A sharp breath of air had passed along the dews, and all the young green
of the fresh season shone in white jewels. The sky, set with very dim
distant stars, was in grey light round a small brilliant moon. Every
space of earth lifted clear to her; the woodland listened; and in the
bright silence the nightingales sang loud.
Emilia and Tracy Runningbrook were threading their way toward a lane
over which great oak branches intervolved; thence under larches all with
glittering sleeves, and among spiky brambles, with the purple leaf and
the crimson frosted. The frost on the edges of the brown-leaved bracken
gave a faint colour. Here and there, intense silver dazzled their eyes.
As they advanced amid the icy hush, so hard and instant was the ring of
the earth under them, their steps sounded as if expected.
“This night seems made for me!” said Emilia.
Tracy had no knowledge of the object of the expedition. He was her
squire simply; had pitched on a sudden into an enamoured condition, and
walked beside her, caring little whither he was led, so that she left
him not.
They came upon a clearing in the wood where a tournament of knights
might have been held. Ranged on two sides were rows of larches, and
forward, fit to plume a dais, a clump of tall firs stood with a flowing
silver fir to right and left, and the white stems of the birch-tree
shining from among them. This fair woodland court had three broad oaks,
as for gateways; and the moon was above it. Moss and the frosted brown
fern were its flooring.
Emilia said eagerly, “This way,” and ran under one of the oaks. She
turned to Tracy following: “There is no doubt of it.” Her hand was lying
softly on her throat.
“Your voice?” Tracy divined her.
She nodded, but frowned lovingly at the shout he raised, and he
understood that there was haply some plot to be worked out. The open
space was quite luminous in the middle of those three deep walls of
shadow. Emilia enjoined him to rest where he was, and wait for her
on that spot like a faithful sentinel, whatsoever ensued. Coaxing his
promise, she entered the square of white light alone. Presently she
stood upon a low mound, so that her whole figure was distinct, while the
moon made her features visible.
Expectancy sharpened the stillness to Tracy's ears. A nightingale began
the charm. He was answered by another. Many were soon in song, till even
the pauses were sweet with them. Tracy had the thought that they were
calling for Emilia to commence; that it was nature preluding the divine
human voice, weaving her spell for it. He was seized by a thirst to hear
the adorable girl, who stood there patiently, with her face lifted soft
in moonlight. And then the blood thrilled along his veins, as if one
more than mortal had touched him. It seemed to him long before he knew
that Emilia's voice was in the air.
In such a place, at such a time, there is no wizardry like a woman's
voice. Emilia had gained in force and fulness. She sang with a stately
fervour, letting the notes flow from her breast, while both her arms
hung loose, and not a gesture escaped her. Tracy's fiery imagination set
him throbbing, as to the voice of the verified spirit of the place. He
heard nothing but Emilia, and scarce felt that it was she, or that tears
were on his eyelids, till her voice sank richly, deep into the bosom
of the woods. Then the stillness, like one folding up a precious jewel,
seemed to pant audibly.
“She's not alone!” This was human speech at his elbow, uttered in some
stupefied amazement. In an extremity of wrath, Tracy turned about to
curse the intruder, and discerned Wilfrid, eagerly bent forward on the
other side of the oak by which he leaned. Advancing toward Emilia,
two figures were seen. Mr. Pericles in his bearskin was easily to be
distinguished. His companion was Laura Tinley. The Greek moved at
rapid strides, and coming near upon Emilia, raised his hands as in
exclamation. At once he disencumbered his shoulders of the enormous
wrapper, held it aloft imperiously, and by main force extinguished
Emilia. Laura's shrill laugh resounded.
“Oh! beastly bathos!” Tracy groaned in his heart. “Here we are down in
Avernus in a twinkling!”
There was evidently quick talk going on among the three, after which
Emilia, heavily weighted, walked a little apart with Mr. Pericles, who
looked lean and lank beside her, and gesticulated in his wildest manner.
Tracy glanced about for Wilfrid. The latter was not visible, but,
stepping up the bank of sand and moss, appeared a lady in shawl and hat,
in whom he recognized Lady Charlotte. He went up to her and saluted.
“Ah! Tracy,” she said. “I saw you leave the drawing room, and expected
to find you here. So, the little woman has got her voice again; but why
on earth couldn't she make the display at Richford? It's very pretty,
and I dare say you highly approve of this kind of romantic interlude,
Signor Poet, but it strikes me as being rather senseless.”
“But, are you alone? What on earth brings you here?” asked Tracy.
“Oh!” the lady shrugged. “I've a guard to the rear. I told her I would
come. She said I should hear something to-night, if I did. I fancied
naturally the appointment had to do with her voice, and wished to please
her. It's only five minutes from the west-postern of the park. Is she
going to sing any more? There's company apparently. Shall we go and
declare ourselves?”
“I'm on duty, and can't,” replied Tracy, and twisting his body in an
ecstasy, added: “Did you hear her?”
Lady Charlotte laughed softly. “You speak as if you had taken a hurt, my
dear boy. This sort of scene is dangerous to poets. But, I thought you
slighted music.”
“I don't know whether I'm breathing yet,” Tracy rejoined. “She's a
Goddess to me from this moment. Not like music? Am I a dolt? She would
raise me from the dead, if she sang over me. Put me in a boat, and let
her sing on, and all may end! I could die into colour, hearing her!
That's the voice they hear in heaven.”
“When they are good, I suppose,” the irreverent lady appended. “What's
that?” And she held her head to listen.
Emilia's mortal tones were calling Wilfrid's name. The lady became
grave, as with keen eyes she watched the open space, and to a second
call Wilfrid presented himself in a leisurely way from under cover of
the trees; stepping into the square towards the three, as one equal to
all occasions, and specially prepared for this. He was observed to bow
to Mr. Pericles, and the two men extended hands, Laura Tinley standing
decently away from them.
Lady Charlotte could not contain her mystification. “What does it mean?”
she said. “Wilfrid was to be in town at the Ambassador's to-night! He
wrote to me at five o'clock from his Club! Is he insane? Has he lost
every sense of self-interest? He can't have made up his mind to miss
his opportunity, when all the introductions are there! Run, like a good
creature, Tracy, and see if that is Wilfrid, and come back and tell me;
but don't sag I am here.”
“Desert my post?” Tracy hugged his arms tight together. “Not if I freeze
here!”
The doubt in Lady Charlotte's eyes was transient. She dropped her glass.
Visible adieux were being waved between Mr. Pericles and Laura Tinley on
the one hand, and Wilfrid and Emilia, on the other. After which, and
at a quick pace, manifestly shivering, Mr. Pericles drew Laura into the
shadows, and Emilia, clad in the immense bearskin, as with a trailing
black barbaric robe, walked toward the oaks. Wilfrid's head was stooped
to a level with Emilia's, into whose face he was looking obliviously,
while the hot words sprang from his lips. They neared the oak, and
Emilia slanted her direction, so as to avoid the neighbourhood of the
tree. Tracy felt a sudden grasp of his arm. It was momentary, coming
simultaneously with a burst of Wilfrid's voice.
“Do I know what I love, you ask? I love your footprints! Everything you
have touched is like fire to me. Emilia! Emilia!”
“Then,” came the clear reply, “you do not love Lady Charlotte?”
“Love her!” he shouted scornfully, and subdued his voice to add: “she
has a good heart, and whatever scandal is talked of her and Lord Eltham,
she is a well-meaning friend. But, love her! You, you I love!”
“Theatrical business,” Lady Charlotte murmured, and imagined she had
expected it when she promised Emilia she would step out into the night
air, as possibly she had.
The lady walked straight up to them.
“Well, little one!” she addressed Emilia; “I am glad you have recovered
your voice. You play the game of tit-for-tat remarkably well. We will
now sheath our battledores. There is my hand.”
The unconquerable aplomb in Lady Charlotte, which Wilfrid always
artistically admired, and which always mastered him; the sight of her
pale face and courageous eyes; and her choice of the moment to come
forward and declare her presence;--all fell upon the furnace of
Wilfrid's heart like a quenching flood. In a stupefaction, he confessed
to himself that he could say actually nothing. He could hardly look up.
Emilia turned her eyes from the outstretched hand, to the lady's face.
“What will it mean?” she said.
“That we are quits, I presume; and that we bear no malice. At any rate,
that I relinquish the field. I like a hand that can deal a good stroke.
I conceived you to be a mere little romantic person, and correct my
mistake. You win the prize, you see.”
“You would have made him an Austrian, and he is now safe from that. I
win nothing more,” said Emilia.
When Tracy and Emilia stood alone, he cried out in a rapture of praise,
“Now I know what a power you have. You may bid me live or die.”
The recent scene concerned chiefly the actors who had moved onward:
it had touched Emilia but lightly, and him not at all. But, while
he magnified the glory of her singing, the imperishable note she had
sounded this night, and the power and the triumph that would be hers,
Emilia's bosom began to heave, and she checked him with a storm of
tears. “Triumph! yes! what is this I have done? Oh, Merthyr, my true
hero! He praises me and knows nothing of how false I have been to you.
I am a slave! I have sold myself--sold myself!” She dropped her face in
her hands, broken with grief. “He fights,” she pursued; “he fights for
my country. I feel his blood--it seems to run from my body as it runs
from his. Not if he is dying--I dare not go to him if he is dying! I am
in chains. I have sworn it for money. See what a different man Merthyr
is from any on earth! Would he shoot himself for a woman? Would he grow
meaner the more he loved her? My hero! my hero! and Tracy, my friend!
what is my grief now? Merthyr is my hero, but I hear him--I hear him
speaking it into my ears with his own lips, that I do not love him. And
it is true. I never should have sold myself for three weary years away
from him, if I had loved him. I know it now it is done. I thought more
of my poor friends and Wilfrid, than of Merthyr, who bleeds for my
country! And he will not spurn me when we meet. Yes, if he lives, he
will come to me gentle as a ghost that has seen God!”
She abandoned herself to weeping. Tracy, in a tender reverence for one
who could speak such solemn matter spontaneously, supported her, and
felt her tears as a rain of flame on his heart.
The nightingales were mute. Not a sound was heard from bough or brake.