Georgiana Ford would have had little claim among the fair saints to be
accepted by them as one of their order. Her reputation for coldness was
derived from the fact of her having stood a siege from Captain Gambier.
But she loved a creature of earth too well to put up a hand for
saintly honours. The passion of her life centred in devotion to her
half-brother. Those who had studied her said, perhaps with a touch of
malignity, that her religious instinct had its source in a desire to
gain some place of intercession for him. Merthyr had leaned upon it too
often to doubt the strength of it, whatever its purity might be. She,
when barely more than a child (a girl of sixteen), had followed him over
the then luckless Italian fields--sacrificing as much for a cause
that she held to be trivial, as he in the ardour of his half-fanatical
worship. Her theory was: “These Italians are in bondage, and since
heaven permits it, there has been guilt. By endurance they are
strengthened, by suffering chastened; so let them endure and suffer.”
She would cleave to this view with many variations of pity. Merthyr's
experience was tolerant to the weaker vessel's young delight in
power, which makes her sometimes, though sweet and merciful by nature,
enunciate Hebraic severities oracularly. He smiled, and was never
weary of pointing out practical refutations. Whereat she said, “Will a
thousand instances change the principle?” When the brain, and especially
the fine brain of a woman, first begins to act for itself, the work is
of heavy labour; she finds herself plunging abroad on infinite seas, and
runs speedily into the anchorage of dogmas, obfuscatory saws, and what
she calls principles. Here she is safe; but if her thinking was
not originally the mere action of lively blood upon that battery of
intelligence, she will by-and-by reflect that it is not well for a live
thing to be tied to a dead, and that long clinging to safety confesses
too much. Merthyr waited for Georgians patiently. On all other points
they were heart-in-heart. It was her pride to say that she loved him
with no sense of jealousy, and prayed that he might find a woman, in
plain words, worthy of him. This woman had not been found; she confessed
that she had never seen her.
Georgians received Captain Gambier's communication in Monmouth. Merthyr
had now and then written of a Miss Belloni; but he had seemed to refer
to a sort of child, and Georgians had looked on her as another Italian
pensioner. She was decisive. The moment she awoke to feel herself
brooding over the thought of this girl, she started to join Merthyr.
Solitude is pasturage for a suspicion. On her way she grew persuaded
that her object was bad, and stopped; until the thought came, 'If he is
in a dilemma, who shall help him save his sister?' And, with spiritually
streaming eyes at a vision of companionship broken (but whether by his
taking another adviser, or by Miss Belloni, she did not ask), Georgiana
continued her journey.
At the door of Lady Gosstre's town-house she hesitated, and said in her
mind, “What am I doing? and what earthliness has come into my love for
him?”
Or, turning to the cry, “Will he want me?” stung herself. Conscious
that there was some poison in her love, but clinging to it not less, she
entered the house, and was soon in Merthyr's arms.
“Why have you come up?” he asked.
“Were you thinking of coming to me quickly?” she murmured in reply.
He did not say yes, but that he had business in London. Nor did he say
what.
Georgiana let him go.
“How miserable is such a weakness! Is this my love?” she thought again.
Then she went to her bedroom, and knelt, and prayed her Saviour's pardon
for loving a human thing too well. But, if the rays of her mind were
dimmed, her heart beat too forcibly for this complacent self-deceit.
“No; not too well! I cannot love him too well. I am selfish. When I say
that, it is myself I am loving. To love him thrice as dearly as I do
would bring me nearer to God. Love I mean, not idolatry--another form of
selfishness.”
She prayed to be guided out of the path of snares.
“CAN YOU PRAY? CAN YOU PUT AWAY ALL PROPS OF SELF? THIS IS TRUE
WORSHIP, UNTO WHATSOEVER POWER YOU KNEEL.”
This passage out of a favourite book of sentences had virtue to help her
now in putting away the 'props of self.' It helped her for the time. She
could not foresee the contest that was commencing for her.
“LOVE THAT SHRIEKS AT A MORTAL WOUND, AND BLEEDS HUMANLY, WHAT IS HE
BUT A PAGAN GOD, WITH THE PASSIONS OF A PAGAN GOD?”
“Yes,” thought Georgiana, meditating, “as different from the Christian
love as a brute from a man!”
She felt that the revolution of the idea of love in her mind (all that
consoled her) was becoming a temptation. Quick in her impulses, she
dismissed it. “I am like a girl!” she said scornfully. “Like a woman”
would not have flattered her. Like what did she strive to be? The
picture of another self was before her--a creature calmly strong,
unruffled, and a refuge to her beloved. It was a steady light through
every wind that blew, save when the heart narrowed; and then it waxed
feeble, and the life in her was hungry for she knew not what.
Georgiana's struggle was to make her great passion eat up all the
others. Sure of the intensity and thoroughness of her love for Merthyr,
she would forecast for herself tasks in his service impossible save to
one sensually dead and therefore spiritually sexless. “My love is
pure,” she would say; as if that were the talisman which rendered
it superhuman. She was under the delusion that lovers' love was a
reprehensible egoism. Her heart had never had place for it; and thus her
nature was unconsummated, and the torment of a haunting insufficiency
accompanied her sweetest hours, ready to mislead her in all but very
clearest actions.
She saw, or she divined, much of this struggle; but the vision of it was
fitful, not consecutive. It frightened and harassed without illuminating
her. Now, upon Merthyr's return, she was moved by it just enough to take
his hand and say:--
“We are the same?”
“What can change us?” he replied.
“Or who?” and as she smiled up to him, she was ashamed of her smile.
“Yes, who!” he interjected, by this time quite enlightened. All subtle
feelings are discerned by Welsh eyes when untroubled by any mental
agitation. Brother and sister were Welsh, and I may observe that there
is human nature and Welsh nature.
“Forgive me,” she said; “I have been disturbed about you.”
Perceiving that it would be well to save her from any spiritual twists
and turns that she might reach what she desired to know, he spoke out
fully: “I have not written to you about Miss Belloni lately. I think it
must be seven or eight days since I had a letter from her--you shall see
it--looking as if it had been written in the dark. She gave the address
of a London hotel. I went to her, and her story was that she had come
to town to get Mr. Pole's consent to her marriage with his son; and
that when she succeeded in making herself understood by him, the old
man fell, smitten with paralysis, crying out that he was ruined, and his
children beggars.”
“Ah!” said Georgiana; “then this son is engaged to her?”
“She calls him her lover.”
“Openly?”
“Have I not told you? 'naked and unashamed.'”
“Of course that has attracted my Merthyr!” Georgians drew to him
tenderly, breathing as one who has a burden off her heart.
“But why did she write to you?” the question started up.
For this reason: it appears that Mr. Pole showed such nervous irritation
at the idea of his family knowing the state he was in, that the doctor
attending him exacted a promise from her not to communicate with one of
them. She was alone, in great perplexity, and did what I had requested
her to do. She did me the honour to apply to me for any help it was in
my power to give.
Georgiana stood eyeing the ground sideways. “What is she like?”
“You shall see to-morrow, if you will come with me.”
“Dark, or fair?”
Merthyr turned her face to the light, laughing softly. Georgiana
coloured, with dropped eyelids.
She raised her eyes under their load of shame. “I will come gladly,” she
said.
“Early to-morrow, then,” rejoined Merthyr.
On the morrow, as they were driving to the hotel, Georgians wanted to
know whether he called 'this Miss Belloni' by her Christian name--a
question so needless that her over-conscious heart drummed with
gratitude when she saw that he purposely spared her from one meaning
look. In this mutual knowledge, mutual help, in minute as in great
things, as well as in the recognition of a common nobility of mind, the
love of the two was fortified.
Emilia had not been left by Mr. Powys without the protection of a
woman's society in her singular position. Lady Charlotte's natural
prompt kindness required no spur from her friend that she should go
and brace up the spirits of a little woman, whom she pitied doubly for
loving a man who was deceiving her, and not loving one who was good for
her. She went frequently to Emilia, and sat with her in the sombre hotel
drawing-room. Still, frank as she was and blunt as she affected to be,
she could not bring her tongue to speak of Wilfrid. If she had fancied
any sensitive shuddering from the name and the subject to exist, she
would have struck boldly, being capable of cruelty and, where she was
permitted to see a weakness, rather fond of striking deep. A belief in
the existence of Emilia's courage touched her to compassion. One day,
however, she said, “What is it you take to in Merthyr Powys?” and this
brought on plain speaking.
Emilia could give no reason; and it is a peculiarity of people who
ask such questions that they think a want of directness in the answer
suspicious.
Lady Charlotte said gravely, “Come, come!”
“What do you mean?” asked Emilia. “I like so many things in him.”
“You don't like one thing chiefly?”
“I like--what do I like?--his kindness.”
“His kindness!” This was the sort of reply to make the lady implacable.
She seldom read others shrewdly, and could not know, that near her,
Emilia thought of Wilfrid in a way that made the vault of her brain
seem to echo with jarred chords. “His kindness! What a picture is the
'grateful girl!' I have seen rows of white-capped charity children
giving a bob and a sniffle as the parson went down the ranks promising
buns. Well! his kindness! You are right in appreciating as much as you
can see. I'll tell you why I like him;--because he is a gentleman. And
you haven't got an idea how rare that animal is. Dear me! Should I be
plainer to you if I called him a Christian gentleman? It's the cant of
a detestable school, my child. It means just this--but why should I
disturb your future faith in it? The professors mainly profess to be 'a
comfort to young women,' and I suppose you will meet your comfort, and
worship them with the 'growing mind;' and I must confess that they bait
it rather cunningly; nothing else would bite. They catch almost all the
raw boys who have anything in them. But for me, Merthyr himself would
have been caught long ago. There's no absolute harm in them, only that
they're a sentimental compromise. I deny their honesty; and if
it's flatly proved, I deny their intelligence. Well! this you can't
understand.”
“I have not understood you at all,” said Emilia.
“No? It's the tongue that's the natural traitor to a woman, and takes
longer runs with every added year. I suppose you know that Mr. Powys
wishes to send you to Italy?”
“I do,” said Emilia.
“When are you going?”
“I am not going?”
“Why?”
Emilia's bosom rose. She cried “Dear lady!” on the fall of it, and was
scarce audible--adding, “Do you love Wilfrid?”
“Well, you have brought me to the point quickly,” Lady Charlotte
remarked. “I don't commonly beat the bush long myself. Love him! You
might as well ask me my age. The indiscretion would be equal, and the
result the same. Love! I have a proper fear of the word. When two play
at love they spoil the game. It's enough that he says he loves me.”
Emilia looked relieved. “Poor lady!” she sighed.
“Poor!” Lady Charlotte echoed, with curious eyes fixed on the puzzle
beside her.
“Tell me you will not believe him,” Emilia continued. “He is mine; I
shall never give him up. It is useless for you or any one else to love
him. I know what love is now. Stop while you can. I can be sorry for
you, but I will not let him go from me. He is my lover.”
Emilia closed her lips abruptly. She produced more effect than was
visible. Lady Charlotte drew out a letter, saying, “Perhaps this will
satisfy you.”
“Nothing!” cried Emilia, jumping to her feet.
“Read it--read it; and, for heaven's sake, ma fille sauvage, don't
think I'm here to fight for the man! He is not Orpheus; and our modern
education teaches us that it's we who are to be run after. Will you read
it?”
“No.”
“Will you read it to please me?”
Emilia changed from a look of quiet opposition to gentleness of feature.
“Why will it please you if I read that he has flattered you? I never lie
about what I feel; I think men do.” Her voice sank.
“You won't allow yourself to imagine, then, that he has spoken false to
you?”
“Tell me,” retorted Emilia, “are you sure in your heart--as sure as it
beats each time--that he loves you? You are not.”
“It seems that we are dignifying my gentleman remarkably,” said Lady
Charlotte. “When two women fight for a man, that is almost a meal for
his vanity. Now, listen. I am not, as they phrase it, in love. I am an
experienced person--what is called a woman of the world. I should not
make a marriage unless I had come to the conclusion that I could help my
husband, or he me. Do me the favour to read this letter.”
Emilia took it and opened it slowly. It was a letter in the tone of the
gallant paying homage with some fervour. Emilia searched every sentence
for the one word. That being absent, she handed back the letter, her
eyes lingering on the signature.
“Do you see what he says?” asked Lady Charlotte; “that I can be a right
hand to him, as I believe I can.”
“He writes like a friend.” Emilia uttered this as when we have a
contrast in the mind.
“You excuse him for writing to me in that style?”
“Yes; he may write to any woman like that.”
“He has latitude! You really fancy that's the sort of letter a friend
would write?”
“That is how Mr. Powys would write to me,” said Emilia. Lady Charlotte
laughed. “My unhappy Merthyr!”
“Only if I could be a great deal older,” Emilia hastened to add; and
Lady Charlotte slightly frowned, but rubbed it out with a smile.
Rising, the lady said: “I have spoken to you upon equal terms; and
remember, very few women would have done what I have done. You are cared
for by Merthyr Powys, and that's enough. It would do you no harm to fix
your eyes upon him. You won't get him; but it would do you no harm. He
has a heart, as they call it; whatever it is, it's as strong as a cable.
He is a knight of the antique. He is specially guarded, however. Well,
he insists that you are his friend; so you are mine, and that is why I
have come to you and spoken to you. You will be silent about it, I need
not say. No one but yourself is aware that Lieutenant Pole does me the
honour to liken me to the good old gentleman who accompanied Telemachus
in his voyages, and chooses me from among the handmaidens of earth. On
this head you will promise to be silent.”
Lady Charlotte held forth her hand. Emilia would not take it before she
had replied, “I knew this before you came,” and then she pressed the
extended fingers.
Lady Charlotte drew her close. “Has Wilfrid taken you into his
confidence so far?”
Emilia explained that she had heard it from his father.
The lady's face lit up as from a sting of anger. “Very well--very well,”
she said; and, presently, “You are right when you speak of the power of
lying in men. Observe--Wilfrid told me that not one living creature knew
there was question of an engagement between us. What would you do in my
case?”
Emilia replied, “Forgive him; and I should think no more of it.”
“Yes. It would be right; and, presuming him to have the vice, I could be
of immense service to him, if at least he does not lie habitually. But
this is a description of treachery, you know.”
“Oh!” cried Emilia, “what kind of treachery is that, if he only will
keep his heart open for me to give all mine to it!”
She stood clutching her hands in the half-sobbing ecstasy which
signalises a spiritual exaltation built on disquiet. She had shown small
emotion hitherto. The sight of it was like the sight of a mighty hostile
power to Lady Charlotte--a power that moved her--that challenged, and
irritated, and subdued her. For she saw there something that she had
not; and being of a nature leaning to great-mindedness, though not
of the first rank, she could not meanly mask her own deficiency by
despising it. To do this is the secret evil by which souls of men and
women stop their growth.
Lady Charlotte decided now to say good-bye. Her parting was
friendly--the form of it consisting of a nod, an extension of the hand,
and a kind word or two.
When alone, Emilia wondered why she kept taking long breaths, and tried
to correct herself: but the heart laboured. Yet she seemed to have no
thought in her mind; she had no active sensation of pity or startled
self-love. She went to smooth Mr. Pole's pillow, as to a place of
forgetfulness. The querulous tyrannies of the invalid relieved her; but
the heavy lifting of her chest returned the moment she was alone. She
mentioned it to the doctor, who prescribed for liver, informing her
that the said organ conducted one of the most important functions of her
bodily system.
Emilia listened to the lecturer, and promised to take his medicine,
trusting to be perfectly quieted by the nauseous draught; but when Mr.
Powys came, she rushed up to him, and fell with a cry upon his breast,
murmuring broken words that Georgiana might fairly interpret as her
suspicions directed. Nor had she ever seen Merthyr look as he did when
their eyes next met.