CHAPTER IXTHE BARGAIN CONCLUDED

“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 tomyadvantage. 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.Boreasdid 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

CHAPTER IXTHE BARGAIN CONCLUDED

Theletters on which Greville counted set in between him and his uncle directly Hamilton was re-established in the Palazzo Sessa. The complaisant uncle wrote also to Emma, dwelling much on the charms of Naples and its society and on its extraordinary advantages for the pursuit of accomplishments never to be attained in England. Even in the midst of growing uneasiness Emma was flattered by those letters, for he wrote not as to the ignorant, unthinking girl whom she felt herself daily with Greville, but rather as to the “phylosopher” she fondly hoped to make herself. Was it the Emma of Up Park and of a still darker past who could receive such letters as this from the great Hamilton, the celebrated Ambassador? She felt it a great, an amazing promotion.

“The whole art is, really, to live all thedaysof our life: and not with anxious care disturb the sweetest hour that life affords—which is the present. Admire the Creator, and all His works to us incomprehensible: and do all the good you can upon earth, and take the chance of eternity without dismay.”

She was charmed with this easy good-humoured rationalism. It fell in with her own to perfection. To be allowed to enjoy the present was all she ever asked. To admire a Creator who was responsible for her own embellishments and had made them the means of attracting Greville was pleasant so long as He asked no more, and to be charitable was always a delight to her good nature if she had the chance of going beyond the halfpenny limit which Greville had enjoined. She wrote back to the genial preacher with a docile enthusiasm which delighted him. Greville wrote also, every word considered.

“Emma is very grateful for your remembrance. Her picture shall be sent by the first ship. She certainly is much improved since she has been with me. She has none of the bad habits which giddiness and inexperience encouraged. I am sure she is attached to me or she would not have refused the offers which I know to have been great, and such is her spirit that on the least slight or expression of my being tired or burdened by her, I am sure she would not only give up the connexion but would not accept a farthing for future assistance.”

Greville knew while he wrote these words that they were not wholly true. Emma had endured many slights and reproofs and had mounted upon no outraged dignity. As to help, in her forlorn condition, passionately attached to himself, she would accept it if only for the sake of the bond it implied. But itmightbe so, it read well, and would impress Hamilton.

It decidedly impressed Hamilton. A good-natured cynic, knowing his world thoroughly, he began to believe that here was the blue rose of all sexual dreams. He had not the faintest objection to Emma’s past if it had not degraded her mind, and if he could trust the close observer Greville and his own knowledge it certainly had not done that. And in her company he would be absolutely secure because every kindness must be received as a benefit and it was impossible that the question of marriage should ever arise and disappoint her.

He wrote more and more eagerly to Greville and the shabby plot developed apace; but it never occurred to either that it was shabby. On the contrary, the girl was so ignorant of the world and so helpless as regards her future that to plot her a happy and secure one was a kindness to deserve eternal gratitude. If, incidentally, it suited both of them also, why, so much the better!

Greville at last, however, felt the time had come to be outspoken for it was clearly his rôle to lead the way and Sir William was warily silent. He spoke at full length of the happiness of the experiment he had made, which must now, alas! come to an end through poverty, and added:

“If you did not choose a wife, I wish the tea-maker of Edgware Row was yours. I do not know how to part with what I am not tired with. I do not know how to go on, and I give her every merit of prudence and moderation and affection. She shall never want. I should not write to you thus if I did not thinkyouseemed as partial as I am to her. She would not hear at once of any change, and from no one that was not liked by her. I think I could secure her near £100 a year. With parting with part of myvirtuI can secure it to her. If I could go on I would never make this arrangement. And as she is too young and handsome to retire into a convent or the country, and is honourable and honest and can be trusted, after reconciling myself to the necessity I consider where she could be happy. I know you thought me jealous of your attention to her. Judge then, as you know my satisfaction in looking on a modern piece ofvirtu, if I do not think you a second self.”

Sir William, reading this by a window looking on the blue bay glittering in Italian sunshine, smiled to himself, a smile of mixed ingredients. He saw most of Greville’s reasons for this affair as plainly as the writer himself. He was perfectly aware of the position opened up for Greville if he should remarry. He was perfectly clear as to the advantages to Greville of a connection which would entangle his feet in roses and keep him away from the prosaic paths of married security and a possible and inconvenient family. But all this appeared to him entirely natural, even commendable. How could Charles be expected to reason otherwise? And for his own part he had no temptations to marriage. At his age he had no desire to set up a family which he could never hope to see grow up. There would be much more to spend on the collection ofvirtuand other amusements if he had not a wife to support in the state of an ambassador. Emma was the most fascinating woman he had ever beheld, and for Greville he had the habit of an affection which, if not warm, was sincere.

He wrote a letter of guarded encouragement and asked if there were any definite plan to be put before him.

The one question which might have cried a halt had never occurred to his mind. Was Greville tired of her, and if so why? No, that point had been too carefully guarded. He really sympathized with poor Charles’ self-sacrifice. He wrote with extreme caution a half assent, and left the formal proposal to Greville. The letter came speedily in answer.

“If you could form a plan by which you could have a trial, and could invite her and tell her I ought not to leave England and state it as a kindness to me if she would accept your invitation she would go with pleasure. And if you could write an answer to this and inclose a letter to her I could manage it and either by land, by the coach to Geneva, and from thence byVetturinoforward her, or else by sea. After a month and absent from me she would consider the whole more calmly. If there was in the world a person she loved so well as yourself after me, I could not arrange with so muchsang-froidand I am sure I would not let her go to you if any risque of the usual coquetry of the sex were likely to give uneasiness.”

This was accepted.

So it was settled, and now remained Emma, the essential part of the delightful plan. He was not in the least alarmed. A charming settlement in charming rooms in charming Naples and under the august protection of the British Ambassador—Good God! what a fortune, what promotion for a woman in Emma’s position! She might thank her stars for such immense good luck. And her mother with her—her old cook of a mother to be honoured in only a lesser degree! Indeed, Greville, sitting in the solitude of the parlour of Edgware Row, could not but contrast his own action very handsomely with the code of most of the men he knew with regard to mistresses who had ceased to please. A letter for her was enclosed, as he had desired. He heard her running down the stair and called her in.

She hurried, obedient, and pulled her low stool to his feet.

“Do you know, Greville, I was just longing to come in. I’ve had a letter about the little Emma. Oh, such a darling she’s getting. She’s very well and the mistress says the hair is growing so pretty on her forehead, and her nose isn’t near so snub as when I saw her. Her eyes are real blue and very pretty, and the mistress says she don’t speak near so countrified as she did. Won’t it be lovely if she grows up a pretty girl? Greville, don’t you think you would like to see her in the holidays? Don’t you? She’s so sensible!”

She turned herself against him like a caressing animal, softly winding about him until she got her head on his shoulder, and from that vantage point looked up.

If anything had been wanting to harden Greville it was that reference, that pretty plea. It foreshadowed most of what he had come to dread, and besides appeared a most unwarrantable piece of selfishness. He need indeed have very little consideration for any one who could show so little for him! And at a moment when he was exerting every power in her favour. But nothing of this escaped him.

“I have a letter from Pliny, Emma, and here’s one for you. He has thought of the most agreeable, the most useful plan for us, and how to be sufficiently grateful I am sure I don’t know. I’ll tell you first and then you shall read your letter.”

She subsided onto her stool, that she might look up with breathless interest.

“Do you remember when he was here how you said you longed to see Naples?”

“Don’t I! There’s hardly a day but I’ve thought of it!”

“Then here’s your invitation!” he held it, triumphant, just above her reach, smiling himself with pleasure.

“Oh, Greville—no! I can’t believe it!”

“Yes; and offers you the finest singing and drawing lessons in the world. I did not judge it wise to make you too vain, but he said before he left, ‘Emma’s voice, if cultivated, may put her in the front rank of European singers.’ ”

She clasped her hands in speechless joy, looking at him with eyes so beautiful, so charged with rapture, that he kissed her on the spot. Indeed she deserved it. She was falling admirably into his plan.

“Theangel!” says Emma, relaxing at that into vocal bliss. “Was there ever such a man? Oh, Greville, I love him, I love him with my very soul!”

“You ought, you must, if gratitude has any meaning for you.”

“And when do we go?”

“We—No, you are aware I must remain here for some months. It would be a poor return to my uncle if I were to neglect his Milford interests because he is so amazingly generous to you. Why, he invites your mother to go with you. If you were a Duchess there could not be more consideration.”

“But what is anything,anythingto me if you are not there? Do youchooseto leave me?”

Doubt clouded the beams of her eyes, the sparkle was quenched. He felt instinctively she was searching for hidden meanings. The woman who has not the security of the wife must be ever and always on guard. He forgot that; why should she not wholly trust him? He found it irritating, and drew slightly away.

“It is not a question of choosing. I can only say Sir William’s suggestion comes like a sunburst on my difficulties. I have told you often of late that I cannot meet my expenses—”

“And haven’t I tried to save and—”

“Certainly, but a few pence saved on the butcher’s bill or the milliner’s don’t touch the difficulty. The house, the living—”

“But I would live in a hovel; I would eat bread and water—”

“I wouldn’t,” said he, with perfect decision. “And no more would you when it came to the point. Pray, Emma, be sensible. Don’t you remember that though I have complained of my expenses for some considerable time you have never ceased to hint and even to press for my having little Emma as an additional burden? I own I felt it inconsiderate.”

She was all humility and repentance; kissed his hands, would have kissed his feet if permitted.

“Wicked selfish girl I am! But it was only heedlessness, indeed. I have quite come into your way of thinking that she’s best at school. She can’t miss what she never has, and they’ll train her better than me. But, oh, Greville, I’ll write and tell Pliny I can’t leave you. No, I’ll tell you, I’ll take a servant’s place to be near you, or let me beyourservant and I won’t envy the Queen on her throne. That way I’ll cost you nothing, but I’ll see you and that’s my sunshine.”

The words poured out, imploring, pleading, as if for dear life. He saw his way in that last speech.

“Emma, if you would but reflect. Has it not occurred to you that if you could become a great European singer and give me the opportunity to improve my position, money would no longer be our difficulty? Why will you not be calm and consider? Is all my teaching thrown away?”

It is cold fact that Greville’s conscience no more pinched him in holding out that rainbow hope than in any other part of the proceedings. If a child won’t take a necessary pill you smother it in jam and mislead it for its own good. That was the point of view from which he could not waver.

He had touched her there. Visionary, quick, eager. She saw herself a dispenser of riches, surrounding Greville with luxuries and splendours.

“You mean—Greville,couldI? Does Pliny and you believe I could make my fortune? Then why, why, can’t I sing here and make our home together? I could sing at Vauxhall at Ranelagh. Why—that night—!” But his slight frown warned her that episode must be forgotten.

“There are two excellent reasons against that plan. In the first place it would be madness to appear in public before you are sufficiently trained. In the next, I cannot be in London. I am obliged to be at least six months in Scotland and Milford, and it is impossibleyoushould be with me.” He reckoned on his fingers and added:

“Six months; that would bring us to November, if you left in March. Should you dislike a winter in Italy with me?”

The inflammable nature of her! Instantly the outlook changed. A winter in Italy with Greville! Oh, joy of joys! But would he really come? Swear? She did not want Pliny. She wanted to be alone with her mother and work night and day at her singing until she could lavish riches on their joint life.

“I trust my Emma will see that to offend Sir William would be a very poor return to me!” he said gravely.

“So it would indeed,” cries she, swinging round instantly. “No; I will be a most dutiful niece to him. Trust me, Greville. But sure you’re not angry because I can’t bear to leave my dearest? How could I be otherwise and have a heart? Oh, tell me the time will be long to you too, and then I’ll go rejoicing!”

“How like a woman!” says Greville, with his small fine smile. “Directly you are sure I shall be perfectly miserable you can be happy. Well, I am thankful my affection is not so selfish. I shall hope you will enjoy every moment in Naples, and will improve every moment also, not only in singing but in good sense. And now had you not better read your letter?”

She opened it with listless fingers. That last speech chilled her. Of course he was right—why should she wish him to be miserable? And yet—one might understand lovers living apart in hopeless longing, but sure if they began to enjoy themselves with others they ceased to be lovers. That was the dilemma.

“It’s very kind. He’s a kind, good man!”—laying it on Greville’s knee. “He says he knows of rooms for mother and me near his house. But somehow—well, I wish he hadn’t thought of it. No, forgive me, Greville. I know I shall be wiser when I’ve had time to think. I shall have time to think in six months away from my own, own Greville. Six months! It seems like forever and ever.”

She rose and went heavily out of the room. It was Greville’s perfect equanimity that wounded her most deeply. It would have served his turn better if he had lamented a hard necessity with her. He saw that directly, and when they met again, took her in his arms and said, with deep-toned tenderness:

“And can my Emma who has been all but my wife for near on four years suppose thatIhave no regrets? Because I endeavour to support herself and me with courage does she think that my own heart is not torn?”

She caught him wildly round the neck.

“Oh, Greville, if you suffer, if you love me I can do anything, go anywhere! Could I delay one moment if it helps you! Oh, my dear, November will not be long in coming round and I will work so hard that the minutes will fly, and all will be for my Greville. Give me a pen now, and I’ll write to Pliny and tell him I’ll go and I’ll never forget all his goodness to you. For what am I? All he does is for you and no wonder.”

She sat down and wrote eagerly—acceptance. It was done. Weeks had yet to go by, even months, for letters took long to come and go between Italy and England. But it was done and he could begin the gradual severance of all the threads of their interwoven lives.

The little house was put up for sale. Mrs. Cadogan in dire dismay at the prospect of “foreigneering” as she called it, but still faithful to Emma, was bid to prepare herself for voyaging on strange seas.

Next to the parting with Greville what most wrung Emma’s feeling was the good-bye to Romney. She could never forget his pale fixed look the day she broke it to him, with far more than her usual consideration and care.

“How long will it be?” he asked after a pause that seemed endless.

“Why, only till November, Mr. Romney, that’s all. You’ll be so busy the time will go quick. And I’ll write, indeed I will.”

“Only till November? But didn’t you say Greville joins you there? He won’t leave Italy at once. Emma, you deceive me. Tell me the truth. The truth is the best kindness.”

“When he comes out, I don’t know what he’ll choose to do, Mr. Romney. Perhaps it might be a year. But then—”

“It might be ten, twenty!” he cried, with bitter anger. “It might be my sun setting and all my life in darkness once more. You have never known what you are to me. Other men love you and covet your beautiful face, your beautiful body, and they can get no more from you than that. But you were my life and my soul—not as they understand it, but more, far more. You were not a woman; you were Beauty. You taught me my art. When you came divine things came with you that you never even guessed yourself. And now you’re going, and everything goes with you. Never in this world will you give any man what you’ve given me, for he can’t take it. Oh, my heart, my heart! I should have known it could not last. What good thing has ever lasted for me!”

She tried to console him but he pushed her away. Romney had moods when all the world seemed a conspiracy of oppression. At last, she got his hand and then little by little wooed him into a greater patience and more tenderness of farewell.

“For you must not come again before you go. Can’t you see it breaks me?” he said, regarding her with hollow eyes of misery. Then slowly:

“And what is the good of a hasty minute. No, no, this is the last, the last!”

He put his hand over his face as if the last farewell had been uttered.

She declared she would not have it so and soon would be returning to him again, more beautiful, more helpful; and so talked until the inexorable clock hand warned her that Greville would be waiting, and then rose to go, afraid as one who has committed a crime.

The grief on his face reflected itself in her own, for she too had her burden to bear. She burst into sobs.

“Oh, Mr. Romney, I’m frightened. I don’t want to go. Oh, what, what will it bring to me? I’m losing Greville. I’m losing you. Oh, comfort me or I shall die with terror.”

That pulled him into manliness. He steadied and furbished up a pale smile and held himself together until he had calmed her a little. So they parted, she clinging to his hand to the last, and then he stooped and kissed her cheek, and holding the door open saw her go with stooped head and eyes that did not dare to seek him again, while his followed her until the last flutter of her dress was gone round the corner. And then he went back and shut himself in with solitude.

And Greville, too, had his blow a few days before she started. For Sir William wrote to say that on consideration he had allotted a suite of rooms in the Palazzo Sessa to Emma and her mother. They were to be the guests of the Embassy! Greville was frantic with fear and anger. Had the time not been so near, he would have broken up the arrangement altogether sooner than run such a risk. Emma in Sir William’s home—her caressing ways forever about him—not put away in a corner like a crime, but openly acknowledged! Good God, the folly of old men! A madder, more improper arrangement was never suggested. His whole being was unnerved. She would marry some gay young diplomatist, for in the Embassy it would be impossible to keep her away from the society of the many men who were perpetually about, and who could resist such beauty under such auspices? Sir William would be left unguarded to all the matrimonial assaults he dreaded. While, as to Emma, it would turn her head once and for all and make her absolutely insupportable. He genuinely regretted that he had ever entered upon the plan at all; a plan so kindly meant both for Emma and his uncle. He was deeply injured.

He wrote instantly to Hamilton. He warned Emma that she must protest against such afaux pasdirectly she arrived, but, when all was said and done, she would be there almost as soon as the letter, and was far too sunk in grief to consider anything but the separation from Greville. He could make no impression on her with it. She clung to him and fed her eyes on his face, and heard not his words, but the beloved voice that uttered them. What did Sir William’s plans matter to her?

And the last Greville saw was that fair face, dumb with sorrow, wild and white, looking at him, suffering, suffering, as the distance widened between them, and the past was past.

He waved a spotless cambric handkerchief. “Poor girl! Poor Emma!” he said compassionately, and then, “If I had guessed that Hamilton would be such a fool—” He was seriously alarmed, indeed.

CHAPTER XTHE GREAT ADVENTURE

Springcomes slowly in England; winter entrenched and relaxing his dominion inch by inch, fighting as he goes with bitter blasts of snowy winds, sharp rains, and cruel seas beating on iron coasts.

Emma had always half loved, half dreaded the spring. Her nature had the glow of ripening suns and mellow harvests, light and warmth shone from her eyes. And this was the climate she needed also for the expansion of every gift and grace. Cold winds froze her loveliness. Cold faces chilled her blood. It is certain that in Greville’s temperature, which often fell to zero and never rose above temperate, she could not have blossomed and fruited as she was to do in the South and under adoring eyes. She half loved, half feared him, and believing in her ignorance and dark experience that fear is a necessary part of love had conformed painfully to his strange inverted austerity; and knowing no life outside the small restrictions of Edgware Row dreaded to leave it with the feelings of a child lost in crowded streets. For she was one of those women in whom memory is ill developed and lost in the interests of the present. Sixteen years old when she came to Greville, the recollection of her life at Up Park, of Willett-Payne the faithless sailor, of the darker shadows of London, had long since faded away into happy forgetfulness in the atmosphere of ease and comfort which gradually came to appear the reward of unmerited sufferings. That dawning bliss vanquished all the shadows of the past until they grew dream-like and scarcely ever disturbed her and when they did could be repelled with indifference. They had been; they had ceased to be; and certainly had left no mark, she thought, except indeed little Emma, and even her origin had grown vague and inconsiderable in the child-mother’s eyes. She existed, a charming blue-eyed baby; what need was there to remember more?

And now this easy, half pagan, half material Emma was transplanted to one of the most voluptuously enervating climates of all the wide world—a place where all English standards and values seemed harsh, unreasonable, Puritanical; where Greville’s squeamish maxims of propriety were absurd and life flung its passions to the surface much as Etna and Vesuvius pour forth their lava; where the grapes so soon again ripen to vintage and the earth repairs her wrong with swift and more luxuriant blossom. What strange or evil impulses would be released in her nature?

But of all that future she guessed nothing and no up-rooted plant with wounded fibres quivering in cold air could be more drooping and fearful than Emma when she reached the Palazzo Sessa under Gavin Hamilton’s escort and with her mother almost as frightened as herself. Gavin had done his best to awaken her interest in the new sights they passed through and the deepening warmth and sunshine as they journeyed south, but in vain. She could scarcely speak. She sat, eating little, dull, heavy, with great unseeing eyes fixed on some inward sight of grief and Gavin, amazed at the small response from a temperament which he had known so vivid, was inclined to think the experiment was likely to fail.

“Master Charles will have her back on his hands in three months if it goes on,” he thought. “Hamilton will never endure it if she sits hunched up like this and makes no exertion to please him. Calypso doesn’t appear in the least inclined to console herself, and if I know anything of Hamilton he will very soon weary of the task. Besides, there is always the respectable Mrs. Dickenson.”

There was indeed!—Sir William’s niece who had acted as hostess at the Embassy since the death of Lady Hamilton. What, what would be her respectable feelings at the irruption of this surprising stranger, and which would conquer, respectability or delight? Delight had certainly the stronger backing in Naples, but yet Gavin could not in his heart do otherwise than accord the final victory to respectability. Sir William was English, all said and done, and must know the girl unworthy of any real sacrifice. He could not himself take her seriously.

But perhaps Gavin knew much less both of Emma and Hamilton than he supposed. For one thing, he under-valued her devotion to Greville. Much of the time when she sat staring dully at the passing show, she was really thinking how she could best forward his interests with his uncle that their reunion might be hastened. At her passionate entreaty he had now named October instead of November, and all her thoughts centred about the autumn. It was selfish, of course, after a fashion, for she was always in the foreground of her own picture, but it was really Greville round whom every idea revolved.

And in his turn Sir William had more tenderness and understanding for her than Gavin or any of his friends. He was thoroughly prepared to find her lonely and unhappy and to endure it until the emptiness was filled with the new joys. He made this very clear in the anxious letter he wrote to Greville a day or two before her arrival. He knew, he said, what must be expected:

“However, I will do as well as I can, and hobble in and out of this pleasant scrape as decently as I can. You may be assured I will comfort her for the loss of you as well as I am able, but I know that I shall have at times many tears to wipe from those charming eyes.”

It was her birthday when the long journey was finished and the imposing Palazzo, about to become her home, loomed before her. No, loomed is the wrong word for the white, light brilliance rising beside a blue sea of dipping sparkles and splendours. In England, in April, the daffodils would be blowing in cold showers, the leaves would be tiny on the hedges about Paddington Green. Here summer blazed in what seemed perennial beauty and even her wearied eyes lifted in amazement at a world as new as heaven.

Sir William resolved to meet her in his own house, and this for two reasons. He knew Emma’s sensibility, as he called it, and feared some public outburst which should attract attention very unwelcome in their position. Also, he believed that the sight of the preparations made for her would be the first step to her liking, the first assault on the memory of Greville. That could not begin too soon, and he must see it.

Accordingly the visitors, who included Gavin Hamilton, were received at the great entry by the majordomo with what appeared to her an endless train of men and women servants, eager to receive and do homage to those whom the Ambassador delighted to honour.

Her first impulse was something very like terror as she stood in the great sun-dimmed Palazzo with vast chambers stretching away in endless glimpses on either hand. The whole of the Edgware Row house might have been stowed away in the long high-ceiled hall where she stood; a hackney coach might have been driven up the wide shallow stairs. A regiment of soldiers could have been accommodated in the mysterious rooms that spread away to right, to left, above, below. Oh, for the little parlour with Greville’s dear figure in sight, and her mother calling from the kitchen and the friendly faces of baker and milkman arriving on their morning rounds, and the little smiling Molly Dring with her carefully tutored “Madam, breakfast waits.” The flashing dark eyes and quick gestures bewildered her horribly, and Mrs. Cadogan was half stupefied beside her; and Gavin Hamilton had been spirited away to some distant apartment of his own; and it was her birthday, her miserable twenty-first birthday, a lost stranger in a foreign land!

A girl called Teresa curtseys before her. Will the Eccellenza ascend to her suite? And she follows, dumb with fear, up those alarming stairs, giving her arm to her mother who stumbles up beside her—two mere English village folk in an Italian palace and as much at home there as cattle.

A door opens, a curtain is raised. Light, warm golden sunlight, softest air, rushes to meet them from wide windows framing the perfect sea, sweet islands swimming on its bosom and, pillaring the sky, a mountain with a hint of terror in the banner of smoke above it, drowsing to-day in bluest vapours.

But the rooms!—beautiful with a perfection she cannot as yet comprehend. Every detail of luxury planned for her service by one of the most cultivated tastes in Europe. Has a magician waved his wand and will it all dissolve like a dream when she wakes in the morning in that large cool bedroom with its blue hangings, great mirrors to reflect triumphant beauty, and marble, marble everywhere and whispering corridors and doors that dwarf the entrant?

She is to bathe in a Roman marble bath after the long journey, and this strangely beautiful bathroom (the first she has seen) adjoins La Signora Madre’s—for to that imposing title has poor Mrs. Cadogan attained! And His Excellency is away on business but will return before long.

And Emma, with a faint thrill of returning life, bathes in luxuriously warmed water, and rises fresh as a swan new-laved, and braids the wonderful hair and beholds—Lord! what a sight!—hanging in a vast closet dresses of exquisite fineness; “muslin loose to tye with a sash for the hot weather, made like the turkey dresses, the sleeves tyed in foulds with ribbon and trimmed with lace.” Such lace, too! Fine as cobwebs and floriated with exquisite stitchery. Even the ribbons were not forgotten, nor the sashes, the very blue that turned her eyes violet, the faint rose that matched her own roses, the delicate Parma violet that she chose on days when her eyes must match the mauve hat which Greville gave her the birthday before this. Oh, goodness and kindness unparalleled! But how had he known her height, her waist? Ah, that was Greville! He—he had written, so that nothing might be wanting. It was always his goodness. He had devised this Paradise for her that she might not be forlorn while he—her dear lonely Greville—must be hard at work in Scotland and Wales, retrenching, saving for their happy meeting. Then what could she do but her utmost to reward the kind Sir William for having fallen into Greville’s views? No, she would not cry. She would show that she too had courage and could endure for his sake as Greville was enduring for hers. She dashed the fresh cold water against her tired eyes until her cheeks bloomed again. She tied her favourite blue ribbon through the matchless auburn hair at which the servants had stared in a delighted surprise that made itself felt. She boldly chose the foamiest dress of all, and a long sash of softest silken blue, and when Teresa knocked at the door, instead of hiding her head ashamed and vanquished she bade her enter in good stout English, and stood to have her sash tied on, and the cloudy folds of muslin shaken out, and then posed radiant before the mirror prepared to go forth and conquer in Greville’s cause.

La Signora Madre was put safely to bed, too bewildered for any refuge but the laced pillows, and terrified even of those. A village blacksmith’s wife and come to this! What it is to be the mother of a beauty! A black-browed Giulia held her in awe and arrested her temptation to cling to Emma and beseech to be taken home on the earliest opportunity, and at last she sank into a wearied sleep which carried her back on the swifter wings of dream to the little kitchen in Edgware Row.

Emma went out into the spacious room where the casements commanded one of the rememberable views of Europe—sea and land bathing in glory that uplifted earth to heaven and made them one, blue Capri beyond her, the noble curve of the coast from Sorrento onward.

And this was the world, and this was life for the rich and great; and she herself a part of it. Oh, if he had been there her soul would have escaped into the radiance like a bird floating in serene joy on deeps of azure air, half sleeping, half waking in a sunny ecstasy.

That mood passed and she looked down and marvelled at the gaily chattering streets crowded with many-coloured people in dresses that reminded her of a masquerade once seen at Vauxhall. Could those women be living their actual life in brilliant short bodices bright with gold, and full skirts black-banded with velvet that showed smart ankles and white stockings? No, surely. The conductor would raise his stick and the band strike up and away they would all go with a “Tra la la,” and linking hands and dancing feet to the strain of a merry measure. The drop scene suggested it—the sea. Vesuvius. Yes, and the men matched the women, as noisy and gay, as absurdly brilliant in ribbons and splashes of colour.

She was amusing herself idly with all this, and thinking it the strangest birthday that had ever befallen any girl, when there came a soft little tap at the door; a friendly, hesitating tap. She turned and, catching her breath, halted a second, irresolute, and then ran to the door, the white soft muslin billowing out about her like a blossoming flower. It opened almost timidly as she came, and a very well-known voice said through the opening, “Emma, child! May I come in?”

It opened wide and Sir William stood on the threshold, then closed it quietly after him. One instant she stood, doubting the manner of reception, turning her head half away from him with an indescribable feeling. Did instinct whisper a warning? If so, it was silent next minute, and she sprang to him all gratitude and affection.

“Dear, dear Sir William, I’ve been waiting, longing for you to come that the poor Emma might thank you for all this wonderful goodness. Don’t I know it isn’t for my sake but for Greville’s, and don’t I love you the more for that! Oh, if I must be away from him where could I wish to be but in your house and sharing your fatherly goodness? My more than father, I thank you with all my heart and soul.”

And with a daring that surprised herself she put up her face and timidly offered a niecely kiss.

If Sir William winced at the “fatherly” he did not show it nor belie the ascription. Holding her hand he led her to a chair and took another beside her, and drew the talk dexterously away from moving subjects.

And there on the right was Posilippo. Was it not a dream of beauty? And turn this way: Villa Reale; that is the Royal Palace where the King and Queen live—the Queen, daughter to the great Empress Maria Theresa. And see how we are guarded: Uovo and Nuovo, the great fort-dragons to protect the Sleeping Beauty, Naples! And that is San Elmo beyond. Yes, and Emma shall be taken in our own boat to enjoy the shining city from the shining sea. Will she enjoy it? Will she be content and happy?

“I will, I will indeed!” cries Emma stoutly, and straight-way bursts into tears.

“For it’s my birthday,” she sobs, “and I’m very low away from him. Oh, Sir William, he would always stay at home that day and smile on me, and be so good. Oh, to think thatthisday I should be so far from him. I don’t see as how I can live till October, for October it must be, if not September. My birthday! and no word from him.”

She looked up terrified, drowned in tears, lest she should have done some harm to Greville with these lamentations—and the rudeness too, when so much trouble had been taken for her!

“Forgive me!” she said, panting still with sobs, and leaning instinctively towards him for support and help.

“Forgive you, my dear Emma, when you yourself know the bond between your Greville and me! Could I respect you as I do if you could leave him without a regret? But your birthday is not forgotten, never shall be while you grace my roof. Look here!”

He dried the tears with the little cobweb of a handkerchief on her knee, and put a wet curl tenderly back behind her ear; even stooped and kissed the soft wet lashes as if she had been a child.

“Look now, do you see anything in the room that doesn’t belong to it; that isn’t furniture, that isn’t ornament, that isn’t beautiful in itself, but may hold something charming for all that? Look well and be sure!”

She brightened like a doubtful moon in clouds, and looked about her still holding his hand. She was a little young daughter now with a kind indulgent father. That was what she felt herself in every fibre, and played the part to admiration. A box, long and shallow, with the fold of a silk curtain lying across it as if partly to hide it. That was the intruder. She pointed with the disengaged hand as if it were part of a charming game and drew him towards it.

“I can’t wait! What is it?” she said in a whisper.

“Guess!” he said in a whisper that matched hers. It was as if the two were baffling, tantalizing each other.

“You shan’t see until you pay me!”

An answering sparkle dipped in her eyes.

“Oh, but, Sir William, you don’t approve paying until I’ve seen it’s worth payment? No, I will, Imustsee first!”

“Will you swear to be honest and pay afterwards?”

“Not if I don’t like it. Will you swear I shall?”

“I swear on my honour. I’ll throw it out of window if you don’t, and ask for nothing.”

It was a delightful moment. She looked up at the tall handsome man, his hair scarcely grey beneath the powder, the star of the Order of the Bath shining on his left breast, for he had been at the Palace, and it was absolute enchantment to find she could thus hold and charm him. Walking almost on tiptoe she approached the box.

The strings had been undone, the cover was ready for the lifting. She raised it and only a thin sheet of paper lay between her and a revelation. Looking archly back at him she lifted that also, and then clasped her hands with a little scream of delight.

A gown—a beautiful, a wonderful gown, such as she had never seen in all her life—a gown of ivory-white satin, pure as the petals of a water lily, and painted by hand with garlands and groups of flowers most cunningly disposed to set off girlish curves and flushes. A wonderful piece of art in her eyes, a wonderful enhancement to beautifullest beauty, a sheer delight.

“It is Indian work!” said Sir William, and was not even heard, she so gloated on it, delicately raising a fold, touching the ruffled sleeve with awe and fairy fingers that scarcely brushed it. He repeated his words.

“Indian!” she said at last in a low breathless voice, and again was silent. Then turned with her soul in her eyes.

“I choke when I would thank you. What words can I find? Oh, you good kind friend! Indeed I will love and serve you all my days. And this is for Greville’s sake, for what have I ever done or could do to deserve it? Pay you—indeed I will, and gladly!”

And flung her arms about his neck and bestowed a little shower of hearty kisses on his elderly cheek. Sweet it might be and was, but scarcely complimentary in the deeper sense, for Greville was in every kiss. Still it was a good beginning and all that could be expected. And then she must know the price and quake when she was reluctantly told twenty-five guineas, which, indeed, was a high price for that time and place. And then the talk slid into glowing descriptions of the future and how Galluci, the world-famed singing-master, was to come next day to begin tuition, and how he had promised the King—the King, mark you!—that he should see her Attitudes when a few more had been planned for which Sir William had ideas which he was burning to discuss with her. And how—

But this can be imagined, and how the warm cordiality, the generous kindness and admiration touched her heart. If one considers it, this Emma had been rifled but never wooed. Willett-Payne, Fetherstonehaugh, had plundered her and with the roughness of freebooters. She had flung herself on Greville’s half-reluctant compassion and such wooing as had passed between them was on her aide, and coldly accepted often enough. He was Olympian, remote, at best. But this great gentleman wooed her; at first, she believed, as a frightened child is wooed by a kind guardian, but certainly with passionate admiration of charms which if Greville had noticed he never dwelt on; and every grace responded as snow-drenched flowers lift their heads to the sun. He had the gift, practised on so many women, to make her feel herself enchanting, and the more she felt it the more she charmed and captured him.

But, for all, when he went away to send a word to England of her coming, even with her eyes on the white satin gown, that kind voice in her ear, she sat and sighed for the lost lover and would have given all for one sight of his cold smile, one touch of his reluctant hand.

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