"Well, little one!" she addressed Emilia; "I am glad you have recovered your voice. You play the game of t.i.t-for-tat remarkably well. We will now sheath our battledores. There is my hand."
The unconquerable aplomb in Lady Charlotte, which Wilfrid always artistically admired, and which always mastered him; the sight of her pale face and courageous eyes; and her choice of the moment to come forward and declare her presence;--all fell upon the furnace of Wilfrid"s heart like a quenching flood. In a stupefaction, he confessed to himself that he could say actually nothing. He could hardly look up.
Emilia turned her eyes from the outstretched hand, to the lady"s face.
"What will it mean?" she said.
"That we are quits, I presume; and that we bear no malice. At any rate, that I relinquish the field. I like a hand that can deal a good stroke.
I conceived you to be a mere little romantic person, and correct my mistake. You win the prize, you see."
"You would have made him an Austrian, and he is now safe from that. I win nothing more," said Emilia.
When Tracy and Emilia stood alone, he cried out in a rapture of praise, "Now I know what a power you have. You may bid me live or die."
The recent scene concerned chiefly the actors who had moved onward: it had touched Emilia but lightly, and him not at all. But, while he magnified the glory of her singing, the imperishable note she had sounded this night, and the power and the triumph that would be hers, Emilia"s bosom began to heave, and she checked him with a storm of tears. "Triumph! yes! what is this I have done? Oh, Merthyr, my true hero! He praises me and knows nothing of how false I have been to you.
I am a slave! I have sold myself--sold myself!" She dropped her face in her hands, broken with grief. "He fights," she pursued; "he fights for my country. I feel his blood--it seems to run from my body as it runs from his. Not if he is dying--I dare not go to him if he is dying! I am in chains. I have sworn it for money. See what a different man Merthyr is from any on earth! Would he shoot himself for a woman? Would he grow meaner the more he loved her? My hero! my hero! and Tracy, my friend!
what is my grief now? Merthyr is my hero, but I hear him--I hear him speaking it into my ears with his own lips, that I do not love him. And it is true. I never should have sold myself for three weary years away from him, if I had loved him. I know it now it is done. I thought more of my poor friends and Wilfrid, than of Merthyr, who bleeds for my country! And he will not spurn me when we meet. Yes, if he lives, he will come to me gentle as a ghost that has seen G.o.d!"
She abandoned herself to weeping. Tracy, in a tender reverence for one who could speak such solemn matter spontaneously, supported her, and felt her tears as a rain of flame on his heart.
The nightingales were mute. Not a sound was heard from bough or brake.
CHAPTER LIX
A wreck from the last Lombard revolt landed upon our sh.o.r.es in June. His right arm was in a sling, and his Italian servant following him, kept close by his side, with a ready hand, as if fearing that at any moment the wounded gentleman"s steps might fail. There was no public war going on just then: for which reason he was eyed suspiciously by the rest of the pa.s.sengers making their way up the beach; who seemed to entertain an impression that he had no business at such a moment to be crippled, and might be put down as one of those foreign fools who stand out for a trifle as targets to fools a little luckier than themselves. Here, within our salt girdle, flourishes common sense. We cherish life; we abhor bloodshed; we have no sympathy with your juvenile points of honour: we are, in short, a civilized people; and seeing that Success has made us what we are, we advise other nations to succeed, or be quiet. Of all of which the gravely-smiling gentleman appeared well aware; for, with an eye that courted none, and a perfectly calm face, he pa.s.sed through the crowd, only once availing himself of his brown-faced Beppo"s spontaneously depressed shoulder when a twinge of pain shooting from his torn foot took his strength away. While he remained in sight, some speculation as to his nationality continued: he had been heard to speak nothing but Italian, and yet the flower of English cultivation was signally manifest in his style and bearing. The purchase of that day"s journal, giving information that the Lombard revolt was fully, it was thought finally, crushed out, and the insurgents scattered, hanged, or shot, suggested to a young lady in a group melancholy with luggage, that the wounded gentleman was one who had escaped from the Austrians.
"Only, he is English."
"If he is, he deserves what he"s got."
A stout Briton delivered this sentence, and gave in addition a sermon on meddling, short, emphatic, and not uncheerful apparently, if estimated by the hearty laugh that closed it; though a lady remarked, "Oh, dear me! You are very sweeping."
"By George! ma"am," cried the Briton, holding out his newspaper, "here"s a leader on the identical subject, with all my views in it! Yes! those Italians are absurd: they never were a people: never agreed. Egad! the only place they"re fit for is the stage. Art! if you like. They know all about colouring canvas, and sculpturing. I don"t deny "em their merits, and I don"t mind listening to their squalling, now and then: though, I"ll tell you what: have you ever noticed the calves of those singers?--I mean, the men. Perhaps not--for they" ve got none. They"re sticks, not legs. Who can think much of fellows with such legs? Now, the next time you go to the Italian Opera, notice "em. Ha! ha!--well, that would sound queer, told at secondhand; but, just look at their legs, ma"am, and ask yourself whether there"s much chance for a country that stands on legs like those! Let them paint, and carve blocks, and sing.
They"re not fit for much else, as far as I can see."
Thus, in the pride of his manliness, the male Briton. A shrill cry drew the attention of this group once more to the person who had just kindly furnished a topic. He had been met on his way by a lady unmistakeably foreign in her appearance. "Marini!" was the word of the cry; and the lady stood with her head bent and her hands stiffened rigidly.
"Lost her husband, I dare say!" the Briton murmured. "Perhaps he"s one of the "hanged, or shot," in the list here Hanged! shot! Ask those Austrians to be merciful, and that"s their reply. Why, good G.o.d! it"s like the grunt of a savage beast! Hanged! shot!--count how many for one day"s work! Ten at Verona; fifteen at Mantua; five--there, stop! If we enter into another alliance with those infernal ruffians!--if they"re not branded in the face of Europe as inhuman butchers! if I--by George!
if I were an Italian I"d handle a musket myself, and think great guns the finest music going. Mind, if there"s a subscription for the widows of these poor fellows, I put down my name; so shall my wife, so shall my daughters, so we will all, down to the baby!"
Merthyr"s name was shouted first on his return to England by Mrs. Chump.
He was waiting on the platform of the London station for the train to take him to Richford, when, "Oh! Mr. Pow"s, Mr. Pow"s!" resounded, and Mrs. Chump fluttered before him. She was on her way to Brookfield, she said; and it was, she added, her firm belief that heaven had sent him to her sad, not deeming "that poor creature, Mr. Braintop, there, sufficient for the purpose. For what I"ve got to go through, among them at Brookfield, Mr. Pow"s, it"s perf"ctly awful. Mr. Braintop,"
she turned to the youth, "you may go now. And don"t go takin" ship and sailin" for Italy after the little Belloni, for ye haven"t a chance--poor fella! though he combs "s hair so careful, Mr. Pow"s, and ye might almost laugh and cry together to see how humble he is, and audacious too--all in a lump. For, when little Belloni was in the ship, ye know, and she thinkin", "not one of my friends near to wave a handkerchief!" behold, there"s that boy Braintop just as by maguc, and he wavin" his best, which is a cambric, and a present from myself, and precious wet that night, ye might swear; for the quiet lovers, Mr.
Pow"s, they cry, they do, buckutsful!"
"And is Miss Belloni gone?" said Merthyr, looking steadily for answer.
"To be sure, sir, she has; but have ye got a squeak of pain? Oh, dear!
it makes my blood creep to see a man who"s been where there"s been firing of shots in a temper. Ye"re vary pale, sir."
"She went--on what day?" asked Merthyr.
"Oh! I can"t poss"bly tell ye that, Mr. Pow"s, havin" affairs of my own most urrgent. But, Mr. Paricles has got her at last. That"s certain.
Gall"ns of tears has poor Mr. Braintop cried over it, bein" one of the mew-in-a-corner sort of young men, ye know, what never win the garl, but cry enough to float her and the lucky fella too, and off they go, and he left on the sh.o.r.e."
Merthyr looked impatiently out of the window. His wounds throbbed and his forehead was moist.
"With Mr. Pericles?" he queried, while Mrs. Chump was giving him the reasons for the immediate visit to Brookfield.
"They"re cap"tal friends again, ye know, Mr. Pow"s, Mr. Paricles and Pole; and Pole"s quite set up, and yesterday mornin" sends me two thousand pounds--not a penny less! and ye"ll believe me, I was in a stiff gape for five minutes when Mr. Braintop shows the money. What a temptation for the young man! But Pole didn"t know his love for little Belloni."
"Has she no one with her?" Merthyr seized the opportunity of her name being p.r.o.nounced to get clear tidings of her, if possible.
"Oh, dear, yes, Mr. Paricles is with her," returned Mrs. Chump. "And, as I was sayin", sir, two thousand pounds! I ran off to my lawyer; for, it"ll seem odd to ye, now, Mr. Pow"s, that know my "ffection for the Poles, poor dears, I"d an action against "em. "Stop ut," I cries out to the man: if he"d been one o" them that wears a wig, I couldn"t ha"
spoken so--"Stop ut," I cries, not a bit afraid of "m. I wouldn"t let the man go on, for all I want to know is, that I"m not rrooned. And now I"ve got money, I must have friends; for when I hadn"t, ye know, my friends seemed against me, and now I have, it"s the world that does, where"ll I hide it? Oh, dear! now I"m with you, I don"t mind, though this brown-faced forr"ner servant of yours, he gives me shivers. Can he understand English?--becas I"ve got ut all in my pockut!"
Merthyr sighed wearily for release. At last the train slackened speed, and the well-known fir-country appeared in sight. Mrs. Chump caught him by the arm as he prepared to alight. "Oh! and are ye goin" to let me face the Poles without anyone to lean on in that awful moment, and no one to bear witness how kind I"ve spoken of "em. Mr. Pow"s! will ye prove that you"re a blessed angel, sir, and come, just for five minutes--which is a short time to do a thing for a woman she"ll never forget."
"Pray spare me, madam," Merthyr pleaded. "I have much to learn at Richford."
"I cann"t spare ye, sir," cried Mrs. Chump. "I cann"t go before that fam"ly quite alone. They"re a tarr"ble fam"ly. Oh! I"ll be goin" on my knees to ye, Mr. Pow"s. Weren"t ye sent by heaven now? And you to run away! And if you"re woundud, won"t I have a carr"ge from the station, which"ll be grander to go in, and impose on "em, ye know. Pray, sir! I entreat ye!"
The tears burst from her eyes, and her hot hand clung to his imploringly.
Merthyr was a witness of the return of Mrs. Chump to Brookfield. In that erewhile abode of Fine Shades, the Nice Feelings had foundered. The circle of a year, beginning so fairly for them, enfolded the ladies and their first great scheme of life. Emilia had been a touchstone to this family. They could not know it in their deep affliction, but in manger they had much improved. Their welcome of Mrs. Chump was an admirable seasoning of stateliness with kindness. Cornelia and Arabella took her hand, listening with an incomparable soft smile to her first protestations, which they quieted, and then led her to Mr. Pole; of whom it may be said, that an accomplished coquette could not in his situation have behaved with a finer skill; so that, albeit received back into the house, Mrs. Chump had yet to discover what her footing there was to be, and trembled like the meanest of culprits. Mr. Pole shook her hand warmly, tenderly, almost tearfully, and said to the melted woman: "You"re right, Martha; it"s much better for us to examine accounts in a friendly way, than to have strangers and lawyers, and what not--people who can"t possibly know the whole history, don"t you see--meddling and making a scandal; and I"m much obliged to you for coming."
Vainly Mrs. Chump employed alternately innuendo and outcry to make him perceive that her coming involved a softer business, and that to money, she having it now, she gave not a thought. He a.s.sured her that in future she must; that such was his express desire; that it was her duty to herself and others. And while saying this, which seemed to indicate that widowhood would be her state as far as he was concerned, he pressed her hand with extreme sweetness, and his bird"s-eyes twinkled obligingly. It is to be feared that Mr. Pole had pa.s.sed the age of improvement, save in his peculiar art. After a time Nature stops, and says to us "thou art now what thou wilt be."
Cornelia was in black from neck to foot. She joined the conversation as the others did, and indeed more flowingly than Adela, whose visage was soured. It was Cornelia to whom Merthyr explained his temporary subjection to the piteous appeals of Mrs. Chump. She smiled humorously to rea.s.sure him of her perfect comprehension of the apology for his visit, and of his welcome: and they talked, argued a little, differed, until the terrible thought that he talked, and even looked like some one else, drew the blood from her lips, and robbed her pulses of their play.
She spoke of Emilia, saying plainly and humbly: "All we have is owing to her." Arabella spoke of Emilia likewise, but with a shade of the foregone tone of patronage. "She will always be our dear little sister."
Adela continued silent, as with ears awake for the opening of a door.
Was it in ever-thwarted antic.i.p.ation of the coming of Sir Twickenham?
Merthyr"s inquiry after Wilfrid produced a momentary hesitation on Cornelia"s Part--"He has gone to Verona. We have an uncle in the Austrian service," she said; and Merthyr bowed.
What was this tale of Emilia, that grew more and more perplexing as he heard it bit by bit? The explanation awaited him at Richford. There, when Georgiana had clasped her brother in one last jealous embrace, she gave him the following letter straightway, to save him, haply, from the false shame of that eager demand for one, which she saw ready to leap to words in his eyes. He read it, sitting in the Richford library alone, while the great rhododendron bloomed outside, above the shaven sunny sward, looking like a monstrous tropic bird alighted to brood an hour in full sunlight.
"My Friend!"
"I would say my Beloved! I will not write it, for it would be false. I have read of the defeat. Why was a battle risked at that cruel place!
Here are we to be again for so many years before we can win G.o.d to be on our side! And I--do you not know? we used to talk of it!--I never can think it the Devil who has got the upper hand. What succeeds, I always think should succeed--was meant to, because the sky looks clear over it. This knocks a blow at my heart and keeps it silent and only just beating. I feel that you are safe. That, I am thankful for. If you were not, G.o.d would warn me, and not let me mock him with thanks when I pray.
I pray till my eyelids burn, on purpose to get a warning if there is any black messenger to be sent to me. I do not believe it.
"For three years I am a prisoner. I go to the Conservatorio in Milan with Mr. Pericles, and my poor little mother, who cries, asking me where she will be among such a people, until I wonder she should be my mother.
My voice has returned. Oh, Merthyr! my dear, calm friend! to keep calling you friend, and friend, puts me to sleep softly!--Yes, I have my voice. I felt I had it, like some one in a room with us when we will not open our eyes. There was misery everywhere, and yet I was glad. I kept it secret. I began to feel myself above the world. I dreamed of what I would do for everybody. I thought of you least! I tell you so, and take a scourge and scourge myself, for it is true that in her new joy this miserable creature that I am thought of you least. Now I have the punishment!