THE friendship between Emma and the Ambassador strengthened every day, and to Greville’s secret amusement and satisfaction, he was continually in Edgware Row. London, apart from the antiquarian interests in which he met congenial spirits, was tame and dull in comparison with the delight of sitting with “the fair tea-maker” as he called her, listening to the wonderful voice, suggesting yet more wonderful Attitudes, lounging for hours in Romney’s studio where he made his unwearied studies of Emma in every character that literature or her own marvellous versatility could suggest. He gave an order to Romney for her portrait as a Bacchante that he might not be parted (so he said) from so much beauty when he was compelled to return to Naples.
“Oh, but don’t talk of return, my kind dear friend, I beseech you! What shall we do, Greville and me, when you go? You take the sunlight with you!” said Emma with an expression of pain and fear in those irresistible eyes. “If you did but know, but you can’t, what happiness you have brought with you! All my Greville’s anxieties seem to have vanished away, and we live as care-free as the birds yonder. What don’t I owe you! If I could repay it—ah, if I could!”
“To look at you and enjoy your presence is to be repaid with interest!” said the Ambassador, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. He was approaching the age when it is easier to find pleasures at home than to go abroad to seek them, and there was a warm atmosphere of comfort, of woman’s sweet serviceable ways about him there in which he was apt to purr like a contented cat. She knew his liking by instinct, divined a wish before he uttered it, and with Greville’s guiding taste the surroundings in Edgware Row could not offend even the Hamilton fastidiousness. The little maid-servant, added to the establishment in honour of his frequent coming, would rush radiant to “Mrs. Hart” when his step was in the garden, and well she might, for Sir William’s generous hand was often in his pocket even for the humble Molly Dring, while, as to Emma, she was the shrine of many and costly offerings, and he seldom came without a parcel to be opened with pretty cries of delight, and little shrieks to Greville to come and see what “our dear, dear uncle” has brought. She had offered to be either his “obliged humble servant or his affectionate niece,” and he voted for the niece.
Those were halcyon days for Emma. She had never been so happy. She believed the cause to be that Greville was more contented than she had seen him for many a long day; kinder, less critical, more indulgent. The narrow limit of expense was enlarged for Sir William, the expeditions to the gaieties of London were more frequent, Sir William’s calm good-nature was a mellowing sunshine on all the little asperities which disturbed her. Privately, deep in the recesses of her own heart, she encouraged dreams that Sir William’s affection for her might lead to her marriage with Greville. If he approved, insisted, made the way easy from the money side of affairs, she felt she could not doubt what the end would be. She redoubled every attention to both her men. Every impulse to quick temper was ruled and governed. The sweet eyes which welcomed Sir William or smiled on Greville were dove’s eyes for softness, and to crown all, she topped the part of the perfect housewife with the brilliant accomplishments which astonished Sir William beyond the very bounds of prudence.
Gavin Hamilton, the cousin artist, came often to study and sketch the wonder. He, too, succumbed to her fascinations. She was “a Roman beauty, opulent, luxuriant, dominating, the perfect classic re-animated for the rapture of the eighteenth century,” and his admiration fanned Sir William’s into flame, while Greville watched with silent pleasure, permitting the matter now to take its own safe course, and Emma expanded daily in the atmosphere of warm caressing admiration which was her soul’s delight. She grew more beautiful, more brilliant, every day in that delicious sunshine; responsive as a flower. Endless were her dreams. If Greville married her, why then she might hope he would admit the little Emma as one of the circle. Why not? It could not be spoken, not hinted as yet; but once married, domestic pressure is slow but sure and she could imagine a future when Sir William might invite his nephew and niece with the small adopted daughter to do the honours for him at the Palazzo Sessa whilst he sank gently more and more into the interests of his antiquities and left the world to them. On that stage Emma was certain she could dazzle. The Honourable Mrs. Charles Greville could have no uncertainties she thought, so, when he spoke of going she took his hand and squeezed it nervously with wet eyes and implored him to delay. Indeed, the vast villa with its troops of gabbling servants seemed dull enough after the amenities of Edgware Row. He was in no hurry.
Greville wanted, however, to get him to himself and that seemed impossible with all the interests of Paddington Green.
“I think, my dear Hamilton, it is really time you should see with your own eyes the developments of the Milford estates. As you know, I have been there constantly, but the master’s eye—I think I must have your instructions on the spot. Time flies and you will be off to Naples again before long.”
“Exactly. You’re perfectly in the right. But presently will do. I have told San Severino that he must hear Emma sing and he can’t come until next week. He will be perfectly infatuated. If she should ever visit Naples that will be an unrivalled introduction.”
And when that week was done and Greville again protested gently.
“Yes, my dear boy, certainly. You are wisdom and goodness itself but the Principe di Barberini swears he will not leave England until he has seen her Attitudes, and I am training her for the Proserpina on the plain of Enna. After that—”
After that Greville would take no denial. He must, he would prepare the way still further for the Great Plan, though much was to be entrusted to letters when Sir William was gone. Letters can be considered, slips carefully avoided. Greville much preferred letters.
Sir William would not hear of Emma’s being left alone in Edgware Row while they went down to Wales. Could she not come with them? No, Greville was certain that could not be. They would be moving too quickly for her, would be engrossed with business at Milford.
“And besides, do you not think, my dear Hamilton, that she has looked a little pale of late? Sea bathing acts like a charm with her. I think of Parkgate. You will see her return in even greater beauty; Aphrodite rising from the sea. And I did think, unless you disapprove, of letting her have her little Emma as a companion. One would not be inhuman, and certainly it would give her a very natural pleasure.”
Sir William demurred a little, a very little on that motion. “Whether it were well to strengthen that connection—” he hesitated. “There might in the future be difficulties, if the child—but after all, poor lovely girl, what more natural? Yes, Greville, I approve. You have a kindly heart.”
“Indeed, I would not fail where Emma is concerned,” Greville replied gravely. “I have respect for her innumerable good qualities as well as a strong affection. I am sincerely glad you approve.”
All this was broached to Emma in the most agreeable way. One and all would feel the break-up of the little household, but the Milford business was imperative, and she needed the sea air and there would be letters, constant letters.
She did not dare to kiss Sir William at parting—so she said in a pretty letter to Greville later—but tendered a velvet cheek and received his salute with shy lashes dropped.
Yet, once away, fears returned. The actual distance magnified the class distance between her and the two men. Tall, distinguished, accomplished, moving in a world of which the gates had never opened, could never open to her, it seemed they might at any time be absorbed into their own Paradise never to return. Could they have sent her away as the beginning of the end? Oh, surely no!—and yet—Somehow, Heaven knows how, a waft of Miss Middleton’s name had reached her—the Honourable Miss Middleton! Nothing certain, but disquieting. She grew nervous, self-distrustful. There was no one at Parkgate to give the necessary tribute of admiration to singing and Attitudes, and little Emma, though a charming blue-eyed creature, got on her nerves a little also.
Her letters reflected these moods.
“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 to my advantage. 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. Boreas did 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.