Kitabı oku: «Sandra Belloni (originally Emilia in England). Complete», sayfa 31
When Tracy Runningbrook came down at his ordinary hour of noon to breakfast, he found a twisted note from Georgiana, telling him that important matters had summoned Merthyr to London, and that they were all to be seen at Lady Gosstre’s town-house.
“I believe, by Jove! Powys manoeuvres to get her away from me,” he shouted, and sat down to his breakfast and his book with a comforted mind. It was not Georgiana to whom he alluded; but the appearance of Captain Gambier, and the pronounced discomposure visible in the handsome face of the captain on his hearing of the departure, led Tracy to think that Georgiana’s was properly deplored by another, though that other was said to be engaged. ‘On revient toujours,’ he hummed.
CHAPTER XLVIII
Three days passed as a running dream to Emilia. During that period she might have been hurried off to Italy without uttering a remonstrance. Merthyr’s spirited talk of the country she called her own; of its heroic youth banded to rise, and sworn to liberate it or die; of good historic names borne by men, his comrades, in old campaigning adventures; and stories and incidents of those past days—all given with his changed face, and changed ringing voice, almost moved her to plunge forgetfully into this new tumultuous stream while the picture of the beloved land, lying shrouded beneath the perilous star it was about to follow grew in her mind.
“Shall I go with the Army?” she asked Georgiana.
“No, my child; you will simply go to school,” was the cold reply.
“To school!” Emilia throbbed, “while they are fighting!”
“To the Academy. My brother’s first thought is to further your progress in Art. When your artistic education is complete, you will choose your own course.”
“He knows, he knows that I have no voice!” Emilia struck her lap with twisted fingers. “My voice is thick in my throat. If I am not to march with him, I can’t go; I will not go. I want to see the fight. You have. Why should I keep away? Could I run up notes, even if I had any voice, while he is in the cannon-smoke?”
“While he is in the cannon-smoke!” Georgiana revolved the line thoughtfully. “You are aware that my brother looks forward to the recovery of your voice,” she said.
“My voice is like a dead serpent in my throat,” rejoined Emilia. “My voice! I have forgotten music. I lived for that, once; now I live for nothing, only to take my chance everywhere with my friend. I want to smell powder. My father says it is like salt, the taste of blood, and is like wine when you smell it. I have heard him shout for it. I will go to Italy, if I may go where my friend Merthyr goes; but nothing can keep me shut up now. My head’s a wilderness when I’m in houses. I can scarcely bear to hear this London noise, without going out and walking till I drop.”
Coming to a knot in her meditation, Georgiana concluded that Emilia’s heart was warming to Merthyr. She was speedily doubtful again.
These two delicate Welsh natures, as exacting as they were delicate, were little pleased with Emilia’s silence concerning her intercourse with Wilfrid. Merthyr, who had expressed in her defence what could be said for her, was unwittingly cherishing what could be thought in her disfavour. Neither of them hit on the true cause, which lay in Georgiana’s coldness to her. One little pressure of her hand, carelessly given, made Merthyr better aware of the nature he was dealing with. He was telling her that a further delay might keep them in London for a week; and that he had sent for her mother to come to her.
“I must see my mother,” she had said, excitedly. The extension of the period named for quitting England made it more imminent m her imagination than when it was a matter of hours. “I must see her.”
“I have sent for her,” said Merthyr, and then pressed Emilia’s hand. But she who, without having brooded on complaints of its absence, thirsted for demonstrative kindness, clung to the hand, drawing it, doubled, against her chin.
“That is not the reason,” she said, raising her full eyes up at him over the unrelinquished hand. “I love the poor Madre; let her come; but I have no heart for her just now. I have seen Wilfrid.”
She took a tighter hold of his fingers, as fearing he might shrink from her. Merthyr hated mysteries, so he said, “I supposed it must have been so—that night of our return from Penarvon?”
“Yes,” she murmured, while she read his face for a shadow of a repulsion; “and, my friend, I cannot go to Italy now!”
Merthyr immediately drew a seat beside her. He perceived that there would be no access to her reason, even as he was on the point of addressing it.
“Then all my care and trouble are to be thrown away?” he said, taking the short road to her feelings.
She put the hand that was disengaged softly on his shoulder. “No; not thrown away. Let me be what Merthyr wishes me to be! That is my chief prayer.”
“Why, then, will you not do what Merthyr wishes you to do?”
Emilia’s eyelids shut, while her face still fronted him.
“Oh! I will speak all out to you,” she cried. “Merthyr, my friend, he came to kiss me once, before I have only just understood it! He is going to Austria. He came to touch me for the last time before his hand is red with my blood. Stop him from going! I am ready to follow you:—I can hear of his marrying that woman:—Oh! I cannot live and think of him in that Austrian white coat. Poor thing!—my dear! my dear!” And she turned away her head.
It is not unnatural that Merthyr hearing these soft epithets, should disbelieve in the implied self-conquest of her preceding words. He had no clue to make him guess that these were simply old exclamations of hers brought to her lips by the sorrowful contrast in her mind.
“It will be better that you should see him,” he said, with less of his natural sincerity; so soon are we corrupted by any suspicion that our egoism prompts.
“Here?” And she hung close to him, open-lipped, open-eyed, open-eared, as if (Georgiana would think it, thought Merthyr) her savage senses had laid the trap for this proposal, and now sprung up keen for their prey. “Here, Merthyr? Yes! let me see him. You will! Let me see him, for he cannot resist me. He tries. He thinks he does: but he cannot. I can stretch out my finger—I can put it on the day when, if he has galloped one way he will gallop another. Let him come.”
She held up both her hands in petition, half dropping her eyelids, with a shadowy beauty.
In Merthyr’s present view, the idea of Wilfrid being in ranks opposed to him was so little provocative of intense dissatisfaction, that it was out of his power to believe that Emilia craved to see him simply to dissuade the man from the obnoxious step. “Ah, well! See him; see him, if you must,” he said. “Arrange it with my sister.”
He quitted the room, shrinking from the sound of her thanks, and still more from the consciousness of his torment.
The business that detained him was to get money for Marini. Georgiana placed her fortune at his disposal a second time. There was his own, which he deemed it no excess of chivalry to fling into the gulf. The two sat together, arranging what property should be sold, and how they would share the sacrifice in common. Georgiana pressed him to dispose of a little estate belonging to her, that money might immediately be raised. They talked as they sat over the fire toward the dusk of the winter evening.
“You would not have refused me once, Merthyr!”
“When you were a child, and I hardly better than a boy. Now it’s different. Let mine go first, Georgey. You may have a husband, who will not look on these things as we do.”
“How can I love a husband!” was all she said; and Merthyr took her in his arms. His gaiety had gone.
“We can’t go dancing into a pit of this sort,” he sighed, partly to baffle the scrutiny he apprehended in her silence. “The garrison at Milan is doubled, and I hear they are marching troops through Tyrol. Some alerte has been given, and probably some traitors exist. One wouldn’t like to be shot like a dog! You haven’t forgotten poor Tarani? I heard yesterday of the girl who calls herself his widow.”
“They were betrothed, and she is!” exclaimed Georgiana.
“Well, there’s a case of a man who had two loves—a woman and his country; and both true to him!”
“And is he so singular, Merthyr?”
“No, my best! my sweetest! my heart’s rest! no!”
They exchanged tender smiles.
“Tarani’s bride—beloved! you can listen to such matters—she has undertaken her task. Who imposed it? I confess I faint at the thought of things so sad and shameful. But I dare not sit in judgement on a people suffering as they are. Outrage upon outrage they have endured, and that deadens—or rather makes their heroism unscrupulous. Tarani’s bride is one of the few fair girls of Italy. We have a lock of her hair. She shore it close the morning her lover was shot, and wore the thin white skull-cap you remember, until it was whispered to her that her beauty must serve.”
“I have the lock now in my desk,” said Georgiana, beginning to tremble. “Do you wish to look at it?”
“Yes; fetch it, my darling.”
He sat eyeing the firelight till she returned, and then taking the long golden lock in his handy he squeezed it, full of bitter memories and sorrowfulness.
“Giulietta?” breathed his sister.
“I would put my life on the truth of that woman’s love. Well!”
“Yes?”
“She abandons herself to the commandant of the citadel.”
A low outcry burst from Georgiana. She fell at Merthyr’s knees sobbing violently. He let her sob. In the end she struggled to speak.
“Oh! can it be permitted? Oh! can we not save her? Oh, poor soul! my sister! Is she blind to her lover in heaven?”
Georgiana’s face was dyed with shame.
“We must put these things by,” said Merthyr. “Go to Emilia presently, and tell her—settle with her as you think fitting, how she shall see this Wilfrid Pole. I have promised her she shall have her wish.”
Coloured by the emotion she was burning from, these words smote Georgiana with a mournful compassion for Merthyr.
He had risen, and by that she knew that nothing could be said to alter his will.
A sentimental pair likewise, if you please; but these were sentimentalists who served an active deity; and not that arbitrary protection of a subtle selfishness which rules the fairer portion of our fat England.
CHAPTER XLIX
“My brother tells me it is your wish to see Mr. Wilfrid Pole.”
Emilia’s “Yes” came faintly in answer to Georgiana’s cold accents.
“Have you considered what you are doing in expressing such a desire?”
Another “Yes” was heard from under an uplifted head:—a culprit affirmative, whereat the just take fire.
“Be honest, Emilia. Seek counsel and guidance to-night, as you have done before with me, and profited, I think. If I write to bid him come, what will it mean?”
“Nothing more,” breathed Emilia.
“To him—for in his way he seems to care for you fitfully—it will mean—stop! hear me. The words you speak will have no part of the meaning, even if you restrain your tongue. To him it will imply that his power over you is unaltered. I suppose that the task of making you perceive the effect it really will have on you is hopeless.”
“I have seen him, and I know,” said Emilia, in a corresponding tone.
“You saw him that night of our return from Penarvon? Judge of him by that. He would not spare you. To gratify I know not what wildness in his nature, he did not hesitate to open your old wound. And to what purpose? A freak of passion!”
“He could not help it. I told him he would come, and he came.”
“This, possibly, you call love; do you not?”
Emilia was about to utter a plain affirmative, but it was checked. The novelty of the idea of its not being love arrested her imagination.
“If he comes to you here,” resumed Georgiana—
“He must come!” cried Emilia.
“My brother has sanctioned it, so his coming or not will rest with him. If he comes, let me know the good that you think will result from an interview? Ah! you have not weighed that question. Do so;—or you give no heed to it? In any ease, try to look into your own breast. You were not born to live unworthily. You can be, or will be, if you follow your better star, self-denying and noble. Do you not love your country? Judge of this love by that. Your love, if you have this power over him, is merely a madness to him; and his—what has it done for you? If he comes, and this begins again, there will be a similar if not the same destiny for you.”
Emilia panted in her reply. “No; it will not begin again.” She threw out both arms, shaking her head. “It cannot, I know. What am I now? It is what I was that he loves. He will not know what I am till he sees me. And I know that I have done things that he cannot forgive. You have forgiven it, and Merthyr, because he is my friend; but I am sure Wilfrid will not. He might pardon the poor ‘me,’ but not his Emilia! I shall have to tell him what I did; so” (and she came closer to Georgiana) “there is some pain for me in seeing him.”
Georgiana was not proof against this simplicity of speech, backed by a little dying dimple, which seemed a continuation of the plain sadness of Emilia’s tone.
She said, “My poor child!” almost fondly, and then Emilia looked in her face, murmuring, “You sometimes doubt me.”
“Not your truth, but the accuracy of your perceptions and your knowledge of your real designs. You are certainly deceiving yourself at this instant. In the first place, the relation of that madness—no, poor child, not wickedness—but if you tell it to him, it is a wilful and unnecessary self-abasement. If he is to be your husband, unburden your heart at once. Otherwise, why? why? You are but working up a scene, provoking needless excesses: you are storing misery in retrospect, or wretchedness to be endured. Had you the habit of prayer! By degrees it will give you the thirst for purity, and that makes you a fountain of prayer, in whom these blind deceits cannot hide.”
Georgiana paused emphatically; as when, by our unrolling out of our ideas, we have more thoroughly convinced ourselves.
“You pray to heaven,” said Emilia, and then faltered, and blushed. “I must be loved!” she cried. “Will you not put your arms round me?”
Georgiana drew her to her bosom, bidding her continue. Emilia lay whispering under her chin. “You pray, and you wish to be seen as you are, do you not? You do. Well, if you knew what love is, you would see it is the same. You wish him to see and know you: you wish to be sure that he loves nothing but exactly you; it must be yourself. You are jealous of his loving an idea of you that is not you. You think, ‘He will wake up and find his mistake;’ or you think, ‘That kiss was not intended for me; not for me as I am.’ Those are tortures!”
Her discipline had transformed her, when she could utter such sentiments as these!
Feeling her shudder, and not knowing how imagination forestalls experience in passionate blood, Georgiana said, “You speak like one who has undergone them. But now at least you have thrown off the mask. You love him still, this man! And with as little strength of will! Do you not see impiety in the comparison you have made?”
“Oh! what I see is, that I wish I could say to him, ‘Look on me, for I need not be ashamed—I am like Miss Ford!’”
The young lady’s cheeks took fire, and the clear path of speech becoming confused in her head she said, “Miss Ford?”
“Georgiana,” said Emilia, and feeling that her friend’s cold manner had melted; “Georgey! my beloved! my darling in Italy, where will we go! I envy no woman but you who have seen my dear ones fight. You and I, and Merthyr! Nothing but Austrian shot shall part us.”
“And so we make up a pretty dream!” interjected Georgiana. “The Austrian shot, I think, will be fired by one who is now in the Austrian service, or who will soon be.”
“Wilfrid?” Emilia called out. “No; that is what I am going to stop. Why did I not tell you so at first? But I never know what I say or do when I am with you, and everything seems chance. I want to see him to prevent him from doing that. I can.”
“Why should you?” asked Georgiana; and one to whom the faces of the two had been displayed at that moment would have pronounced them a hostile couple.
“Why should I prevent him?” Emilia doled out the question slowly, and gave herself no further thought of replying to it.
Apparently Georgiana understood the significance of this odd silence: she was perhaps touched by it. She said, “You feel that you have a power over him. You wish to exercise it. Never mind wherefore. If you do—if you try, and succeed—if, by the aid of this love presupposed to exist, you win him to what you require of him—do you honestly think the love is then immediately to be dropped?”
Emilia meditated. She caught up her voice hastily. “I think so. Yes. I hope so. I mean it to be.”
“With a noble lover, Emilia. Not with a selfish one. In showing him the belief you have in your power over him, you betray that he has power over you. And it is to no object. His family, his position, his prospects—all tell you that he cannot marry you if he would. And he is, besides, engaged—”
“Let her suffer!” Emilia’s eyes flashed.
“Ah!” and Georgiana thought, “Have I come upon your nature at last?”
However it might be, Emilia was determined to show it.
“She took my lover from me, and I say, let her suffer! I would not hurt her myself—I would not lay my finger on her: but she has eyes like blue stones, and such a mouth!—I think the Austrian executioner has one like it. If she suffers, and goes all dark as I did, she will show a better face. Let her keep my lover. He is not mine, but he was; and she took him from me. That woman cannot feed on him as I did. I know she has no hunger for love. He will look at those blue bits of ice, and think of me. I told him so. Did I not tell him that in Devon? I saw her eyelids move as fast as I spoke. I think I look on Winter when I see her lips. Poor, wretched Wilfrid!”
Emilia half-sobbed this exclamation out. “I don’t wish to hurt either of them,” she added, with a smile of such abrupt opposition to her words that Georgiana was in perplexity. A lady who has assumed the office of lecturer, will, in such a frame of mind, lecture on, if merely to vindicate to herself her own preconceptions. Georgiana laid her finger severely upon Wilfrid’s manifest faults; and, in fine, she spoke a great deal of the common sense that the situation demanded. Nevertheless, Emilia held to her scheme. But, in the meantime, Georgiana had seen more clearly into the girl’s heart; and she had been won, also, by a natural gracefulness that she now perceived in her, and which led her to think, “Is Merthyr again to show me that he never errs in his judgement?” An unaccountable movement of tenderness to Emilia made her drop a few kisses on her forehead. Emilia shut her eyes, waiting for more. Then she looked up, and said, “Have you felt this love for me very long?” at which the puny flame, scarce visible, sprang up, and warmed to a great heat.
“My own Emilia! Sandra! listen to me: promise me not to seek this interview.”
“Will you always love me as much?” Emilia bargained.
“Yes, yes; I never vary. It is my love for you that begs you.”
Emilia fell into a chair and propped her head behind both hands, tapping the floor briskly with her feet. Georgiana watched the conflict going on. To decide it promptly, she said: “And not only shall I love you thrice as well, but my brother Merthyr, whom you call your friend—he will—he cannot love you better; but he will feel you to be worthy the best love he can give. There is a heart, you simple girl! He loves you, and has never shown any of the pain your conduct has given him. When I say he loves you, I tell you his one weakness—the only one I have discovered. And judge whether, he has shown want of self-control while you were dying for another. Did he attempt to thwart you? No; to strengthen you; and never once to turn your attention to himself. That is love. Now, think of what anguish you have made him pass through: and think whether you have ever witnessed an alteration of kindness in his face toward you. Even now, when he had the hope that you were cured of your foolish fruitless affection for a man who merely played with you, and cannot give up the habit, even now he hides what he feels—”
So far Emilia let her speak without interruption; but gradually awakening to the meaning of the words:—
“For me?” she cried.
“Yes; for you.”
“The same sort of love as Wilfrid feels?”
“By no means the same sort; but the love of man for woman.”
“And he saw me when I was that wretched heap? And he knows everything! and loves me. He has never kissed me.”
“Does that miserable test—?” Georgiana was asking.
“Pardon, pardon,” said Emilia penitently; “I know that is almost nothing, now. I am not a child. I spoke from a sudden feeling. For if he loves me, how—! Oh, Merthyr! what a little creature I seem. I cannot understand it. I lose a brother. And he was such a certainty to me. What did he love—what did he love, that night he found me on the pier? I looked like a creature picked off a mud-bank. I felt like a worm, and miserably abandoned, I was a shameful sight. Oh! how can I look on Merthyr’s face again?”
In these interjections Georgiana did not observe the proper humility and abject gratitude of a young person who had heard that she was selected by a prince of the earth. A sort of ‘Eastern handmaid’ prostration, with joined hands, and, above all things, a closed mouth, the lady desired. She half regretted the revelation she had made; and to be sure at once that she had reaped some practical good, she said: “I need scarce ask you whether you have come to a right decision upon that other question.”
“To see Wilfrid?” said Emilia. She appeared to pause musingly, and then turned to Georgiana, showing happy features; “Yes: I shall see him. I must see him. Let him know he is to come immediately.”
“That is your decision.”
“Yes.”
“After what I have told you?”
“Oh, yes; yes! Write the letter.”
Georgiana chid at an internal wrath that struggled to win her lips. “Promise me simply that what I have told you of my brother, you will consider yourself bound to keep secret. You will not speak of it to others, nor to him.”
Emilia gave the promise, but with the thought; “To him?—will not he speak of it?”
“So, then, I am to write this letter?” said Georgiana.
“Do, do; at once!” Emilia put on her sweetest look to plead for it.
“Decidedly the wisest of men are fools in this matter,” Georgiana’s reflection swam upon her anger.
“And dearest! my Georgey!” Emilia insisted on being blunt to the outward indications to which she was commonly so sensitive and reflective; “my Georgey! let me be alone this evening in my bedroom. The little Madre comes, and—and I haven’t the habit of being respectful to her. And, I must be alone! Do not send up for me, whoever wishes it.”
Georgiana could not stop her tongue: “Not if Mr. Wilfrid Pole—?”
“Oh, he! I will see him,” said Emilia; and Georgiana went from her straightway.
