SPRING comes 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 that this day 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, I must see 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.