CHAPTER IX
THE BARGAIN CONCLUDED
THE letters 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 the days of 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 it might be 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 think you seemed 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 my virtu I 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 of virtu, 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 of virtu and 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 by Vetturino forward 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 much sang-froid and 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.
“The angel!” 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, anything to me if you are not there? Do you choose to 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 be your servant 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, could I? 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 impossible you should 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 that I have 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 a faux pas directly 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.