youthful grace, a shy gentleness which could be

easily daunted and needed encouragement. She advanced with veiled eyes,

and Greville took her hand and led her up to him.

“Emma,” he said, smiling, and put the hand in Sir William’s.

Still she did not raise the eyes, the colour rose slightly to her cheek

from the quickly beating heart, and the more so when Sir William stooped

and kindly kissed the velvet flush. He retained her hand and she led him

into the parlour, and to the chair she had so softly cushioned in

expectation of an aged and honoured guest, for, do what Greville would

he could not persuade her otherwise than that his “dear Hamilton” being

over fifty must hover on senility. “Poor old gentleman!” she had said

with hearty sympathy. “We’ll make him comfortable, so we will! Does he

like a footstool, Greville?” And even Greville had seen the humour of

the situation and had left the reality to take care of itself.

For now, Emma’s exploring eyes penetrated their shield of auburn lashes,

and she beheld as handsome a man as ever she had seen in her life. He

could not be more distinguished than Greville, for that was impossible,

but he equalled him there, and surpassed him in a more good-humoured

disdain of the persons not similarly favoured by circumstances.

Greville’s disdain was conscious; Sir William’s perfectly unstudied and

natural, not known to himself as disdain, and therefore infinitely more

impressive. Such an obvious matter required no insistence. He never gave

it a thought, any more than his breathing or his heart-beat. A Hamilton

of the princely Scottish house, a _habitué_ of courts all the days of

his life, porphyrogenitus—born in the purple, so to speak—what could

the average citizen appear in those genial indifferent eyes but a

necessary incumbrance in the life of the Great? And there was more;

educated, cultivated to the highest point, an arbiter of taste, an

infallible judge in matters of accomplishment, happy in his _bonnes

fortunes_ with women, an indolently skilful diplomatist in a court of

indolent pleasures—what was lacking to make Sir William charming?

Nothing, nothing! Even Greville looked a little starched, a little

pinched beside him, too decided, too—yes, he became angular in that

calm, worldly-wise company. Sir William sat himself in the armchair,

laughing, rejected the cushions and fixed an eye keen under all its

sunshine upon Emma as she glided to her place behind the tea-tray, and

stilled the hissing urn.

That eye which had ranged over the beauties of Greece and Rome, fair in

imperishable bronze and marble, which had surveyed the loveliest of the

modern world and taken their measure and appraised each charm, now

rested on Emma.

She poured his tea and offered the sandwiches, thankful to see by

Greville’s expression that the provision pleased him. She picked with

rosy fingers the green cups from the strawberries and prepared the

mounded deliciousness with sugar, and poured the wrinkling cream, but in

a calm silence. She felt, she knew she was doing the right thing in

perfection, yet had no notion that Nature forced her daughter

consummately to play her part. She thought it her own cleverness, while

she could have done no other had she tried with all her strength, and

humbly hoped it would please the great man.

It pleased him. He watched her steadily, once or twice missed what

Greville said, once or twice forgot what he himself was saying and

caught it by the tail as it vanished. Greville, at first a little huffed

by this absence of mind, at last saw its point and triumphed silently.

Emma understood fully.

Tea finished, she rose and stood beside Greville.

“I’ll take the tea out and wash up the cups. It will help mother, and

these are our most precious teacups, Sir William. May I go, Greville?”

“Certainly, provided you come back then.”

Greville was gracious but did not rise to open the door though she moved

towards it with the teapot. Sir William’s haste rebuked him, for he

sprang, light as a boy, from the chair and held the door open with a

smile at her.

“What, the fair tea-maker supposes that I shall do nothing in return for

the delicious meal she has given me? A thousand times no! Greville, the

tray is heavy for her.”

The two between them piled the tray and finally dismissed her through

the door with one on either side like heraldic supporters. It closed on

her.

“Now we can talk!” said Greville, and drew his chair up to his

kinsman’s.

CHAPTER VII

DISCUSSION

THE first word he said was “Well?” with a keen glance at Sir William,

lying back, luxurious, in his chair. There was still a scent of

strawberries in the room and the faint perfume of a woman’s dress.

Outside the Green was very quiet in the sinking sunlight.

Sir William was deliberate.

“In my whole life I never saw a woman so beautiful. The face, figure,

colouring—perfection. The manner adorable. You prepared me for

something unusual, but I never dreamt of anything like this. Lord, what

a waste! In any other position she must have been a European beauty.”

“But, my dear Hamilton, you must understand she was not like this when I

took her. That she was beautiful, I allow, but it was an untaught,

somewhat noisy hoyden with Fetherstonehaugh. I found her quarrelling

with him on the smallest provocation, ready to rollick like a

good-humoured boy with the men he had down, inclined to rely too much on

her good looks without attending to them; indeed, I have noticed her

very nails in need of attention. But I felt the waste exactly as you now

feel it, and you see the result of four years’ careful education; I

might almost say _creation_.”

“If creation, I can only say you rank with Phidias. Indeed, your

_chef-d’œuvre_ surpasses his. A more complete beauty I never beheld. But

while I don’t disparage your powers, I must say, my dear Greville, that

the girl must have extraordinary ones herself. And can the story you

told me of her antecedents be true? I never saw attractive modesty more

expressed in any face.”

Greville applied himself to dissection.

“Absolutely true. Probably, since she confided in me herself I don’t

even know the whole of her adventures though I verified her tale with

inquiries. But the point with Emma is this: she is everything by turns;

everything she chooses or the circumstances suggest. She sees

instinctively the part which will please and plays it to admiration and

thus is always at the top of her audience. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. You convey that whoever creates the picture she is always in

it.”

“Exactly. In my belief that must have been the secret of all the great

actresses of history, not to mention the great courtesans. Be sure

Aspasia convinced her lover that she was a deep stateswoman as well as

highly gifted in poetry, music and art.”

“And she was so.”

“Not she!” says Greville, with his cool contempt for women. “She merely

caught his ray as a mirror catches the sun and flashed it back upon him

blindingly. Combine that power with sex and beauty and you have a

dazzled world.”

“Yet you are not dazzled?”

“I have lived with her for four years. I know how the springs work,”

says Greville sententiously. “All the same, she is remarkable. I believe

there is nothing beyond her, given the opportunity. Nothing, that is,

which moves her. She could have been a great actress, so expressive is

she. Talk to her of the Siddons, and in a moment she will out-Siddons

the woman herself in pose; a ghastly Lady Macbeth creeping to the

murder. Remind her of Mrs. Jordan and she is comedy incarnate, all

roguish laughter.”

Sir William reflected, gazing at the chair Comedy had lately occupied

and at her wistful-eyed portrait over the mantelpiece.

“It appears to me,” he said at length, “that having lived with her so

long you have perhaps become so used to these qualities that it has a

little dulled your perception of what they really signify. For since

woman is always more or less of a parasite [Here the eighteenth century

was vocal on the good man’s lips!] we must not expect more from them

than is possible. But when carried to the height you describe, it

becomes what, for a woman, is genius. And, with beauty as a pedestal,

you get the woman that the world remembers.”

“Her antecedents forbid that,” says Greville with his cool certainty.

“Aspasias exist no longer. There is no place for them in society. You

have the Pompadours whose only skill is to traffic in places, the

political beauties like the Duchess of Devonshire and Mrs. Crewe, and

the detestable blue-stocking. And a certain amount of decency is

required before a woman can be taken at all seriously.”

“Of decency a very little will go a long way if combined with beauty,”

said Sir William, with the edge of a cynical smile touching his lips. If

the Spirit of Comedy were perched on the chair Emma so lately had

occupied, she also must have smiled, one imagines, to see these two

grave gentlemen discussing the destiny of the woman who was to settle

theirs. Indeed, the Spirit of Tragedy might almost have joined the party

and animated the sad and far-seeing eyes of the portrait above the

mantel.

“Her past and present, of course, shut dignified doors to her,” he

continued, “but plenty of others are open and she may yet attain a kind

of private influence which may be of help to you, if you give her the

right setting.”

“Not to me. My circumstances forbid it, and the very thing I want to

consult you on, my dear Hamilton, is how to part with her with the least

pain to her, and the best provision I can afford to make, which will be

little indeed, I regret to say.”

Sir William looked at him in the utmost astonishment.

“What, a man in his thirties, and part with a siren like that? You

hinted at it, but now I have seen her I find it incredible. Are you on

the hunt for Venus herself? Or does she care for you no longer?”

“Care?” Greville was piqued. “I don’t overstate if I say she loves me

passionately. She has a quick little temper, but I might almost say she

crawls to my feet for forgiveness if she offends. A more docile, pliable

pupil, too, never existed. No, no. The trouble does not lie there. My

debts ruffle me seriously. I have no choice. Marry I must, and I have

fixed upon a lady suitable in every respect. But I need not tell you

that in the town where everything is known I must part with Emma before

I make my formal offer. I would willingly let things continue as they

are. But you see?”

“I see,” said Hamilton, “a nice dilemma. But if you do part with her,

let it be final. I have always been averse from the idea of these

relationships continuing after marriage. Very few wives can be brought

to take such a matter with indifference and where a husband is largely

dependent on a wife’s fortune and settlements are strict—well, it needs

no detailing for a man who desires peace.”

“I fully agree. No, the parting shall be final.”

“I conclude it is one of the Middleton daughters. I heard something to

that effect from the Duchess of Argyll yesterday.”

“Gossip!” Greville shrugged his shoulders. “But, yes, I have no

concealments from you. It is the second daughter. I think it will be

brought to bear, with your countenance.”

“You will certainly have that!” Sir William said with warm cordiality.

“And you have my free leave to assure Lord Middleton that you are my

heir.”

Greville wrung his hand with real gratitude.

“But marriage, my dear Hamilton? You are still a young attractive man

and I hope, I sincerely hope, to see you yet settled in a happy home of

your own.”

“I shall never remarry,” Sir William said gravely and sadly. “You know

as well as I the devotion and piety of your aunt. She was a saint on

earth and an example of all that is loveliest in woman’s character. It

would be impossible to replace her and I shall not try. No, tell Lord

Middleton my mind is resolved. As to the debts—but we will consider

that later. What are your views for Emma?”

Greville reflected. He really had not yet formulated them even to

himself. The concert-room, the opera, the stage, all these ideas had

jostled one another in his head, but there was not one that did not call

for a training he could not afford. And furthermore, he was very far

from willing (in the Middleton interest) to superintend her affairs in

any way or seem to preserve the slightest thread of attachment between

them. He put this matter to his uncle and they discussed it for a while

as a difficulty.

“An Italian training for her voice is what she needs,” said Greville.

“It has that kind of pure light brilliance which corresponds exactly to

the Italian idea. That would be a settled career for her. But we must

not go too fast. You must hear her. You are a far more finished

connoisseur in music than I, and perhaps I may overstate her powers. I

will have her singing-master here to-morrow and you shall judge. Let me

call her back. She has invented a pretty little amusement you will

approve, I am sure. She throws herself into uncommon attitudes and thus

makes quite elegant little sculpturesques of herself. Whether it could

be developed as a paying entertainment—but you shall see.”

Sir William, deeply interested, assented and Emma was recalled from the

tinkle of china audible in the distance. She came tripping in, her

little dog running after her, the ideal young married niece and elderly

uncle’s delight, for that was how she saw herself at the moment. That

impression was also instantly conveyed to Sir William. She pulled a low

seat beside him and began to talk with those fluty low notes which

captivated the listener quite apart from any nonsense or sense she chose

to utter. She must hear about Naples, about his great house there, and

did he really ever see the Queen? Was she beautiful? Did she wear her

crown often? Was Naples as lovely as in Greville’s book of pictures?

And, oh, if she could but ever, ever see it!

Sir William was enchanted. He saw no reason why his niece Emma—for so

he really must call her—should not come out some day and taste the

beauties of that land of the orange and myrtle. He knew not whether she

would be the more admired or admiring, probably the former. “For,” said

he, “lovely as the Italian women are there is a sameness. The same

glorious black eyes flash on you from every countenance. The same

rippled raven hair crowns every brow; I may almost say the same finely

chiselled features are the rule, so that each must depend for

distinction upon her expression and manner. Now you, my dear Emma, have

the beauty of their most famous antiques, but the glory of your warm

auburn colouring and violet eyes, for so they appear at this moment,

must single you out instantly. Added to this, Greville has been dwelling

on your accomplishments to me, and these are rare among the Italian

belles, who are foolish enough to believe beauty alone can enchain a man

for ever and ever.”

“It could only hold a fool,” says she, catching responsive fire from the

idea. “Men of culture and learning like you and Greville would demand

much, much more. Oh, Sir William, I have tried indeed, but I will try

harder still to deserve your approval as well as Greville’s and make

myself an accomplished woman.”

So it went on, and Greville sitting a little in the background, watched

them. And as he did so, and saw those liquid eyes beaming confidence and

affection to his uncle, and Sir William’s elderly orbs lost in their

pellucid depths, a thought flashed across his mind so rapid, so

overwhelming in its lucidity that he caught his breath audibly, and

marvelled he had never considered it before.

Sir William must not marry, for that would be the ruin of his own plans.

But Sir William must run the gauntlet of a thousand temptations to the

wedding ring. One had but to look at him for that assurance.

Furthermore, women’s society was a necessity of his life. The widower of

the Palazzo Sessa was certainly not its hermit; no man living more loved

gaiety, amusement with thronging interests of every description. And

Emma—the exquisite modern-antique—a Pompeian dancer floating up from

dark dead ages to charm a modern world; Emma, with her maddening beauty,

her poses and attitudes which repeated at command all the statues and

pictures which were the delight of Sir William; Emma, with her voice of

crystal to enchant him with the _bel canto_ he loved so passionately;

and above all, Emma, with her shameful story which set marriage once and

for ever out of the question—there was the perfect solution! An

unrivalled companion for Sir William’s loneliness, the position for Emma

of an old man’s darling on whom every cost, every accomplishment, would

be lavished; and for himself freedom—freedom, and the graceful attitude

of having conferred a heavy obligation on an attached relative! He sank

into deep thought as they murmured on, lost in the interest of this

meeting.

Does there seem an unpardonable obliquity in the mind that admits such a

consideration? The recorder of the manners and morals of another age

does not pretend to compare them with this, nor the materialism of the

eighteenth century with the pure idealism and lofty standards of conduct

in such matters of the twentieth. Yet Greville had his standard of

conscience also, such as it was. It stood aside from the pleasures a

gentleman might choose to indulge himself in, but in revenge insisted on

certain points to be observed in the way they were transacted. Sir Harry

Fetherstonehaugh’s behaviour to Emma was odious in Greville’s eyes.

Brutality, coarseness, open infidelity even to a mistress, were things

his code could not for a moment admit. Infidelity to a wife—whose cause

the world would countenance—was a far lesser matter, though one he

would reasonably hope to avoid, provided she pleased him. He had also

observed a kindly and correct demeanour toward the little Emma, who was

certainly no rightful concern of his. The baby school-bills were

regularly settled, nor had he any thought of retreating from that

obligation. And lastly, nothing would induce him to abandon Emma without

a proper provision for her needs.

If materialism disguised in the wig and spectacles of the ancient maiden

Prudence pointed out how much simpler it would be should another, on

whose kindness he could rely, undertake her maintenance, was the thought

so very unnatural as to warrant any censor arising and calling him the

reversed of blessed?

Be that as it may it must be owned that it came as a solvent of all his

difficulties, could Emma be brought to view the matter sensibly. The

utmost, the most delicate caution, would however be necessary before

that could become possible.

Having reached that point—and the two others the degree of confidence

when Emma rested her hand timidly on the Ambassador’s knee, drinking in

his every word—Greville with his usual method docketed his

illumination, parcelled up its brilliance, and placed it in a mental

pigeon-hole for easy reference, drew an agreeable smile over his

anxieties and asked Sir William if he would like to see the attitudes

which Emma had invented one day in Romney’s studio to that master’s

entrancement. She ran gaily upstairs to bring her little apparatus.

“She is perfectly fascinating!” Sir William said, with enthusiasm rare

in such a finished man of the world. “A most adorable companion.

Intelligent, receptive, a perfect listener—”

“Didn’t I tell you?” says Greville with his slow smile. “But don’t spoil

her, my dear Hamilton, I entreat. She is the most unspoilt spontaneous

creature in the world at present, and I have never given her an

indigestion of sugar-plums. Make her self-conscious and the dew is off

the rose.”

“Very true, but who can look at her and be wise? With all my soul I pity

you, if you must let her go. And for Miss Middleton—a cold,

correctly-featured girl with no fire, no sparkle!”

“My poverty and not my will consents,” quoted Greville with a shrug, as

Emma came in dressed in a white robe simply caught at the waist and

falling in the long straight folds dear to the heart of that lover of

the classical, Sir William. The sleeves were short, disclosing a pair of

rounded arms; on one was slung a wreath of artificial roses, in one hand

a tambourine.

“The perfect Greek! Stand, stand there, just at the door, for a moment!”

cried the enraptured connoisseur. “Good God, what an attitude!”

She froze herself instantly into immobility, framed in the doorway, the

long folds falling solemnly about her, the face calm as death, a

breathing statue. And, as he watched, a faintly dawning smile touched

the corners of her perfect lips and spread upwards like light until it

reached her eyes, and then, with a sweet cry, she sprang forward, and

dropping the roses at her feet flung the arm upward with the tambourine

until it rang again and so stood all life and radiance caught on the

wave of a dance, each light limb expressing its perfect movement though

struck into marble for the instant—a Pompeian dancer, the flower of

love’s insolence, the living blossom of a dead civilization.

“I got the pose from the vase the Duchess of Portland bought from you a

while ago, and I called it ‘The Pompeian Dancer,’ as there is a certain

amount of interest taken in the excavations now. You like it?” says

Greville, lowering his voice.

“Divine!” whispered Sir William briefly, impatient of the words and

concentrating every sense on the vision.

“Then what would you think if you could but see it as it should be done!

Romney has contrived a light in the studio, a strong light that falls on

the left, and she stands in an immense picture frame and—”

He saw Sir William was not listening and stopped. His soul was in his

eyes. Presently she drooped aside and slid on to the floor and so sat,

with chin cupped in soft hand and one long bright lock falling beside

her throat, her pensive eyes, lakes of sorrow, following a far, far ship

receding in dimmest distance—Ariadne watching the departing Theseus who

carried all her joys with him. Was she thinking of her long-ago sailor?

Did she catch up past experiences and mould them into present beauty, or

was it drawn from some deep well of ancient mysterious pre-natal

experience beyond all guessing of herself or others? No one ever knew.

She never knew herself. It _was_; as inevitably as the trees repeat

their ancient symphony of bloom, and joy returns from the past with each

revolving year.

This was but the beginning of those famous Attitudes which were later to

hold the world. But such as they were they struck the gazer dumb. He

came to them fresh and saw them complete, unlike Greville who had known

the inception and quarrelled with Romney and Emma alike over the set of

a fold, the poise of a wrist and so forth. To him it appeared a miracle

of finished beauty. He said as much when she had presented the four

poses which were all she had as yet designed and, taking her hand,

kissed her again on the cheek and thanked her for an afternoon of such

pleasure as he had rarely experienced. Greville also thanked her with a

cordiality she had missed of late and the returning warmth cheered her

like the glow of sunshine. He forgave—he loved her. The way back to his

heart was to please this charming uncle who meant ease, freedom from

anxiety and all else to her Greville. Indeed it should not be difficult.

She would do her utmost, joyfullest best.

They took her to the play that night, and Sir William and she laughed at

the comedy of the frolicsome Mrs. Jordan together, while the smiling

Greville sat beside them in the box and loaded her with every attention

she had missed. He was resolved Sir William should be well aware of the

value of this treasure.

Emma slept that night satiate with happiness.

CHAPTER VIII

THE BARGAIN

THE friendship between Emma and the Ambassador strengthened every day,

and to Greville’s secret amusement and satisfaction, he was continually

in Edgware Row. London, apart from the antiquarian interests in which he

met congenial spirits, was tame and dull in comparison with the delight

of sitting with “the fair tea-maker” as he called her, listening to the

wonderful voice, suggesting yet more wonderful Attitudes, lounging for

hours in Romney’s studio where he made his unwearied studies of Emma in

every character that literature or her own marvellous versatility could

suggest. He gave an order to Romney for her portrait as a Bacchante that

he might not be parted (so he said) from so much beauty when he was

compelled to return to Naples.

“Oh, but don’t talk of return, my kind dear friend, I beseech you! What

shall we do, Greville and me, when you go? You take the sunlight with

you!” said Emma with an expression of pain and fear in those

irresistible eyes. “If you did but know, but you can’t, what happiness

you have brought with you! All my Greville’s anxieties seem to have

vanished away, and we live as care-free as the birds yonder. What don’t

I owe you! If I could repay it—ah, if I could!”

“To look at you and enjoy your presence is to be repaid with interest!”

said the Ambassador, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. He was

approaching the age when it is easier to find pleasures at home than to

go abroad to seek them, and there was a warm atmosphere of comfort, of

woman’s sweet serviceable ways about him there in which he was apt to

purr like a contented cat. She knew his liking by instinct, divined a

wish before he uttered it, and with Greville’s guiding taste the

surroundings in Edgware Row could not offend even the Hamilton

fastidiousness. The little maid-servant, added to the establishment in

honour of his frequent coming, would rush radiant to “Mrs. Hart” when

his step was in the garden, and well she might, for Sir William’s

generous hand was often in his pocket even for the humble Molly Dring,

while, as to Emma, she was the shrine of many and costly offerings, and

he seldom came without a parcel to be opened with pretty cries of

delight, and little shrieks to Greville to come and see what “our dear,

dear uncle” has brought. She had offered to be either his “obliged

humble servant or his affectionate niece,” and he voted for the niece.

Those were halcyon days for Emma. She had never been so happy. She

believed the cause to be that Greville was more contented than she had

seen him for many a long day; kinder, less critical, more indulgent. The

narrow limit of expense was enlarged for Sir William, the expeditions to

the gaieties of London were more frequent, Sir William’s calm

good-nature was a mellowing sunshine on all the little asperities which

disturbed her. Privately, deep in the recesses of her own heart, she

encouraged dreams that Sir William’s affection for her might lead to her

marriage with Greville. If _he_ approved, insisted, made the way easy

from the money side of affairs, she felt she could not doubt what the

end would be. She redoubled every attention to both her men. Every

impulse to quick temper was ruled and governed. The sweet eyes which

welcomed Sir William or smiled on Greville were dove’s eyes for

softness, and to crown all, she topped the part of the perfect housewife

with the brilliant accomplishments which astonished Sir William beyond

the very bounds of prudence.

Gavin Hamilton, the cousin artist, came often to study and sketch the

wonder. He, too, succumbed to her fascinations. She was “a Roman beauty,

opulent, luxuriant, dominating, the perfect classic re-animated for the

rapture of the eighteenth century,” and his admiration fanned Sir

William’s into flame, while Greville watched with silent pleasure,

permitting the matter now to take its own safe course, and Emma expanded

daily in the atmosphere of warm caressing admiration which was her

soul’s delight. She grew more beautiful, more brilliant, every day in

that delicious sunshine; responsive as a flower. Endless were her

dreams. If Greville married her, why then she might hope he would admit

the little Emma as one of the circle. Why not? It could not be spoken,

not hinted as yet; but once married, domestic pressure is slow but sure

and she could imagine a future when Sir William might invite his nephew

and niece with the small adopted daughter to do the honours for him at

the Palazzo Sessa whilst he sank gently more and more into the interests

of his antiquities and left the world to them. On _that_ stage Emma was

certain she could dazzle. The Honourable Mrs. Charles Greville could

have no uncertainties she thought, so, when he spoke of going she took

his hand and squeezed it nervously with wet eyes and implored him to

delay. Indeed, the vast villa with its troops of gabbling servants

seemed dull enough after the amenities of Edgware Row. He was in no

hurry.

Greville wanted, however, to get him to himself and that seemed

impossible with all the interests of Paddington Green.

“I think, my dear Hamilton, it is really time you should see with your

own eyes the developments of the Milford estates. As you know, I have

been there constantly, but the master’s eye—I think I must have your

instructions on the spot. Time flies and you will be off to Naples again

before long.”

“Exactly. You’re perfectly in the right. But presently will do. I have

told San Severino that he must hear Emma sing and he can’t come until

next week. He will be perfectly infatuated. If she should ever visit

Naples that will be an unrivalled introduction.”

And when that week was done and Greville again protested gently.

“Yes, my dear boy, certainly. You are wisdom and goodness itself but the

Principe di Barberini swears he will not leave England until he has seen

her Attitudes, and I am training her for the Proserpina on the plain of

Enna. After that—”

After that Greville would take no denial. He must, he would prepare the

way still further for the Great Plan, though much was to be entrusted to

letters when Sir William was gone. Letters can be considered, slips

carefully avoided. Greville much preferred letters.

Sir William would not hear of Emma’s being left alone in Edgware Row

while they went down to Wales. Could she not come with them? No,

Greville was certain that could not be. They would be moving too quickly

for her, would be engrossed with business at Milford.

“And besides, do you not think, my dear Hamilton, that she has looked a

little pale of late? Sea bathing acts like a charm with her. I think of

Parkgate. You will see her return in even greater beauty; Aphrodite

rising from the sea. And I _did_ think, unless you disapprove, of

letting her have her little Emma as a companion. One would not be

inhuman, and certainly it would give her a very natural pleasure.”

Sir William demurred a little, a very little on that motion. “Whether it

were well to strengthen that connection—” he hesitated. “There might in

the future be difficulties, if the child—but after all, poor lovely

girl, what more natural? Yes, Greville, I approve. You have a kindly

heart.”

“Indeed, I would not fail where Emma is concerned,” Greville replied

gravely. “I have respect for her innumerable good qualities as well as a

strong affection. I am sincerely glad you approve.”

All this was broached to Emma in the most agreeable way. One and all

would feel the break-up of the little household, but the Milford

business was imperative, and she needed the sea air and there would be

letters, constant letters.

She did not dare to kiss Sir William at parting—so she said in a pretty

letter to Greville later—but tendered a velvet cheek and received his

salute with shy lashes dropped.

Yet, once away, fears returned. The actual distance magnified the class

distance between her and the two men. Tall, distinguished, accomplished,

moving in a world of which the gates had never opened, could never open

to her, it seemed they might at any time be absorbed into their own

Paradise never to return. Could they have sent her away as the beginning

of the end? Oh, surely no!—and yet—Somehow, Heaven knows how, a waft

of Miss Middleton’s name had reached her—the Honourable Miss Middleton!

Nothing certain, but disquieting. She grew nervous, self-distrustful.

There was no one at Parkgate to give the necessary tribute of admiration

to singing and Attitudes, and little Emma, though a charming blue-eyed

creature, got on her nerves a little also.

Her letters reflected these moods.

“I am in the house of a laidy whose husband is at sea. The price

is high but they don’t lodge anybody without boarding, and I

thought it would not ruin us till I could have your oppinion

which I hope to have freely as you will give it to one who will

always be happy to follow it, lett it be what it will. And

though my little temper may have been sometimes high, believe me

I have always thought you right in the end when I have come to

reason. I bathe and find the water very soult. Pray, my dearest

Greville, write soon and tell me what to do with the child. For

she is a great romp and I can hardly master her. She is tall,

has good eys and brows, and as to lashes she will be passible. I

am makeing and mending all I can for her. Do lett me come home

as soon as you can for I am allmost broken-hearted being from

you. You don’t know how much I love you and your behaiver to me

when we parted was so kind. Greville, I don’t know what to do.

How teadous does the time pass awhay until I hear from you.

Endead I should be miserable if I did not recollect upon what

happy terms we parted—parted, yess, but to meet again with

tenfould happiness.”

There was sharp anxiety in her mind as she wrote protesting these poor

certainties. She could not enjoy the child’s company with a care-free

heart. As in an eclipse the lurid shadow slowly invades the rim of the

sun and sheds a livid light that slowly darkens all, so a fear

intangible, nothing to fight directly and therefore the more alarming,

invaded her little world of content. Suppose Sir William should take

Greville with him to Naples? Suppose—a hundred supposes!

She wrote again. He did not.

“Would you think it, Greville? Emma, the wild unthinking Emma,

is a grave thoughtful phylosopher. [He would like that—it would

please him.] ’Tis true, Greville, and I will convince you it is

when I see you. But how I am running on. I say nothing about

this giddy wild girl of mine. What shall we do with her,

Greville? Would you believe on Sattarday we had a little quarel,

and I did slap her on her hands and when she came to kiss me and

make it up, I took her on my lap and cried. Pray do you blame me

or not? Pray tell me. O Greville, you don’t know how I love her.

When she comes and looks in my face and calls me mother endead I

then truly am a mother, and the mother’s feelings rise at once

and tels me I am or ought to be a mother for she has a wright to

my protection and I will do all in my power to prevent her

falling into the error her poor miserable mother fell into.”

She paused and read this over with a deep sense of its pathos. But would

it touch or anger Greville? Who could tell? No, he must not think her

unhappy—it might appear to refer to past differences, to upbraid him.

She wrote on hurriedly.

“But why do I say miserable? Am I not happy abbove any of my

sex?—at least in my situation. Does not Greville love me, or at

least like me. Is he not a father to my child? Why do I call

myself miserable? No, it was a mistake, and I will be happy,

chearful and kind. Again, my dear Greville, the recollection of

past scenes brings tears to my eys, but they are tears of

happiness, Greville. I am obliged to give a shilling a day for

the bathing house and whoman and two pence for the dress. It is

a great expense and it fretts me when I think of it. No letter

from my dear Greville. Why, my dearest Greville, what is the

reason you don’t write. Give my dear kind love and compliments

to Pliney [Pliny, Sir William’s nickname] and tell him I put you

under his care and he must be answereble for you to me wen I see

him.”

So Emma, fluttering, perturbed, fighting the darkening shadows. And

again:

“Pray, my dear Greville, lett me come home soon. I have been 3

weeks and if I stay a fortnight longer that will be five weeks,

you know, and then the expense is above 2 guineas a week with

washing. Sure I shall have a letter to-day. Can you,

Greville—no, you can’t have forgot your poor Emma allready.

Though I am but a few weeks absent my heart will not one moment

leave you. Don’t you recollect what you said at parting? How you

should be happy to see me again?”

But Greville had no intention of writing until just before her return.

The last thing he desired was to feed the flame of her passion for him,

and the thing he most desired was to loosen the bond gently, insensibly,

and with as much certainty and as little cruelty as possible. And the

pleading in her letters could not obliterate in the tranquil coldness of

his mind the scenes and tempers which had disturbed him, nor, even if he

could have forgiven those, could he forget for one moment the money

necessities of his position.

The hint about the little Emma also was irritating and she had repeated

it more plainly since. He must have encouraged Emma far beyond what was

sensible if she could make so cool a proposition as to bring the child

back with her. Very few men would have undertaken the schooling, and

proper gratitude for that boon should have silenced her.

He and Sir William had returned to London when that letter reached him

and was followed by another, which ended:

“My dear Greville, don’t be angry, but I gave my grandmother

five guineas, for she had laid some money out on Emma, that I

would not take her awhay shabbily. But Emma shall pay you. My

dear Greville, I wish I was with you.”

He foresaw himself eternally the prey of needy vulgar relations, with

Emma growing older, more violent-tempered, more of a burden daily. It

hardened his resolution, and after writing a brief letter entirely

forbidding the Emma project and speaking of his desire for greater

freedom and more solitude when she returned home, he opened the matter

resolutely with Sir William that night. It had become really necessary

from his point of view, for the Ambassador was returning to Naples in

August, and there must be a sufficient understanding for letters to

proceed on. There was no difficulty in opening the subject, for Miss

Middleton had been seen and approved, and Sir William’s mind was full of

her.

“There should be no hesitation, no delay!” he said, taking out his

precious snuff-box set with a fine cameo of Phaëton driving the Horses

of the Sun. “She is a young woman of amiable manners and if not a

finished beauty there is perhaps less chance of quiet with a woman whom

all the town runs after. Write me word very soon that all is settled,

and you shall not be forgotten in a gift, nor your bride either.”

“You are all goodness and wisdom. Of course you are perfectly right. Not

only will her money set me on my feet again, but the connection is good,

and her parents’ house will always be open to us. But Emma, my dear

Hamilton, Emma! You understand the position thoroughly now you know her.

Is she a woman to throw on the town? Would it be common mercy? The

child, I shall of course keep at school. Any other project would be

madness. But again I say—Emma?”

“Emma, indeed!” repeated Sir William and looked meditatively at his

boot. Then—“Has any definite idea occurred to you, Charles?”

“Undoubtedly one has occurred, but whether your wisdom would approve it,

I can’t tell. But first—you really can scarcely understand the shock it

will be to me to part with her. She is the sweetest companion. I have

been so candid with regard to her little quick spurts of temper that you

will believe me when I say this.”

“It needs very little telling to realize that she is one that would be

missed severely. I pity your necessity, Charles, more than I can say.

Gavin Hamilton agrees with me that he has never seen her like all the

world over.”

“Exactly. But I have no alternative. Still, it would add to my grief if

I had to think of her fallen in other hands doubtfully kind, accepting

her as the mere common woman of pleasure. She is far from that.”

“Far.” Hamilton’s very tone was conviction.

“Indeed, yes. My plan is this, then—but much depends on your

co-operation. Her voice—well, you know it. Might it be in any way

possible to send her to Naples for singing lessons which could be

continued under your supervision, and could your influence then be

exerted to procure her an opening in opera either at Naples or

preferably at Milan? Given but chance, I believe she might attain

European celebrity.”

“I believe so too,” said Hamilton, and fell into thought. He coloured

slightly; his eyes narrowed as he looked down. Greville knew what was in

his mind as clearly as if he had spoken aloud. The seed was set, though

apparently unconsciously on Greville’s side. He had been perfectly

adroit. He smiled a little to himself as he pursued his quiet way.

“My plan was that her mother should accompany her. She needs a

companion. Then, of course, arises the question of money. The mother is

an excellent cook, as you know, and housekeeper. If she could get a

position in one of the English families, she could pay a little towards

Emma’s expenses, and the slender help I could give would not be

lacking.”

“This certainly is the germ of an idea,” said Hamilton in meditation. “I

will consider all you say most carefully. I am interested in Emma’s

wonderful qualities. I would willingly aid where I can. I am at one with

you in the notion that we could not cast her off without assistance. It

would be unworthy. But, come!—be frank with me, Charles. Is there any

difficulty in her disposition that I don’t comprehend? These tempers?

And is she vain? Frivolous? Mercenary?”

For an answer Greville drew her last letter from his pocket and laid it

in Sir William’s hands.

“I received your kind letter last night, and, my dearest

Greville, I want words to express how happy it made me. For I

thought I was like a lost sheep and every one had forsook me. I

was eight days very ill, but am a great deal better for your

kind instructing letter and I own the justice of your remarks.

You shall have your appartment to yourself. You shall read,

wright, or sett still, just as you pleas, for I shall think

myself happy to be under the same roof with Greville and do all

I can to make it agreable without disturbing him in any

pursuits. For your absence has taught me that I ought to think

myself happy if I was within a mile of you. You shall find me

good, kind, gentle, affectionate and everything you wish me to

do I will do. O Greville, to think it is nine weeks since I saw

you. I think I shall die with the pleasure of seeing you. Oh,

how I long to see you.”

“Is this a spoilt, capricious beauty?” says he, when Sir William had

finished it.

“No, a tender, womanly, submissive charmer. But it frightens me another

way. Greville, she will never leave you.”

“She will, if we can impress upon her that it is to _my_ advantage. She

never will for herself. Poor soul!—moving, I own!”

Greville touched one of the fundamentals in this remark and did not know

it. Sir William’s warmer heart appreciated it.

“We must make it as easy for her as we can. Certainly I should have no

objection to her being under my protection—”

Something in the phrase made him uncomfortable. He stopped with a shade

of embarrassment, then continued, “I mean I will willingly oversee the

question of putting the mother out and of lending my influence to

advance Emma’s music and its results. On these points I shall write more

fully when I have considered, and meanwhile I advise you wean her

gradually. Separate slowly, imperceptibly.”

“I have begun. I conditioned strictly for the parlour for my own use. I

shall sleep frequently in town. Depend upon my showing every

consideration. You can count on that. Do not be uneasy.”

It was strange, but extremely adroit, the manner in which Sir William

was put in the position of the person whose feelings were the most to be

considered with regard to Emma. She might have been far more of a charge

upon his conscience than on Greville’s. Little more was said. Neither

could be more particular, for there was now an unspoken matter between

them which outweighed all words uttered. Their eyes did not meet when

Greville, gazing out at the twinkling lights, said:

“I will keep you fully acquainted, my dear Hamilton, and will rely on

your kind-hearted assistance in a matter so delicate.”

And Sir William, equally attentive to the rising moon dimming the

flickering oil lamps in the streets, replied.

“Certainly. And to revert to your own business; you have fully

understood, Charles, that I am prepared to stand security if you think

well to borrow for your debts? I have no hesitation about that.”

Greville’s gratitude knew no bounds and, with his satisfaction, was

perfectly sincere. It convinced him that there was a clear

understanding, that the bargain was absolutely completed and Emma’s

affection was the only remaining difficulty. His heart beat high for so

well-conducted a heart. His burden was loosening and life before him.

* * * * *

So Emma returned to a home no longer hers, to a gradually deepening

isolation from the man she loved, and to a constant recitation of the

difficulties he had to face. It seemed as if Sir William had taken the

sunshine with him.

And far off in the West Indies a young sea captain of twenty-five,

Captain Horatio Nelson, was going about his business, asserting the

honour of his country with his own, as great English admirals have done

from time immemorial. Slight, quiet, self-contained, he was pronounced

“an interesting young man” by those who knew him best; an aggressive

young man by those who crossed his bows in the way of his duty. The

French officers forgot to hoist the colours at Fort Royal, Martinique,

when H.M.S. _Boreas_ did them the honour to call, and though, unlike the

famous Admiral Hawkins, Captain Nelson did not send a shot to enforce

sea courtesy, he had the offender arrested, and accepted an apology with

haughtiness and difficulty. Again, when he had favoured the governor of

some of the West Indian islands with suggestions for the better

discharge of mutual duties, and the irate official replied that “old

generals were not in the habit of taking advice from young gentlemen,”

that particular young gentleman replied:

“I have the honour, sir, of being as old as the Prime Minister of

England [Pitt] and think myself as capable of commanding one of His

Majesty’s ships as that minister is of governing the State.”

Neat and conclusive. On that station it was considered that on the whole

Captain Nelson was a promising young officer and likely to be heard of

later. He was to meet his fate in marriage next year, and nothing

pointing to converging lines could be observed either in his prospects

or Emma’s.

Yet every day, every hour was steadily preparing that meeting.

PART II