ADVANCE AND RETREAT
SIR WILLIAM for the first time in his life fell in love. Her smile
curled about his heart, her maidenly advances and retreats enchanted
him. In vain Greville, not daring to write his indignation at the
Embassy arrangement, shot little shafts of caution and warning. They
were unheeded. Lalage, sweetly laughing, sweetly speaking, was beside
him and letters were trifles. He persuaded himself that Greville had
never understood her and that he did; mere conjectures then might be put
smilingly aside.
In careful French, lest it should by any chance come under her prying
eyes, Greville wrote to the rash man, as he considered him:
“If one admits the tone of virtue without its reality one is simply
duped, and I naturally see everything in its true light as I have always
done.” Sir William thought, but did not retort, that Greville’s utter
lack of idealism entirely unfitted him for judging an inspiration like
Emma’s; that—oh, fallacy of lovers!—the body might be debauched and
dragged through the mire and the white maiden soul sit smiling secure in
its fastness. That is, of course, in _Emma’s_ case, hers only. At such a
possibility for any other woman he himself would have laughed with
Greville. His replies evaded those points that were full of real anxiety
as to her happiness. Did Greville believe her faithful heart could ever
change from its devotion to him? What could be done to wean her from
that hopeless passion? It was clear there could be no hope for any other
man unless it disappeared, and he was sure that the shock when she knew
the facts would be dreadful. Greville, horrified at her being so
seriously taken, wrote back under the difficulty that his praises of
Emma now recoiled on himself. If he had dwelt on her absence of
coquetry, her freedom from giddiness, her strong good sense, how was he
now to convey the caution that she was merely a woman of easy virtue and
the more dangerous because of her extraordinary attractions? He felt
himself involved in contradictions, but did his best. And first he
reassured Sir William.
“I shall hope to manage all to our satisfaction, for I so long foresaw
that a moment of separation must arrive that I never kept the connexion
but on a footing of perfect liberty to her. Its commencement was not of
my seeking. In her heart she cannot reproach me of having acted
otherwise than a kind attentive friend. But you have now rendered it
possible for her to be respected and comfortable and, if she has not
talked herself out of the true view of her situation, she will retain
the protection and affection of us both (!). For after all, consider
what a charming creature she would have been if she had been blessed
with the advantage of an early education, and had it not been spoilt by
the indulgence of every caprice! I never was irritated by her momentary
passions, and yet it is true that when her pride is hurt by neglect or
anxiety for the future, the frequent repetition of her passion balances
the beauty of her smiles. Knowing all this, infinite have been my pains
to make her respect herself and I had always proposed to remain her
friend altho’ the connexion ceased. If Mrs. Wells had quarrell’d with
Admiral Keppell she would never have been respected as she now is.”
Mrs. Wells hovered as so fair a dream before the eyes of Greville’s
morality that one might well desire the acquaintance of that paragon.
But since she has not survived in history save as a possible example to
Emma, and Emma herself made history, it may be granted that the two
ladies had perhaps very little in common and that Emma could not have
been a Wells with all her efforts. She did, at one time, try her best
and failed. It is also an odd reflection that Greville himself, the
great, the highly descended, remains in human memory solely because Emma
once dwelt in his house in Edgware Row on her way to more celestial
spheres. So incredible to Greville-minds are the impish freaks and
caprices of that Muse of History whom the besotted ancients treated with
as much veneration as if she had been a sensible woman!
Sir William put this clever letter smilingly aside, as I have said.
Greville’s motives and contradictions were perfectly clear to him, and
the more confirmed his belief that Emma was a soul unspoilt. He
accordingly proceeded to do his best to spoil her. Every day was devoted
to her interest and amusement.
“You cannot add perfume to a rose, but you can add lustre to a diamond
by cutting, polishing, setting, and my diamond [‘Greville’s!’ she
interjected] shall have every chance to glitter with the best.” So he
told her, and catching the interjection, added, “And now when Greville
comes he shall stare in amazement to see the improvement in what most
men would think could not be improved.” That last sentence was
sufficient for her. She outran Sir William in her diligence from that
moment.
Galluci came every morning and the house was like a nest of larks for
two hours. The wondering Neapolitan noblemen who visited him were
convinced Sir William’s new mistress, for such was her reputation, must
be an established prima donna and looked through the journals daily to
see what star had shot from its firmament to temporary obscurity for his
sweet sake. Indeed, her progress confounded Sir William and Galluci who
were both of them inclined to set nature at nought and lean wholly on
art. The eighteenth century, like Greville, was unkind to nature. Even a
simple shepherdess must be hooped and garlanded and become a Phyllis or
a Chloe before she could be agreeable in eyes polite.
The dancing-master followed Galluci daily, and Sir William would look
into the room to see Emma at her dancing and deportment. Daily she
gained in suave dignity. She could enter a room with the best in a
fortnight, make the whole range of curtseys from the deep reverential
which one day might be useful at court, to the slight supercilious
warranted to kill impertinence on the spot. She walked stately in the
minuet—but why catalogue? Because it was Emma, she must needs learn the
country dances; indeed, she picked these up from the maids, and very
soon excelled in the tarantella and other such joys of the people,
rendering them with an added grace which made Sir William’s guests
marvel why they had never thought them worth notice before.
Sir William’s guests? What had Emma, or her like, to do with them? Much.
Mrs. Dickenson was vanquished. From her charming house in Naples whence
she had issued to do the honours when Sir William received, she heard of
the new arrival, and in no uncertain terms. Her history, losing nothing
in the telling, was spread before Mrs. Dickenson’s chaste eyes and
almost scorched them. It had been carefully concealed from the ladies of
the family that Greville had made a home in Edgware Row and though no
one expected him to be more austere than other young men of the period
it was felt that he offered an example which seniors and juniors would
alike do well to follow. There was therefore nothing to connect him with
the idea of Emma, though, as regards her past, Gavin Hamilton,
delicately threshed with feminine flail and fan in Naples, yielded some
precious grains of information which sprang up green and full-eared in
Neapolitan conversations, and did not even know that he had done it.
Sir William—the astute, the worldly wise!—was he deceived or
deceiving? Mrs. Dickenson bided her time. It came inevitably with the
expected request that she should take the head of his table on the
occasion of a large dinner party with music to follow.
Music! Mrs. Dickenson pricked up her ears. Those lark-like trillings had
already reached them in rumour. She answered that it would be best if
Sir William would call and discuss the arrangements with her.
Unthinking man, he went! Conscious of innocence and of a heart—but that
at least should not concern Mrs. Dickenson in his opinion—he went.
She received him with the duty of a niece who had grown up more or less
in his shadow and who could appreciate the dignity of an ambassador in
the family, and made the suitable beginning in enquiries after his
health and the news by mail, and finishing with the weather launched
discreetly into the subject of the dinner.
“I thank you very sincerely, my dear uncle, for your wish that I should
do the honours as usual. Nothing could give me more pleasure.”
“Then it is settled, my dear,” he said briskly, “the hour is as usual.
The guests—”
“But—” said Mrs. Dickenson with emphasis, and that awful syllable, the
grave of so many reputations, fell chill on his ear. He rose hurriedly.
“I see you have a cold. Indeed, I would not be inconsiderate. I know you
have often helped me at great inconvenience to yourself.”
“And would again and evermore,” said Mrs. Dickenson in her deep
contralto. “But—” Again a pause.
“Pray speak plainly. What is it?”
His face was a mask of genial innocence, calm as if all the Christian
virtues shed their benignant sunshine through his eyes. It was Mrs.
Dickenson who looked uncomfortably conscious.
“Well, my dear uncle, I will perform a duty which I find most painful.
How can I with any self-respect enter the Palazzo Sessa when I am told
there is a young girl there unconnected with the family, extremely young
and beautiful, with the manners of an actress, and who has been
presented only to your _male_ friends? Pray view my position candidly.”
The hot sun beat on the jalousies and filtered through the blinds. The
room was, however, dim and cool with shade and the rich perfume of
flowers, and there was no external cause for the little elderly flush
which coloured Sir William’s cheeks. She observed it and drew her own
conclusions. However, he did not hesitate, though his countenance fell.
“You and I should be used to the virulent gossip of Naples by this time.
There is nothing to hide, and you are at liberty to hear the
circumstances and judge for yourself. Mrs. Hart is a young woman of the
utmost merit and talents. She is in poor circumstances and has been
recommended to me by a friend that she may study singing with Galluci
and fit herself for the operatic stage. It could not be done to the same
advantage in England. You know that as well as I. And therefore I
extended hospitality to her and to her mother; a most worthy, excellent
woman. Of course I knew that my motives would be misrepresented. When is
it ever otherwise? But you are now acquainted with all the facts, and in
case you have a very natural delicacy in asking the question, I will
tell you once and for all, there is nothing whatever between me and Mrs.
Hart.”
“What are her antecedents?” asked Mrs. Dickenson, coldly overlooking
this assurance. Sir William’s mental vision swiftly embraced Up Park,
Edgware Row, and a few more memories before he answered firmly:
“A quiet respectable home in London with her mother. This is the chance
of her life. But come and judge yourself of her uncommon talents. With
your love of music I am certain they will delight you, and your
countenance would be invaluable for her.”
There was a pause while Mrs. Dickenson marshalled her words and ideas.
“My dear uncle, it is impossible you should realize the scandal that is
going about. If you did, how can I doubt that you would make some other
arrangement for the young woman? In a dissolute court like this you will
hear no objection from the Royalties or nobility, but there are worthy
English people here who will undoubtedly report the matter in London—”
“Damn them and their officiousness!”
“—and it may have very unpleasant results,” proceeded Mrs. Dickenson
calmly, “so that I feel I cannot, in view of my daughters, in any way
encourage what may be very harmful to you and all the family. I don’t
speak of higher motives but they exist in all their fulness.”
Perhaps there is nothing more irritating to the average man than a
highly moral attack descending like a flail on a harmless pleasure.
Whatever were his hopes for the future the situation was still innocent,
and it was nothing less than maddening to have Emma at home, bathed in
tears and writing passionate love letters to Greville, and Mrs.
Dickenson here upbraiding him with illicit relations which would have
filled Emma with as much disgust as herself. He lost his temper between
the pair of them.
“Commend me to the really pure-minded female for licentious
suggestions,” he said, rising with sarcastic decision. “I had thought
better of your good sense. If an elderly man cannot show compassion to a
girl young enough to be his granddaughter without these unpleasant
insinuations he had better not lay himself open to such attacks. I wish
you a very good morning.”
Mrs. Dickenson started towards him with a cry. The word “marriage” was
tolling in her ear, and she the sole family representative to arrest
this fatal folly! Oh, if Greville, the cool, the worldly-wise, the
influential with his uncle, were but here! That was her thought.
“Oh, uncle, did you but know what is flying about, and how it may be
represented in England! You despise me as a woman. Consult Greville, I
entreat you, before it goes farther. You know his calm good sense. Write
by the mail that leaves to-day. He will tell you—”
“Damn Greville!” cries Sir William, now exasperated in the highest
degree. “And damn all who interfere in matters which do not concern them
and never will! I free you, madam, henceforward from the unpleasant duty
of assisting my hospitalities, and have nothing further to beg of you
but that our meetings may be as infrequent as you please.”
He stalked out and left Mrs. Dickenson weeping on the settee. The poor
lady had but done her duty, and here was the reward.
He went straight up to Emma’s apartments, where she sat, industriously
sketching by the great window overlooking the bay. He stood a moment by
the door and watched her, and though she was conscious of it she never
stirred but went quietly on with her work.
All in her favorite white, young, lovely, sweet, she looked like a wood
nymph compared with Mrs. Dickenson’s stout and unattractive British
maternity. She rose before him florid and suspicious, the stiff silk
gown crackling about her stout person, a cap all loops and frills and
ribbon, with rolled curls to front her unattractive coiffure. A thievish
sunbeam had made its way through a half-closed jalousie and was playing
hide and seek in the auburn gold of Emma’s curls. It touched the
mother-of-pearl of a little ear, listening, though he never guessed it,
for the quick breath due to such industrious loveliness. It rushed on
him then—Why not make Emma the lady of the Palazzo, the dispenser of
his hospitalities? Why not as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb? They
could not say worse than they were saying; then let them talk as they
would and he would go his own way. Where in the broad earth could he
find such another hostess? The charm of his parties would echo through
Italy, and London was far away. These thoughts and many more all
crystallizing into resolution stirred in him as he stood and watched
that sunbeam touch the warm rose of her cheek and quiver about her lips.
Suddenly she turned, smiled, and said sweetly:
“I felt you were there. It’s like sunshine in the room when you come.
Tell me if this is any better?”
She held up the sketching block, and he sat down beside her commenting
and commending. Then, resolutely:
“Emma, I have a dinner party to-night. I wish you to appear.”
“Me? Oh, Sir William!” she looked at him in dismay. “Ladies? But I’ve
never dined with ladies in my life, and I don’t know how to act.”
“You can’t do anything but gracefully. There are only two Italian
ladies, from Rome. The rest are men. Twelve in all. I wish you to
receive them.”
“But I can’t talk Italian yet. Though I’m getting on.”
“Perhaps that may be all the better for a beginning and till you grow
more accustomed. I’ll make your excuses. And you shall sing after
dinner.”
Her face went pale and red.
“Sir William, you believe in me too much. I shall disgrace you.”
“Not you. You’ll rise to the occasion and cover us with glory. You have
the courage of six. Now that’s fixed. Come down simply, quietly,
naturally, and I won’t say look pretty, because you can’t help that. But
be just the simple natural Emma, and all will go well.”
“But, what shall I wear? Oh, I want to be beautiful to do you credit.”
As it was not possible for Sir William to explain that that was the high
road to discredit for him, he fell in with her view and after awhile the
white satin was chosen. She had never worn it yet, and that was in
itself an event to move her. At the end, she hesitated a little.
“Is Mrs. Dickenson ill?” she asked simply, for she knew from him that
his real niece had always done the honours. Sir William’s lips
tightened.
“Not at all. But I choose that in future my dear Emma shall be hostess
at the Palazzo Sessa.”
No more was said. She could not tell whether she were more frightened or
glad. Perhaps he meant it as a part of the great campaign of improvement
now proceeding. She was to be given the manners of a lady in high
society in addition to all else. Wonderful, wonderful! For what dim
illustrious future was all this preparation? Surely, surely he must have
her marriage to Greville in view. Nothing else could possibly explain
it. Then what effort or gratitude could be too much for such amazing
generosity? When he was gone she caught up her pen and wrote to
Greville. All centred about that.
“I try to appear as cheerful before Sir William as I can, but I
am sure to cry the moment I think of you. For I feel more and
more unhappy at being separated from you, and if my fatal ruin
depends on seeing you, I will and _must_ at the end of the
summer. For to live without you is impossible. I love you to
that degree that at this time there is not a hardship upon earth
either of poverty, cold, death, or even to walk barefooted to
Scotland to see you but what I would undergo. Therefore my dear,
dear Greville, if you do love me, for my sake, try all you can
to come here as soon as possible. You have a true friend in Sir
William and he will be happy to see you. I find it is not either
a fine horse or a fine coach or a pack of servants or plays or
operas can make me happy. It is _you_ that has it in your power
either to make me very happy or very miserable.”
She paused here, recalled a something in Sir William’s eyes that had
startled her. To him she could not say a word, not a word. She might,
_must_ be utterly mistaken, and doing him a frightful injustice. But to
Greville she could open her whole heart. With desperate courage she
snatched up the pen again.
“I respect Sir William. I have a great regard for him, as the
uncle and friend of you, and he loves me, Greville. But he can
never be anything nearer to me than your uncle and my sincere
friend. He never can be my lover. You do not know how good Sir
William is to me. He is doing everything he can to make me
happy.”
She sealed and bound that letter with extraordinary care. Little could
she think or guess that it would be returned after careful consideration
from Greville for Sir William’s consideration also. Her motive in
writing it was perfectly clear. Greville must know and rejoice in the
thought that neither temptation, pleasures, or love could shake her
perfect fidelity to him. He had come to her rescue in need, they had
lived together in wifely submission and love on her side for years. She
considered herself his wife in truth and hoped that the future would
make her so in the world’s eyes. For that she was toiling now; that he
might never have cause to blush for her bearing and accomplishments.
Poor Emma! it was perhaps natural that she should put the shameful past
out of sight. It had not hurt her, she thought, or Sir William could not
respect her as he did. And if she could forget it, why not Greville?
Only he must be certain that she was true as the needle to the North
even if the incredible were to happen and Sir William to tempt her.
She pushed the sealed letter aside, then sent it to the mail and sat
awhile thinking. Sir William saw her enter the room before his guests
arrived, divinely lovely in the shimmering white satin and a little rope
of knotted seed pearls about her round throat. With all the delight of a
proud proprietor he watched the eyes of the men who entered and were
ceremoniously presented. He saw the two olive-skinned Italian ladies
thrown into the shade by that immaculate fairness. Her manners were the
perfection of a young girl’s modesty, and her ignorance of Italian kept
her in a graceful quiet of smiles and shyness. It was in the evening her
triumph came when Galluci appeared with his music and Emma placed
herself beside him too shy even for apologies and excuses. She sang
Paisiello brilliantly. She fired off ascending rockets of silver stars
that fluttered to earth again as silvery. The applause of the
inflammable Italians was frantic, and her pretty bow and smile completed
the picture.
Directly the two ladies rose she attended them to the door and vanished
discreetly with them.
“Perfection!” said Sir William in his heart. “Thank goodness I acted as
I did to-day.”
But what would Greville have said? It was Emma who asked that question
in her own heart. Sir William evaded it in his.