THE first word he said was “Well?” with a keen glance at Sir William, lying back, luxurious, in his chair. There was still a scent of strawberries in the room and the faint perfume of a woman’s dress. Outside the Green was very quiet in the sinking sunlight.
Sir William was deliberate.
“In my whole life I never saw a woman so beautiful. The face, figure, colouring—perfection. The manner adorable. You prepared me for something unusual, but I never dreamt of anything like this. Lord, what a waste! In any other position she must have been a European beauty.”
“But, my dear Hamilton, you must understand she was not like this when I took her. That she was beautiful, I allow, but it was an untaught, somewhat noisy hoyden with Fetherstonehaugh. I found her quarrelling with him on the smallest provocation, ready to rollick like a good-humoured boy with the men he had down, inclined to rely too much on her good looks without attending to them; indeed, I have noticed her very nails in need of attention. But I felt the waste exactly as you now feel it, and you see the result of four years’ careful education; I might almost say creation.”
“If creation, I can only say you rank with Phidias. Indeed, your chef-d’œuvre surpasses his. A more complete beauty I never beheld. But while I don’t disparage your powers, I must say, my dear Greville, that the girl must have extraordinary ones herself. And can the story you told me of her antecedents be true? I never saw attractive modesty more expressed in any face.”
Greville applied himself to dissection.
“Absolutely true. Probably, since she confided in me herself I don’t even know the whole of her adventures though I verified her tale with inquiries. But the point with Emma is this: she is everything by turns; everything she chooses or the circumstances suggest. She sees instinctively the part which will please and plays it to admiration and thus is always at the top of her audience. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly. You convey that whoever creates the picture she is always in it.”
“Exactly. In my belief that must have been the secret of all the great actresses of history, not to mention the great courtesans. Be sure Aspasia convinced her lover that she was a deep stateswoman as well as highly gifted in poetry, music and art.”
“And she was so.”
“Not she!” says Greville, with his cool contempt for women. “She merely caught his ray as a mirror catches the sun and flashed it back upon him blindingly. Combine that power with sex and beauty and you have a dazzled world.”
“Yet you are not dazzled?”
“I have lived with her for four years. I know how the springs work,” says Greville sententiously. “All the same, she is remarkable. I believe there is nothing beyond her, given the opportunity. Nothing, that is, which moves her. She could have been a great actress, so expressive is she. Talk to her of the Siddons, and in a moment she will out-Siddons the woman herself in pose; a ghastly Lady Macbeth creeping to the murder. Remind her of Mrs. Jordan and she is comedy incarnate, all roguish laughter.”
Sir William reflected, gazing at the chair Comedy had lately occupied and at her wistful-eyed portrait over the mantelpiece.
“It appears to me,” he said at length, “that having lived with her so long you have perhaps become so used to these qualities that it has a little dulled your perception of what they really signify. For since woman is always more or less of a parasite [Here the eighteenth century was vocal on the good man’s lips!] we must not expect more from them than is possible. But when carried to the height you describe, it becomes what, for a woman, is genius. And, with beauty as a pedestal, you get the woman that the world remembers.”
“Her antecedents forbid that,” says Greville with his cool certainty. “Aspasias exist no longer. There is no place for them in society. You have the Pompadours whose only skill is to traffic in places, the political beauties like the Duchess of Devonshire and Mrs. Crewe, and the detestable blue-stocking. And a certain amount of decency is required before a woman can be taken at all seriously.”
“Of decency a very little will go a long way if combined with beauty,” said Sir William, with the edge of a cynical smile touching his lips. If the Spirit of Comedy were perched on the chair Emma so lately had occupied, she also must have smiled, one imagines, to see these two grave gentlemen discussing the destiny of the woman who was to settle theirs. Indeed, the Spirit of Tragedy might almost have joined the party and animated the sad and far-seeing eyes of the portrait above the mantel.
“Her past and present, of course, shut dignified doors to her,” he continued, “but plenty of others are open and she may yet attain a kind of private influence which may be of help to you, if you give her the right setting.”
“Not to me. My circumstances forbid it, and the very thing I want to consult you on, my dear Hamilton, is how to part with her with the least pain to her, and the best provision I can afford to make, which will be little indeed, I regret to say.”
Sir William looked at him in the utmost astonishment.
“What, a man in his thirties, and part with a siren like that? You hinted at it, but now I have seen her I find it incredible. Are you on the hunt for Venus herself? Or does she care for you no longer?”
“Care?” Greville was piqued. “I don’t overstate if I say she loves me passionately. She has a quick little temper, but I might almost say she crawls to my feet for forgiveness if she offends. A more docile, pliable pupil, too, never existed. No, no. The trouble does not lie there. My debts ruffle me seriously. I have no choice. Marry I must, and I have fixed upon a lady suitable in every respect. But I need not tell you that in the town where everything is known I must part with Emma before I make my formal offer. I would willingly let things continue as they are. But you see?”
“I see,” said Hamilton, “a nice dilemma. But if you do part with her, let it be final. I have always been averse from the idea of these relationships continuing after marriage. Very few wives can be brought to take such a matter with indifference and where a husband is largely dependent on a wife’s fortune and settlements are strict—well, it needs no detailing for a man who desires peace.”
“I fully agree. No, the parting shall be final.”
“I conclude it is one of the Middleton daughters. I heard something to that effect from the Duchess of Argyll yesterday.”
“Gossip!” Greville shrugged his shoulders. “But, yes, I have no concealments from you. It is the second daughter. I think it will be brought to bear, with your countenance.”
“You will certainly have that!” Sir William said with warm cordiality. “And you have my free leave to assure Lord Middleton that you are my heir.”
Greville wrung his hand with real gratitude.
“But marriage, my dear Hamilton? You are still a young attractive man and I hope, I sincerely hope, to see you yet settled in a happy home of your own.”
“I shall never remarry,” Sir William said gravely and sadly. “You know as well as I the devotion and piety of your aunt. She was a saint on earth and an example of all that is loveliest in woman’s character. It would be impossible to replace her and I shall not try. No, tell Lord Middleton my mind is resolved. As to the debts—but we will consider that later. What are your views for Emma?”
Greville reflected. He really had not yet formulated them even to himself. The concert-room, the opera, the stage, all these ideas had jostled one another in his head, but there was not one that did not call for a training he could not afford. And furthermore, he was very far from willing (in the Middleton interest) to superintend her affairs in any way or seem to preserve the slightest thread of attachment between them. He put this matter to his uncle and they discussed it for a while as a difficulty.
“An Italian training for her voice is what she needs,” said Greville. “It has that kind of pure light brilliance which corresponds exactly to the Italian idea. That would be a settled career for her. But we must not go too fast. You must hear her. You are a far more finished connoisseur in music than I, and perhaps I may overstate her powers. I will have her singing-master here to-morrow and you shall judge. Let me call her back. She has invented a pretty little amusement you will approve, I am sure. She throws herself into uncommon attitudes and thus makes quite elegant little sculpturesques of herself. Whether it could be developed as a paying entertainment—but you shall see.”
Sir William, deeply interested, assented and Emma was recalled from the tinkle of china audible in the distance. She came tripping in, her little dog running after her, the ideal young married niece and elderly uncle’s delight, for that was how she saw herself at the moment. That impression was also instantly conveyed to Sir William. She pulled a low seat beside him and began to talk with those fluty low notes which captivated the listener quite apart from any nonsense or sense she chose to utter. She must hear about Naples, about his great house there, and did he really ever see the Queen? Was she beautiful? Did she wear her crown often? Was Naples as lovely as in Greville’s book of pictures? And, oh, if she could but ever, ever see it!
Sir William was enchanted. He saw no reason why his niece Emma—for so he really must call her—should not come out some day and taste the beauties of that land of the orange and myrtle. He knew not whether she would be the more admired or admiring, probably the former. “For,” said he, “lovely as the Italian women are there is a sameness. The same glorious black eyes flash on you from every countenance. The same rippled raven hair crowns every brow; I may almost say the same finely chiselled features are the rule, so that each must depend for distinction upon her expression and manner. Now you, my dear Emma, have the beauty of their most famous antiques, but the glory of your warm auburn colouring and violet eyes, for so they appear at this moment, must single you out instantly. Added to this, Greville has been dwelling on your accomplishments to me, and these are rare among the Italian belles, who are foolish enough to believe beauty alone can enchain a man for ever and ever.”
“It could only hold a fool,” says she, catching responsive fire from the idea. “Men of culture and learning like you and Greville would demand much, much more. Oh, Sir William, I have tried indeed, but I will try harder still to deserve your approval as well as Greville’s and make myself an accomplished woman.”
So it went on, and Greville sitting a little in the background, watched them. And as he did so, and saw those liquid eyes beaming confidence and affection to his uncle, and Sir William’s elderly orbs lost in their pellucid depths, a thought flashed across his mind so rapid, so overwhelming in its lucidity that he caught his breath audibly, and marvelled he had never considered it before.
Sir William must not marry, for that would be the ruin of his own plans. But Sir William must run the gauntlet of a thousand temptations to the wedding ring. One had but to look at him for that assurance. Furthermore, women’s society was a necessity of his life. The widower of the Palazzo Sessa was certainly not its hermit; no man living more loved gaiety, amusement with thronging interests of every description. And Emma—the exquisite modern-antique—a Pompeian dancer floating up from dark dead ages to charm a modern world; Emma, with her maddening beauty, her poses and attitudes which repeated at command all the statues and pictures which were the delight of Sir William; Emma, with her voice of crystal to enchant him with the bel canto he loved so passionately; and above all, Emma, with her shameful story which set marriage once and for ever out of the question—there was the perfect solution! An unrivalled companion for Sir William’s loneliness, the position for Emma of an old man’s darling on whom every cost, every accomplishment, would be lavished; and for himself freedom—freedom, and the graceful attitude of having conferred a heavy obligation on an attached relative! He sank into deep thought as they murmured on, lost in the interest of this meeting.
Does there seem an unpardonable obliquity in the mind that admits such a consideration? The recorder of the manners and morals of another age does not pretend to compare them with this, nor the materialism of the eighteenth century with the pure idealism and lofty standards of conduct in such matters of the twentieth. Yet Greville had his standard of conscience also, such as it was. It stood aside from the pleasures a gentleman might choose to indulge himself in, but in revenge insisted on certain points to be observed in the way they were transacted. Sir Harry Fetherstonehaugh’s behaviour to Emma was odious in Greville’s eyes. Brutality, coarseness, open infidelity even to a mistress, were things his code could not for a moment admit. Infidelity to a wife—whose cause the world would countenance—was a far lesser matter, though one he would reasonably hope to avoid, provided she pleased him. He had also observed a kindly and correct demeanour toward the little Emma, who was certainly no rightful concern of his. The baby school-bills were regularly settled, nor had he any thought of retreating from that obligation. And lastly, nothing would induce him to abandon Emma without a proper provision for her needs.
If materialism disguised in the wig and spectacles of the ancient maiden Prudence pointed out how much simpler it would be should another, on whose kindness he could rely, undertake her maintenance, was the thought so very unnatural as to warrant any censor arising and calling him the reversed of blessed?
Be that as it may it must be owned that it came as a solvent of all his difficulties, could Emma be brought to view the matter sensibly. The utmost, the most delicate caution, would however be necessary before that could become possible.
Having reached that point—and the two others the degree of confidence when Emma rested her hand timidly on the Ambassador’s knee, drinking in his every word—Greville with his usual method docketed his illumination, parcelled up its brilliance, and placed it in a mental pigeon-hole for easy reference, drew an agreeable smile over his anxieties and asked Sir William if he would like to see the attitudes which Emma had invented one day in Romney’s studio to that master’s entrancement. She ran gaily upstairs to bring her little apparatus.
“She is perfectly fascinating!” Sir William said, with enthusiasm rare in such a finished man of the world. “A most adorable companion. Intelligent, receptive, a perfect listener—”
“Didn’t I tell you?” says Greville with his slow smile. “But don’t spoil her, my dear Hamilton, I entreat. She is the most unspoilt spontaneous creature in the world at present, and I have never given her an indigestion of sugar-plums. Make her self-conscious and the dew is off the rose.”
“Very true, but who can look at her and be wise? With all my soul I pity you, if you must let her go. And for Miss Middleton—a cold, correctly-featured girl with no fire, no sparkle!”
“My poverty and not my will consents,” quoted Greville with a shrug, as Emma came in dressed in a white robe simply caught at the waist and falling in the long straight folds dear to the heart of that lover of the classical, Sir William. The sleeves were short, disclosing a pair of rounded arms; on one was slung a wreath of artificial roses, in one hand a tambourine.
“The perfect Greek! Stand, stand there, just at the door, for a moment!” cried the enraptured connoisseur. “Good God, what an attitude!”
She froze herself instantly into immobility, framed in the doorway, the long folds falling solemnly about her, the face calm as death, a breathing statue. And, as he watched, a faintly dawning smile touched the corners of her perfect lips and spread upwards like light until it reached her eyes, and then, with a sweet cry, she sprang forward, and dropping the roses at her feet flung the arm upward with the tambourine until it rang again and so stood all life and radiance caught on the wave of a dance, each light limb expressing its perfect movement though struck into marble for the instant—a Pompeian dancer, the flower of love’s insolence, the living blossom of a dead civilization.
“I got the pose from the vase the Duchess of Portland bought from you a while ago, and I called it ‘The Pompeian Dancer,’ as there is a certain amount of interest taken in the excavations now. You like it?” says Greville, lowering his voice.
“Divine!” whispered Sir William briefly, impatient of the words and concentrating every sense on the vision.
“Then what would you think if you could but see it as it should be done! Romney has contrived a light in the studio, a strong light that falls on the left, and she stands in an immense picture frame and—”
He saw Sir William was not listening and stopped. His soul was in his eyes. Presently she drooped aside and slid on to the floor and so sat, with chin cupped in soft hand and one long bright lock falling beside her throat, her pensive eyes, lakes of sorrow, following a far, far ship receding in dimmest distance—Ariadne watching the departing Theseus who carried all her joys with him. Was she thinking of her long-ago sailor? Did she catch up past experiences and mould them into present beauty, or was it drawn from some deep well of ancient mysterious pre-natal experience beyond all guessing of herself or others? No one ever knew. She never knew herself. It was; as inevitably as the trees repeat their ancient symphony of bloom, and joy returns from the past with each revolving year.
This was but the beginning of those famous Attitudes which were later to hold the world. But such as they were they struck the gazer dumb. He came to them fresh and saw them complete, unlike Greville who had known the inception and quarrelled with Romney and Emma alike over the set of a fold, the poise of a wrist and so forth. To him it appeared a miracle of finished beauty. He said as much when she had presented the four poses which were all she had as yet designed and, taking her hand, kissed her again on the cheek and thanked her for an afternoon of such pleasure as he had rarely experienced. Greville also thanked her with a cordiality she had missed of late and the returning warmth cheered her like the glow of sunshine. He forgave—he loved her. The way back to his heart was to please this charming uncle who meant ease, freedom from anxiety and all else to her Greville. Indeed it should not be difficult. She would do her utmost, joyfullest best.
They took her to the play that night, and Sir William and she laughed at the comedy of the frolicsome Mrs. Jordan together, while the smiling Greville sat beside them in the box and loaded her with every attention she had missed. He was resolved Sir William should be well aware of the value of this treasure.
Emma slept that night satiate with happiness.