Meantime Wilfrid was leading a town-life and occasionally visiting
Stornley. He was certainly not in love with Lady Charlotte
Chillingworth, but he was in harness to that lady. In love we have
some idea whither we would go: in harness we are simply driven, and the
destination may be anywhere. To be reduced to this condition (which will
happen now and then in the case of very young men who are growing up
to something, and is, if a momentary shame to them, rather a sign of
promise than not) the gentle male need not be deeply fascinated. Lady
Charlotte was not a fascinating person. She did not lay herself out to
attract. Had she done so, she would have failed to catch Wilfrid, whose
soul thirsted for poetical refinement and filmy delicacies in a woman.
What she had, and what he knew that he wanted, and could only at
intervals assume by acting as if he possessed it, was a victorious
aplomb, which gave her a sort of gallant glory in his sight. He could
act it well before his sisters, and here and there a damsel; and
coming fresh from Lady Charlotte's school, he had recently done so with
success, and had seen the ladies feel toward him, as he felt under his
instructress in the art. Some nature, however, is required for every
piece of art. Wilfrid knew that he had been brutal in his representation
of the part, and the retrospect of his conduct at Brookfield did not
satisfy his remorseless critical judgement. In consequence, when
he again saw Lady Charlotte, his admiration of that one prized
characteristic of hers paralyzed him. She looked, and moved, and spoke,
as if the earth were her own. She was a note of true music, and he felt
himself to be an indecisive chord; capable ultimately of a splendid
performance, it might be, but at present crying out to be played upon.
This is the condition of a man in harness, whom witlings may call what
they will. He is subjugated: not won. In this state of subjugation
he will joyfully sacrifice as much as a man in love. For, having no
consolatory sense of happiness, such as encircles and makes a nest
for lovers, he seeks to attain some stature, at least, by excesses of
apparent devotion. Lady Charlotte believed herself beloved at last. She
was about to strike thirty; and Rumour, stalking with a turban of cloud
on her head,--enough that this shocking old celestial dowager, from
condemnation had passed to pity of the dashing lady. Beloved at last!
After a while there is no question of our loving; but we thirst for
love, if we have not had it. The key of Lady Charlotte will come in
the course of events. She was at the doubtful hour of her life, a
warm-hearted woman, known to be so by few, generally consigned by
devout-visaged Scandal (for who save the devout will dare to sit in the
chair of judgement?) as a hopeless rebel against conventional laws; and
worse than that, far worse,--though what, is not said.
At Stornley the following letter from Emilia hit its mark:--
Dear Mr. Wilfrid,
“It is time for me to see you. Come when you have read this letter.
I cannot tell you how I am, because my heart feels beating in another
body. Pray come; come now. Come on a swift horse. The thought of you
galloping to me goes through me like a flame that hums. You will come,
I know. It is time. If I write foolishly, do forgive me. I can only make
sure of the spelling, and I cannot please you on paper, only when I see
you.”
The signature of 'Emilia Alessandra Belloni' was given with her wonted
proud flourish.
Wilfrid stared at the writing. “What! all this time she has been
thinking the same thing!” Her constancy did not swim before him in
alluring colours. He regarded it as a species of folly. Disgust had left
him. The pool of Memory would have had to be stirred to remind him of
the pipe-smoke in her hair. “You are sure to please me when you see me?”
he murmured. “You are very confident, young lady!” So much had her charm
faded. And then he thought kindly of her, and that a meeting would
not be good for her, and that she ought to go to Italy and follow
her profession. “If she grows famous,” whispered coxcombry, “why then
oneself will take a little of the praises given to her.” And that seemed
eminently satisfactory. Men think in this way when you have loved them,
ladies. All men? No; only the coxcombs; but it is to these that you give
your fresh affection. They are, as it were, the band of the regiment of
adorers, marching ahead, while we sober working soldiers follow to their
music. “If she grows famous, why then I can bear in mind that her
heart was once in my possession: and it may return to its old owner,
perchance.” Wilfrid indulged in a pleasant little dream of her singing
at the Opera-house, and he, tied to a ferocious, detested wife, how
softly and luxuriously would he then be sighing for the old time! It
was partly good seed in his nature, and an apprehension of her force
of soul, that kept him from a thought of evil to her. Passion does not
inspire dark appetite. Dainty innocence does, I am told. Things are
tested by the emotions they provoke. Wilfrid knew that there was no
trifling with Emilia, so he put the letter by, commenting thus “she's
right, she doesn't spell badly.” Behind, which, to those who have caught
the springs of his character, volumes may be seen.
He put the letter by. Two days later, at noon, the card of Captain
Gambier was brought to him in the billiard-room,--on it was written:
“Miss Belloni waits on horseback to see you.” Wilfrid thought “Waits!”
and the impossibility of escape gave him a notion of her power.
“So, you are letting that go on,” said Lady Charlotte, when she heard
that Emilia and the captain were in company.
“There is no fear for her whatever.”
“There is always fear when a man gives every minute of his time to that
kind of business,” retorted her ladyship.
Wilfrid smiled the smile of the knowing. Rivalry with Gambier (and
successful too!) did not make Emilia's admiration so tasteless. Some one
cries out: “But, what a weak creature is this young man!” I reply, he
was at a critical stage of his career. All of us are weak in the period
of growth, and are of small worth before the hour of trial. This fellow
had been fattening all his life on prosperity; the very best dish in the
world; but it does not prove us. It fattens and strengthens us, just
as the sun does. Adversity is the inspector of our constitutions;
she simply tries our muscle and powers of endurance, and should be a
periodical visitor. But, until she comes, no man is known. Wilfrid was
not absolutely engaged to Lady Charlotte (she had taken care of that),
and being free, and feeling his heart beat in more lively fashion, he
turned almost delightedly to the girl he could not escape from. As when
the wriggling eel that has been prodded by the countryman's fork, finds
that no amount of wriggling will release it, to it twists in a knot
around the imprisoning prong. This simile says more than I mean it to
say, but those who understand similes will know the measure due to them.
There sat Emilia on her horse. “Has Gambier been giving her lessons?”
thought Wilfrid. She sat up, well-balanced; and, as he approached, began
to lean gently forward to him. A greeting 'equal to any lady's,' there
was no doubt. This was the point Emilia had to attain, in his severe
contemplation. A born lady, on her assured level, stood a chance of
becoming a Goddess; but ladyship was Emilia's highest mark. Such is
the state of things to the sentimental fancy when girls are at a
disadvantage. She smiled, and held out both hands. He gave her one,
nodding kindly, but was too confused to be the light-hearted cavalier.
Lady Charlotte walked up to her horse's side, after receiving Captain
Gambier's salute, and said: “Come, catch hold of my hands and jump.”
“No,” replied Emilia; “I only came to see him.”
“But you will see him, and me in the bargain, if you stay.”
“I fancy she has given her word to return early,” interposed Wilfrid.
“Then we'll ride back with her,” said Lady Charlotte. “Give me five
minutes. I'll order a horse out for you.”
She smiled, and considerately removed the captain, by despatching him to
the stables.
A quivering dimple of tenderness hung for a moment in Emilia's cheeks,
as she looked upon Wilfrid. Then she said falteringly, “I think they
wish to be as we do.”
“Alone?” cried Wilfrid.
“Yes; that is why I brought him over. He will come anywhere with me.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No; I know it.”
“Did he tell you so?”
“No; Mr. Powys did.”
“Told you that Lady Charlotte--”
“Yes. Not, is; but, was. And he used that word... there is no word like
it,... he said 'her lover'--Oh! mine!” Emilia lifted her arms. Her voice
from its deepest fall had risen to a cry.
Wilfrid caught her as she slipped from her saddle. His heart was in a
tumult; stirred both ways: stirred with wrath and with love. He clasped
her tightly.
“Am I?--am I?” he breathed.
“My lover!” Emilia murmured.
He was her slave again.
For, here was something absolutely his own. His own from the roots; from
the first growth of sensation. Something with the bloom on it: to which
no other finger could point and say: “There is my mark.”
(And, ladies, if you will consent to be likened to a fruit, you must
bear with these observations, and really deserve the stigma. If you will
smile on men, because they adore you as vegetable products, take what
ensues.)
Lady Charlotte did no more than double the time she had asked for. The
party were soon at a quiet canter up the lanes; but entering a broad
furzy common with bramble-plots and oak-shaws, the Amazon flew ahead.
Emilia's eyes were so taken with her, that she failed to observe a tiny
red-flowing runlet in the clay, with yellow-ridged banks almost baked
to brick. Over it she was borne, but at the expense of a shaking that
caused her to rely on her hold of the reins, ignorant of the notions
of a horse outstripped. Wilfrid looked to see that the jump had been
accomplished, and was satisfied. Gambier was pressing his hack to keep a
respectable second.
Lady Charlotte spun round suddenly, crying, “Catch the mare!” and
galloped back to Emilia, who was deposited on a bush of bramble.
Dismounting promptly, the lady said: “My child, you're not hurt?”
“Not a bit.” Emilia blinked.
“Not frightened?”
“Not a bit,” was half whispered.
“That's brave. Now jump on your feet. Tell me why you rode over to us
this morning. Quick. Don't hesitate.”
“Because I want Wilfrid to see his sister Cornelia,” came the answer,
with the required absence of indecision.
Emilia ran straightway to meet Wilfrid approaching; and as both her
hands, according to her fashion, were stretched out to him to assure
him of her safety and take his clasp, forgetful of the instincts derived
from riding-habits, her feet became entangled; she trod herself down,
falling plump forward and looking foolish--perhaps for the first time in
her life plainly feeling so.
“Up! little woman,” said Lady Charlotte, supporting her elbow.
“Now, Sir Wilfrid, we part here; and don't spoil her courage, now she
has had a spill, by any 'assiduous attentions' and precautions. She's
sure to take as many as are needed. If Captain Gambler thinks I require
an escort, he may offer.”
The captain, taken by surprise, bowed, and flowed in ardent commonplace.
Wilfrid did not look of a wholesome colour.
“Do you return?” he stammered; not without a certain aspect of righteous
reproach.
“Yes. You will ride over to us again, probably, in a day or two? Captain
Gambler will see me safe from the savage admirers that crowd this
country, if I interpreted him rightly.”
Emilia was lifted to her seat. Lady Charlotte sprang unassisted to hers.
“Ta-ta!” she waved her fingers from her lips. The pairs then separated;
one couple turning into green lanes, the other dipping to blue hills.