CHAPTER LIX

A wreck from the last Lombard revolt landed upon our shores 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 passengers 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 passed 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 God! 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 shore."

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 pronounced 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 assured 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 passed 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

reassure 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 anticipation 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 God 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, God

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!

"My friend! the Poles were at the mercy of Mr. Pericles: Wilfrid had

struck him: Mr. Pericles was angry and full of mischief. Those dear

people had been kind to me, and I heard they were poor. I felt money in

my breast, in my throat, that only wanted coining. I went to Georgiana,

and oh! how truly she proved to me that she loves you better than I do.

She refused to part with money that you might soon want. I laid a scheme

for Mr. Pericles to hear me sing. He heard me, and my scheme succeeded.

If Italy knew as well as I, she would never let her voice be heard till

she is sure of it:--Yes! from foot to head, I knew it was impossible to

fail. If a country means to be free, the fire must run through it and

make it feel that certainty. Then--away the whitecoat! I sang, and the

man twisted, as if I had bent him in my hand. He rushed to me, and

offered me any terms I pleased, if for three years I would go to the

Conservatorio at Milan, and learn submissively. It is a little grief to

me that I think this man loves music more deeply than I do. In the two

things I love best, the love of others exceeds mine. I named a sum of

money--immense! and I desired that Mr. Pericles should assist Mr. Pole in

his business. He consented at once to everything. The next day he gave me

the money, and I signed my name and pledged my honour to an engagement.

My friends were relieved.

"It was then I began to think of you. I had not to study the matter long

to learn that I did not love you: and I will not trust my own feelings as

they come to me now. I judge myself by my acts, or, Merthyr! I should

sink to the ground like a dead body when I think of separation from you

for three years. But, what am I? I am a raw girl. I command nothing but

raw and flighty hearts of men. Are they worth anything? Let me study

three years, without any talk of hearts at all. It commenced too early,

and has left nothing to me but a dreadful knowledge of the weakness in

most people:--not in you!

"If I might call you my Beloved! and so chain myself to you, I think I

should have all your firmness and double my strength. I will not; for I

will not have what I do not deserve. I think of you reading this, till I

try to get to you; my heart is like a bird caught in the hands of a cruel

boy. By what I have done I know I do not love you. Must we half-despise a

man to love him? May no dear woman that I know ever marry the man she

first loves! My misery now is gladness, is like rain-drops on rising

wings, if I say to myself 'Free! free, Emilia!' I am bound for three

years, but I smile at such a bondage to my body. Evviva! my soul is free!

Three years of freedom, and no sounding of myself--three years of

growing, and studying; three years of idle heart!--Merthyr! I throb to

think that those three years--true man! my hero, I may call you!--those

three years may make me worthy of you. And if you have given all to

Italy, that a daughter of Italy should help to return it, seems, my

friend, so tenderly sweet--here is the first drop from my eyes!

"I would break what you call a Sentiment: I broke my word to Wilfrid. But

this sight of money has a meaning that I cannot conquer. I know you would

not wish me to for your own pleasure; and therefore I go. I hope to be

growing; I fly like a seed to Italy. Let me drill, and take sharp words,

and fret at trifles! I lift my face to that prospect as if I smelt new

air. I am changeing--I have no dreams of Italy, no longings, but go to

see her like a machine ready to do my work. Whoever speaks to me, I feel

that I look at them and know them. I see the faults of my country--Oh,

beloved Breseians! not yours, Florentines! nor yours, dear Venice! We

will be silent when they speak of the Milanese, till Italy can say to

them, 'That conduct is not Italian, my children.' I see the faults.

Nothing vexes me.

"Addio! My friend, we will speak English in dear England! Tell all that I

shall never forget England! My English Merthyr! the blood you have shed

is not for a woman. The blood that you have shed, laurels spring from it!

For a woman, the blood spilt is sickly and poor, and nourishes nothing. I

shudder at the thought of one we knew. He makes Love seem like a yellow

light over a plague-spotted city, like a painting I have seen. Goodbye to

the name of Love for three years! My engagement to Mr. Pericles is that I

am not to write, not to receive letters. To you I say now, trust me for

three years! Merthyr's answer is already in my bosom. Beloved!--let me

say it once--when the answer to any noble thing I might ask of you is in

my bosom instantly, is not that as much as marriage? But be under no

deception. See me as I am. Oh, good-bye! good-bye! Good-bye to you!

Good-bye to England!

"I am,

"Most humbly and affectionately,

"Your friend,

"And her daughter by the mother's side,

"Emilia Alessandra Belloni."

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS

A plunge into the deep is of little moment

A marriage without love is dishonour

Active despair is a passion that must be superseded

Am I ill? I must be hungry!

And, ladies, if you will consent to be likened to a fruit

And he passed along the road, adds the Philosopher

Bear in mind that we are sentimentalists--The eye is our servant

Being heard at night, in the nineteenth century

Beyond a plot of flowers, a gold-green meadow dipped to a ridge

But love for a parent is not merely duty

Depreciating it after the fashion of chartered hypocrites.

Emilia alone of the party was as a blot to her

Fine Shades were still too dominant at Brookfield

Had Shakespeare's grandmother three Christian names?

He thinks that the country must be saved by its women as well

His alien ideas were not unimpressed by the picture

Hushing together, they agreed that it had been a false move

I had to cross the park to give a lesson

I cannot delay; but I request you, that are here privileged

I had to make my father and mother live on potatoes

I detest anything that has to do with gratitude

I know that your father has been hearing tales told of me

I am not ashamed

It was as if she had been eyeing a golden door shut fast

Littlenesses of which women are accused

Love that shrieks at a mortal wound, and bleeds humanly

Love discerns unerringly what is and what is not duty

Love the poor devil

Love, with his accustomed cunning

Man who beats his wife my first question is, 'Do he take his tea?'

My mistress! My glorious stolen fruit! My dark angel of love

My voice! I have my voice! Emilia had cried it out to herself

My engagement to Mr. Pericles is that I am not to write

No nose to the hero, no moral to the tale

Nor can a protest against coarseness be sweepingly interpreted

Oh! beastly bathos

On a wild April morning

Once my love? said he. Not now?--does it mean, not now?

One of those men whose characters are read off at a glance

Our partner is our master

Passion does not inspire dark appetite--Dainty innocence does

Passion, he says, is noble strength on fire

Pleasure sat like an inextinguishable light on her face

Poor mortals are not in the habit of climbing Olympus to ask

Revived for them so much of themselves

She was perhaps a little the taller of the two

She had great awe of the word 'business'

Silence was their only protection to the Nice Feelings

So it is when you play at Life! When you will not go straight

Solitude is pasturage for a suspicion

The majority, however, had been snatched out of this bliss

The circle which the ladies of Brookfield were designing

The woman follows the man, and music fits to verse,

The sentimentalists are represented by them among the civilized

The dismally-lighted city wore a look of Judgement terrible to see

The sentimentalist goes on accumulating images

The gallant cornet adored delicacy and a gilded refinement

The philosopher (I would keep him back if I could)

Their way was down a green lane and across long meadow-paths

They, meantime, who had a contempt for sleep

They had all noticed, seen, and observed

To know that you are in England, breathing the same air with me

True love excludes no natural duty

Victims of the modern feminine 'ideal'

We have now looked into the hazy interior of their systems

We are, in short, a civilized people

What was this tale of Emilia, that grew more and more perplexing

Wilfrid perceived that he had become an old man

Women are wonderfully quick scholars under ridicule

You have not to be told that I desire your happiness above all

RHODA FLEMING, complete

By George Meredith

CONTENTS