CHAPTER XI
ADVANCE AND RETREAT
SIR WILLIAM for the first time in his life fell in love. Her smile curled about his heart, her maidenly advances and retreats enchanted him. In vain Greville, not daring to write his indignation at the Embassy arrangement, shot little shafts of caution and warning. They were unheeded. Lalage, sweetly laughing, sweetly speaking, was beside him and letters were trifles. He persuaded himself that Greville had never understood her and that he did; mere conjectures then might be put smilingly aside.
In careful French, lest it should by any chance come under her prying eyes, Greville wrote to the rash man, as he considered him:
“If one admits the tone of virtue without its reality one is simply duped, and I naturally see everything in its true light as I have always done.” Sir William thought, but did not retort, that Greville’s utter lack of idealism entirely unfitted him for judging an inspiration like Emma’s; that—oh, fallacy of lovers!—the body might be debauched and dragged through the mire and the white maiden soul sit smiling secure in its fastness. That is, of course, in Emma’s case, hers only. At such a possibility for any other woman he himself would have laughed with Greville. His replies evaded those points that were full of real anxiety as to her happiness. Did Greville believe her faithful heart could ever change from its devotion to him? What could be done to wean her from that hopeless passion? It was clear there could be no hope for any other man unless it disappeared, and he was sure that the shock when she knew the facts would be dreadful. Greville, horrified at her being so seriously taken, wrote back under the difficulty that his praises of Emma now recoiled on himself. If he had dwelt on her absence of coquetry, her freedom from giddiness, her strong good sense, how was he now to convey the caution that she was merely a woman of easy virtue and the more dangerous because of her extraordinary attractions? He felt himself involved in contradictions, but did his best. And first he reassured Sir William.
“I shall hope to manage all to our satisfaction, for I so long foresaw that a moment of separation must arrive that I never kept the connexion but on a footing of perfect liberty to her. Its commencement was not of my seeking. In her heart she cannot reproach me of having acted otherwise than a kind attentive friend. But you have now rendered it possible for her to be respected and comfortable and, if she has not talked herself out of the true view of her situation, she will retain the protection and affection of us both (!). For after all, consider what a charming creature she would have been if she had been blessed with the advantage of an early education, and had it not been spoilt by the indulgence of every caprice! I never was irritated by her momentary passions, and yet it is true that when her pride is hurt by neglect or anxiety for the future, the frequent repetition of her passion balances the beauty of her smiles. Knowing all this, infinite have been my pains to make her respect herself and I had always proposed to remain her friend altho’ the connexion ceased. If Mrs. Wells had quarrell’d with Admiral Keppell she would never have been respected as she now is.”
Mrs. Wells hovered as so fair a dream before the eyes of Greville’s morality that one might well desire the acquaintance of that paragon. But since she has not survived in history save as a possible example to Emma, and Emma herself made history, it may be granted that the two ladies had perhaps very little in common and that Emma could not have been a Wells with all her efforts. She did, at one time, try her best and failed. It is also an odd reflection that Greville himself, the great, the highly descended, remains in human memory solely because Emma once dwelt in his house in Edgware Row on her way to more celestial spheres. So incredible to Greville-minds are the impish freaks and caprices of that Muse of History whom the besotted ancients treated with as much veneration as if she had been a sensible woman!
Sir William put this clever letter smilingly aside, as I have said. Greville’s motives and contradictions were perfectly clear to him, and the more confirmed his belief that Emma was a soul unspoilt. He accordingly proceeded to do his best to spoil her. Every day was devoted to her interest and amusement.
“You cannot add perfume to a rose, but you can add lustre to a diamond by cutting, polishing, setting, and my diamond [‘Greville’s!’ she interjected] shall have every chance to glitter with the best.” So he told her, and catching the interjection, added, “And now when Greville comes he shall stare in amazement to see the improvement in what most men would think could not be improved.” That last sentence was sufficient for her. She outran Sir William in her diligence from that moment.
Galluci came every morning and the house was like a nest of larks for two hours. The wondering Neapolitan noblemen who visited him were convinced Sir William’s new mistress, for such was her reputation, must be an established prima donna and looked through the journals daily to see what star had shot from its firmament to temporary obscurity for his sweet sake. Indeed, her progress confounded Sir William and Galluci who were both of them inclined to set nature at nought and lean wholly on art. The eighteenth century, like Greville, was unkind to nature. Even a simple shepherdess must be hooped and garlanded and become a Phyllis or a Chloe before she could be agreeable in eyes polite.
The dancing-master followed Galluci daily, and Sir William would look into the room to see Emma at her dancing and deportment. Daily she gained in suave dignity. She could enter a room with the best in a fortnight, make the whole range of curtseys from the deep reverential which one day might be useful at court, to the slight supercilious warranted to kill impertinence on the spot. She walked stately in the minuet—but why catalogue? Because it was Emma, she must needs learn the country dances; indeed, she picked these up from the maids, and very soon excelled in the tarantella and other such joys of the people, rendering them with an added grace which made Sir William’s guests marvel why they had never thought them worth notice before.
Sir William’s guests? What had Emma, or her like, to do with them? Much. Mrs. Dickenson was vanquished. From her charming house in Naples whence she had issued to do the honours when Sir William received, she heard of the new arrival, and in no uncertain terms. Her history, losing nothing in the telling, was spread before Mrs. Dickenson’s chaste eyes and almost scorched them. It had been carefully concealed from the ladies of the family that Greville had made a home in Edgware Row and though no one expected him to be more austere than other young men of the period it was felt that he offered an example which seniors and juniors would alike do well to follow. There was therefore nothing to connect him with the idea of Emma, though, as regards her past, Gavin Hamilton, delicately threshed with feminine flail and fan in Naples, yielded some precious grains of information which sprang up green and full-eared in Neapolitan conversations, and did not even know that he had done it.
Sir William—the astute, the worldly wise!—was he deceived or deceiving? Mrs. Dickenson bided her time. It came inevitably with the expected request that she should take the head of his table on the occasion of a large dinner party with music to follow.
Music! Mrs. Dickenson pricked up her ears. Those lark-like trillings had already reached them in rumour. She answered that it would be best if Sir William would call and discuss the arrangements with her.
Unthinking man, he went! Conscious of innocence and of a heart—but that at least should not concern Mrs. Dickenson in his opinion—he went.
She received him with the duty of a niece who had grown up more or less in his shadow and who could appreciate the dignity of an ambassador in the family, and made the suitable beginning in enquiries after his health and the news by mail, and finishing with the weather launched discreetly into the subject of the dinner.
“I thank you very sincerely, my dear uncle, for your wish that I should do the honours as usual. Nothing could give me more pleasure.”
“Then it is settled, my dear,” he said briskly, “the hour is as usual. The guests—”
“But—” said Mrs. Dickenson with emphasis, and that awful syllable, the grave of so many reputations, fell chill on his ear. He rose hurriedly.
“I see you have a cold. Indeed, I would not be inconsiderate. I know you have often helped me at great inconvenience to yourself.”
“And would again and evermore,” said Mrs. Dickenson in her deep contralto. “But—” Again a pause.
“Pray speak plainly. What is it?”
His face was a mask of genial innocence, calm as if all the Christian virtues shed their benignant sunshine through his eyes. It was Mrs. Dickenson who looked uncomfortably conscious.
“Well, my dear uncle, I will perform a duty which I find most painful. How can I with any self-respect enter the Palazzo Sessa when I am told there is a young girl there unconnected with the family, extremely young and beautiful, with the manners of an actress, and who has been presented only to your male friends? Pray view my position candidly.”
The hot sun beat on the jalousies and filtered through the blinds. The room was, however, dim and cool with shade and the rich perfume of flowers, and there was no external cause for the little elderly flush which coloured Sir William’s cheeks. She observed it and drew her own conclusions. However, he did not hesitate, though his countenance fell.
“You and I should be used to the virulent gossip of Naples by this time. There is nothing to hide, and you are at liberty to hear the circumstances and judge for yourself. Mrs. Hart is a young woman of the utmost merit and talents. She is in poor circumstances and has been recommended to me by a friend that she may study singing with Galluci and fit herself for the operatic stage. It could not be done to the same advantage in England. You know that as well as I. And therefore I extended hospitality to her and to her mother; a most worthy, excellent woman. Of course I knew that my motives would be misrepresented. When is it ever otherwise? But you are now acquainted with all the facts, and in case you have a very natural delicacy in asking the question, I will tell you once and for all, there is nothing whatever between me and Mrs. Hart.”
“What are her antecedents?” asked Mrs. Dickenson, coldly overlooking this assurance. Sir William’s mental vision swiftly embraced Up Park, Edgware Row, and a few more memories before he answered firmly:
“A quiet respectable home in London with her mother. This is the chance of her life. But come and judge yourself of her uncommon talents. With your love of music I am certain they will delight you, and your countenance would be invaluable for her.”
There was a pause while Mrs. Dickenson marshalled her words and ideas.
“My dear uncle, it is impossible you should realize the scandal that is going about. If you did, how can I doubt that you would make some other arrangement for the young woman? In a dissolute court like this you will hear no objection from the Royalties or nobility, but there are worthy English people here who will undoubtedly report the matter in London—”
“Damn them and their officiousness!”
“—and it may have very unpleasant results,” proceeded Mrs. Dickenson calmly, “so that I feel I cannot, in view of my daughters, in any way encourage what may be very harmful to you and all the family. I don’t speak of higher motives but they exist in all their fulness.”
Perhaps there is nothing more irritating to the average man than a highly moral attack descending like a flail on a harmless pleasure. Whatever were his hopes for the future the situation was still innocent, and it was nothing less than maddening to have Emma at home, bathed in tears and writing passionate love letters to Greville, and Mrs. Dickenson here upbraiding him with illicit relations which would have filled Emma with as much disgust as herself. He lost his temper between the pair of them.
“Commend me to the really pure-minded female for licentious suggestions,” he said, rising with sarcastic decision. “I had thought better of your good sense. If an elderly man cannot show compassion to a girl young enough to be his granddaughter without these unpleasant insinuations he had better not lay himself open to such attacks. I wish you a very good morning.”
Mrs. Dickenson started towards him with a cry. The word “marriage” was tolling in her ear, and she the sole family representative to arrest this fatal folly! Oh, if Greville, the cool, the worldly-wise, the influential with his uncle, were but here! That was her thought.
“Oh, uncle, did you but know what is flying about, and how it may be represented in England! You despise me as a woman. Consult Greville, I entreat you, before it goes farther. You know his calm good sense. Write by the mail that leaves to-day. He will tell you—”
“Damn Greville!” cries Sir William, now exasperated in the highest degree. “And damn all who interfere in matters which do not concern them and never will! I free you, madam, henceforward from the unpleasant duty of assisting my hospitalities, and have nothing further to beg of you but that our meetings may be as infrequent as you please.”
He stalked out and left Mrs. Dickenson weeping on the settee. The poor lady had but done her duty, and here was the reward.
He went straight up to Emma’s apartments, where she sat, industriously sketching by the great window overlooking the bay. He stood a moment by the door and watched her, and though she was conscious of it she never stirred but went quietly on with her work.
All in her favorite white, young, lovely, sweet, she looked like a wood nymph compared with Mrs. Dickenson’s stout and unattractive British maternity. She rose before him florid and suspicious, the stiff silk gown crackling about her stout person, a cap all loops and frills and ribbon, with rolled curls to front her unattractive coiffure. A thievish sunbeam had made its way through a half-closed jalousie and was playing hide and seek in the auburn gold of Emma’s curls. It touched the mother-of-pearl of a little ear, listening, though he never guessed it, for the quick breath due to such industrious loveliness. It rushed on him then—Why not make Emma the lady of the Palazzo, the dispenser of his hospitalities? Why not as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb? They could not say worse than they were saying; then let them talk as they would and he would go his own way. Where in the broad earth could he find such another hostess? The charm of his parties would echo through Italy, and London was far away. These thoughts and many more all crystallizing into resolution stirred in him as he stood and watched that sunbeam touch the warm rose of her cheek and quiver about her lips. Suddenly she turned, smiled, and said sweetly:
“I felt you were there. It’s like sunshine in the room when you come. Tell me if this is any better?”
She held up the sketching block, and he sat down beside her commenting and commending. Then, resolutely:
“Emma, I have a dinner party to-night. I wish you to appear.”
“Me? Oh, Sir William!” she looked at him in dismay. “Ladies? But I’ve never dined with ladies in my life, and I don’t know how to act.”
“You can’t do anything but gracefully. There are only two Italian ladies, from Rome. The rest are men. Twelve in all. I wish you to receive them.”
“But I can’t talk Italian yet. Though I’m getting on.”
“Perhaps that may be all the better for a beginning and till you grow more accustomed. I’ll make your excuses. And you shall sing after dinner.”
Her face went pale and red.
“Sir William, you believe in me too much. I shall disgrace you.”
“Not you. You’ll rise to the occasion and cover us with glory. You have the courage of six. Now that’s fixed. Come down simply, quietly, naturally, and I won’t say look pretty, because you can’t help that. But be just the simple natural Emma, and all will go well.”
“But, what shall I wear? Oh, I want to be beautiful to do you credit.”
As it was not possible for Sir William to explain that that was the high road to discredit for him, he fell in with her view and after awhile the white satin was chosen. She had never worn it yet, and that was in itself an event to move her. At the end, she hesitated a little.
“Is Mrs. Dickenson ill?” she asked simply, for she knew from him that his real niece had always done the honours. Sir William’s lips tightened.
“Not at all. But I choose that in future my dear Emma shall be hostess at the Palazzo Sessa.”
No more was said. She could not tell whether she were more frightened or glad. Perhaps he meant it as a part of the great campaign of improvement now proceeding. She was to be given the manners of a lady in high society in addition to all else. Wonderful, wonderful! For what dim illustrious future was all this preparation? Surely, surely he must have her marriage to Greville in view. Nothing else could possibly explain it. Then what effort or gratitude could be too much for such amazing generosity? When he was gone she caught up her pen and wrote to Greville. All centred about that.
“I try to appear as cheerful before Sir William as I can, but I am sure to cry the moment I think of you. For I feel more and more unhappy at being separated from you, and if my fatal ruin depends on seeing you, I will and must at the end of the summer. For to live without you is impossible. I love you to that degree that at this time there is not a hardship upon earth either of poverty, cold, death, or even to walk barefooted to Scotland to see you but what I would undergo. Therefore my dear, dear Greville, if you do love me, for my sake, try all you can to come here as soon as possible. You have a true friend in Sir William and he will be happy to see you. I find it is not either a fine horse or a fine coach or a pack of servants or plays or operas can make me happy. It is you that has it in your power either to make me very happy or very miserable.”
She paused here, recalled a something in Sir William’s eyes that had startled her. To him she could not say a word, not a word. She might, must be utterly mistaken, and doing him a frightful injustice. But to Greville she could open her whole heart. With desperate courage she snatched up the pen again.
“I respect Sir William. I have a great regard for him, as the uncle and friend of you, and he loves me, Greville. But he can never be anything nearer to me than your uncle and my sincere friend. He never can be my lover. You do not know how good Sir William is to me. He is doing everything he can to make me happy.”
She sealed and bound that letter with extraordinary care. Little could she think or guess that it would be returned after careful consideration from Greville for Sir William’s consideration also. Her motive in writing it was perfectly clear. Greville must know and rejoice in the thought that neither temptation, pleasures, or love could shake her perfect fidelity to him. He had come to her rescue in need, they had lived together in wifely submission and love on her side for years. She considered herself his wife in truth and hoped that the future would make her so in the world’s eyes. For that she was toiling now; that he might never have cause to blush for her bearing and accomplishments. Poor Emma! it was perhaps natural that she should put the shameful past out of sight. It had not hurt her, she thought, or Sir William could not respect her as he did. And if she could forget it, why not Greville? Only he must be certain that she was true as the needle to the North even if the incredible were to happen and Sir William to tempt her.
She pushed the sealed letter aside, then sent it to the mail and sat awhile thinking. Sir William saw her enter the room before his guests arrived, divinely lovely in the shimmering white satin and a little rope of knotted seed pearls about her round throat. With all the delight of a proud proprietor he watched the eyes of the men who entered and were ceremoniously presented. He saw the two olive-skinned Italian ladies thrown into the shade by that immaculate fairness. Her manners were the perfection of a young girl’s modesty, and her ignorance of Italian kept her in a graceful quiet of smiles and shyness. It was in the evening her triumph came when Galluci appeared with his music and Emma placed herself beside him too shy even for apologies and excuses. She sang Paisiello brilliantly. She fired off ascending rockets of silver stars that fluttered to earth again as silvery. The applause of the inflammable Italians was frantic, and her pretty bow and smile completed the picture.
Directly the two ladies rose she attended them to the door and vanished discreetly with them.
“Perfection!” said Sir William in his heart. “Thank goodness I acted as I did to-day.”
But what would Greville have said? It was Emma who asked that question in her own heart. Sir William evaded it in his.