CHAPTER XXVIII

Georgiana Ford would have had little claim among the fair saints to be

accepted by them as one of their order. Her reputation for coldness was

derived from the fact of her having stood a siege from Captain Gambier.

But she loved a creature of earth too well to put up a hand for saintly

honours. The passion of her life centred in devotion to her half-brother.

Those who had studied her said, perhaps with a touch of malignity, that

her religious instinct had its source in a desire to gain some place of

intercession for him. Merthyr had leaned upon it too often to doubt the

strength of it, whatever its purity might be. She, when barely more than

a child (a girl of sixteen), had followed him over the then luckless

Italian fields--sacrificing as much for a cause that she held to be

trivial, as he in the ardour of his half-fanatical worship. Her theory

was: "These Italians are in bondage, and since heaven permits it, there

has been guilt. By endurance they are strengthened, by suffering

chastened; so let them endure and suffer." She would cleave to this view

with many variations of pity. Merthyr's experience was tolerant to the

weaker vessel's young delight in power, which makes her sometimes, though

sweet and merciful by nature, enunciate Hebraic severities oracularly. He

smiled, and was never weary of pointing out practical refutations.

Whereat she said, "Will a thousand instances change the principle?" When

the brain, and especially the fine brain of a woman, first begins to act

for itself, the work is of heavy labour; she finds herself plunging

abroad on infinite seas, and runs speedily into the anchorage of dogmas,

obfuscatory saws, and what she calls principles. Here she is safe; but if

her thinking was not originally the mere action of lively blood upon that

battery of intelligence, she will by-and-by reflect that it is not well

for a live thing to be tied to a dead, and that long clinging to safety

confesses too much. Merthyr waited for Georgians patiently. On all other

points they were heart-in-heart. It was her pride to say that she loved

him with no sense of jealousy, and prayed that he might find a woman, in

plain words, worthy of him. This woman had not been found; she confessed

that she had never seen her.

Georgians received Captain Gambier's communication in Monmouth. Merthyr

had now and then written of a Miss Belloni; but he had seemed to refer to

a sort of child, and Georgians had looked on her as another Italian

pensioner. She was decisive. The moment she awoke to feel herself

brooding over the thought of this girl, she started to join Merthyr.

Solitude is pasturage for a suspicion. On her way she grew persuaded that

her object was bad, and stopped; until the thought came, 'If he is in a

dilemma, who shall help him save his sister?' And, with spiritually

streaming eyes at a vision of companionship broken (but whether by his

taking another adviser, or by Miss Belloni, she did not ask), Georgiana

continued her journey.

At the door of Lady Gosstre's town-house she hesitated, and said in her

mind, "What am I doing? and what earthliness has come into my love for

him?"

Or, turning to the cry, "Will he want me?" stung herself. Conscious that

there was some poison in her love, but clinging to it not less, she

entered the house, and was soon in Merthyr's arms.

"Why have you come up?" he asked.

"Were you thinking of coming to me quickly?" she murmured in reply.

He did not say yes, but that he had business in London. Nor did he say

what.

Georgiana let him go.

"How miserable is such a weakness! Is this my love?" she thought again.

Then she went to her bedroom, and knelt, and prayed her Saviour's pardon

for loving a human thing too well. But, if the rays of her mind were

dimmed, her heart beat too forcibly for this complacent self-deceit. "No;

not too well! I cannot love him too well. I am selfish. When I say that,

it is myself I am loving. To love him thrice as dearly as I do would

bring me nearer to God. Love I mean, not idolatry--another form of

selfishness."

She prayed to be guided out of the path of snares.

"CAN YOU PRAY? CAN YOU PUT AWAY ALL PROPS OF SELF? THIS IS TRUE

WORSHIP, UNTO WHATSOEVER POWER YOU KNEEL."

This passage out of a favourite book of sentences had virtue to help her

now in putting away the 'props of self.' It helped her for the time. She

could not foresee the contest that was commencing for her.

"LOVE THAT SHRIEKS AT A MORTAL WOUND, AND BLEEDS HUMANLY, WHAT IS HE

BUT A PAGAN GOD, WITH THE PASSIONS OF A PAGAN GOD?"

"Yes," thought Georgiana, meditating, "as different from the Christian

love as a brute from a man!"

She felt that the revolution of the idea of love in her mind (all that

consoled her) was becoming a temptation. Quick in her impulses, she

dismissed it. "I am like a girl!" she said scornfully. "Like a woman"

would not have flattered her. Like what did she strive to be? The picture

of another self was before her--a creature calmly strong, unruffled, and

a refuge to her beloved. It was a steady light through every wind that

blew, save when the heart narrowed; and then it waxed feeble, and the

life in her was hungry for she knew not what.

Georgiana's struggle was to make her great passion eat up all the others.

Sure of the intensity and thoroughness of her love for Merthyr, she would

forecast for herself tasks in his service impossible save to one

sensually dead and therefore spiritually sexless. "My love is pure," she

would say; as if that were the talisman which rendered it superhuman. She

was under the delusion that lovers' love was a reprehensible egoism. Her

heart had never had place for it; and thus her nature was unconsummated,

and the torment of a haunting insufficiency accompanied her sweetest

hours, ready to mislead her in all but very clearest actions.

She saw, or she divined, much of this struggle; but the vision of it was

fitful, not consecutive. It frightened and harassed without illuminating

her. Now, upon Merthyr's return, she was moved by it just enough to take

his hand and say:--

"We are the same?"

"What can change us?" he replied.

"Or who?" and as she smiled up to him, she was ashamed of her smile.

"Yes, who!" he interjected, by this time quite enlightened. All subtle

feelings are discerned by Welsh eyes when untroubled by any mental

agitation. Brother and sister were Welsh, and I may observe that there is

human nature and Welsh nature.

"Forgive me," she said; "I have been disturbed about you."

Perceiving that it would be well to save her from any spiritual twists

and turns that she might reach what she desired to know, he spoke out

fully: "I have not written to you about Miss Belloni lately. I think it

must be seven or eight days since I had a letter from her--you shall see

it--looking as if it had been written in the dark. She gave the address

of a London hotel. I went to her, and her story was that she had come to

town to get Mr. Pole's consent to her marriage with his son; and that

when she succeeded in making herself understood by him, the old man fell,

smitten with paralysis, crying out that he was ruined, and his children

beggars."

"Ah!" said Georgiana; "then this son is engaged to her?"

"She calls him her lover."

"Openly?"

"Have I not told you? 'naked and unashamed.'"

"Of course that has attracted my Merthyr!" Georgians drew to him

tenderly, breathing as one who has a burden off her heart.

"But why did she write to you?" the question started up.

For this reason: it appears that Mr. Pole showed such nervous irritation

at the idea of his family knowing the state he was in, that the doctor

attending him exacted a promise from her not to communicate with one of

them. She was alone, in great perplexity, and did what I had requested

her to do. She did me the honour to apply to me for any help it was in my

power to give.

Georgiana stood eyeing the ground sideways. "What is she like?"

"You shall see to-morrow, if you will come with me."

"Dark, or fair?"

Merthyr turned her face to the light, laughing softly. Georgiana

coloured, with dropped eyelids.

She raised her eyes under their load of shame. "I will come gladly," she

said.

"Early to-morrow, then," rejoined Merthyr.

On the morrow, as they were driving to the hotel, Georgians wanted to

know whether he called 'this Miss Belloni' by her Christian name--a

question so needless that her over-conscious heart drummed with gratitude

when she saw that he purposely spared her from one meaning look. In this

mutual knowledge, mutual help, in minute as in great things, as well as

in the recognition of a common nobility of mind, the love of the two was

fortified.

Emilia had not been left by Mr. Powys without the protection of a woman's

society in her singular position. Lady Charlotte's natural prompt

kindness required no spur from her friend that she should go and brace up

the spirits of a little woman, whom she pitied doubly for loving a man

who was deceiving her, and not loving one who was good for her. She went

frequently to Emilia, and sat with her in the sombre hotel drawing-room.

Still, frank as she was and blunt as she affected to be, she could not

bring her tongue to speak of Wilfrid. If she had fancied any sensitive

shuddering from the name and the subject to exist, she would have struck

boldly, being capable of cruelty and, where she was permitted to see a

weakness, rather fond of striking deep. A belief in the existence of

Emilia's courage touched her to compassion. One day, however, she said,

"What is it you take to in Merthyr Powys?" and this brought on plain

speaking.

Emilia could give no reason; and it is a peculiarity of people who ask

such questions that they think a want of directness in the answer

suspicious.

Lady Charlotte said gravely, "Come, come!"

"What do you mean?" asked Emilia. "I like so many things in him."

"You don't like one thing chiefly?"

"I like--what do I like?--his kindness."

"His kindness!" This was the sort of reply to make the lady implacable.

She seldom read others shrewdly, and could not know, that near her,

Emilia thought of Wilfrid in a way that made the vault of her brain seem

to echo with jarred chords. "His kindness! What a picture is the

'grateful girl!' I have seen rows of white-capped charity children giving

a bob and a sniffle as the parson went down the ranks promising buns.

Well! his kindness! You are right in appreciating as much as you can see.

I'll tell you why I like him;--because he is a gentleman. And you haven't

got an idea how rare that animal is. Dear me! Should I be plainer to you

if I called him a Christian gentleman? It's the cant of a detestable

school, my child. It means just this--but why should I disturb your

future faith in it? The professors mainly profess to be 'a comfort to

young women,' and I suppose you will meet your comfort, and worship them

with the 'growing mind;' and I must confess that they bait it rather

cunningly; nothing else would bite. They catch almost all the raw boys

who have anything in them. But for me, Merthyr himself would have been

caught long ago. There's no absolute harm in them, only that they're a

sentimental compromise. I deny their honesty; and if it's flatly proved,

I deny their intelligence. Well! this you can't understand."

"I have not understood you at all," said Emilia.

"No? It's the tongue that's the natural traitor to a woman, and takes

longer runs with every added year. I suppose you know that Mr. Powys

wishes to send you to Italy?"

"I do," said Emilia.

"When are you going?"

"I am not going?"

"Why?"

Emilia's bosom rose. She cried "Dear lady!" on the fall of it, and was

scarce audible--adding, "Do you love Wilfrid?"

"Well, you have brought me to the point quickly," Lady Charlotte

remarked. "I don't commonly beat the bush long myself. Love him! You

might as well ask me my age. The indiscretion would be equal, and the

result the same. Love! I have a proper fear of the word. When two play at

love they spoil the game. It's enough that he says he loves me."

Emilia looked relieved. "Poor lady!" she sighed.

"Poor!" Lady Charlotte echoed, with curious eyes fixed on the puzzle

beside her.

"Tell me you will not believe him," Emilia continued. "He is mine; I

shall never give him up. It is useless for you or any one else to love

him. I know what love is now. Stop while you can. I can be sorry for you,

but I will not let him go from me. He is my lover."

Emilia closed her lips abruptly. She produced more effect than was

visible. Lady Charlotte drew out a letter, saying, "Perhaps this will

satisfy you."

"Nothing!" cried Emilia, jumping to her feet.

"Read it--read it; and, for heaven's sake, ma fille sauvage, don't think

I'm here to fight for the man! He is not Orpheus; and our modern

education teaches us that it's we who are to be run after. Will you read

it?"

"No."

"Will you read it to please me?"

Emilia changed from a look of quiet opposition to gentleness of feature.

"Why will it please you if I read that he has flattered you? I never lie

about what I feel; I think men do." Her voice sank.

"You won't allow yourself to imagine, then, that he has spoken false to

you?"

"Tell me," retorted Emilia, "are you sure in your heart--as sure as it

beats each time--that he loves you? You are not."

"It seems that we are dignifying my gentleman remarkably," said Lady

Charlotte. "When two women fight for a man, that is almost a meal for his

vanity. Now, listen. I am not, as they phrase it, in love. I am an

experienced person--what is called a woman of the world. I should not

make a marriage unless I had come to the conclusion that I could help my

husband, or he me. Do me the favour to read this letter."

Emilia took it and opened it slowly. It was a letter in the tone of the

gallant paying homage with some fervour. Emilia searched every sentence

for the one word. That being absent, she handed back the letter, her eyes

lingering on the signature.

"Do you see what he says?" asked Lady Charlotte; "that I can be a right

hand to him, as I believe I can."

"He writes like a friend." Emilia uttered this as when we have a contrast

in the mind.

"You excuse him for writing to me in that style?"

"Yes; he may write to any woman like that."

"He has latitude! You really fancy that's the sort of letter a friend

would write?"

"That is how Mr. Powys would write to me," said Emilia. Lady Charlotte

laughed. "My unhappy Merthyr!"

"Only if I could be a great deal older," Emilia hastened to add; and Lady

Charlotte slightly frowned, but rubbed it out with a smile.

Rising, the lady said: "I have spoken to you upon equal terms; and

remember, very few women would have done what I have done. You are cared

for by Merthyr Powys, and that's enough. It would do you no harm to fix

your eyes upon him. You won't get him; but it would do you no harm. He

has a heart, as they call it; whatever it is, it's as strong as a cable.

He is a knight of the antique. He is specially guarded, however. Well, he

insists that you are his friend; so you are mine, and that is why I have

come to you and spoken to you. You will be silent about it, I need not

say. No one but yourself is aware that Lieutenant Pole does me the honour

to liken me to the good old gentleman who accompanied Telemachus in his

voyages, and chooses me from among the handmaidens of earth. On this head

you will promise to be silent."

Lady Charlotte held forth her hand. Emilia would not take it before she

had replied, "I knew this before you came," and then she pressed the

extended fingers.

Lady Charlotte drew her close. "Has Wilfrid taken you into his confidence

so far?"

Emilia explained that she had heard it from his father.

The lady's face lit up as from a sting of anger. "Very well--very well,"

she said; and, presently, "You are right when you speak of the power of

lying in men. Observe--Wilfrid told me that not one living creature knew

there was question of an engagement between us. What would you do in my

case?"

Emilia replied, "Forgive him; and I should think no more of it."

"Yes. It would be right; and, presuming him to have the vice, I could be

of immense service to him, if at least he does not lie habitually. But

this is a description of treachery, you know."

"Oh!" cried Emilia, "what kind of treachery is that, if he only will keep

his heart open for me to give all mine to it!"

She stood clutching her hands in the half-sobbing ecstasy which

signalises a spiritual exaltation built on disquiet. She had shown small

emotion hitherto. The sight of it was like the sight of a mighty hostile

power to Lady Charlotte--a power that moved her--that challenged, and

irritated, and subdued her. For she saw there something that she had not;

and being of a nature leaning to great-mindedness, though not of the

first rank, she could not meanly mask her own deficiency by despising it.

To do this is the secret evil by which souls of men and women stop their

growth.

Lady Charlotte decided now to say good-bye. Her parting was friendly--the

form of it consisting of a nod, an extension of the hand, and a kind word

or two.

When alone, Emilia wondered why she kept taking long breaths, and tried

to correct herself: but the heart laboured. Yet she seemed to have no

thought in her mind; she had no active sensation of pity or startled

self-love. She went to smooth Mr. Pole's pillow, as to a place of

forgetfulness. The querulous tyrannies of the invalid relieved her; but

the heavy lifting of her chest returned the moment she was alone. She

mentioned it to the doctor, who prescribed for liver, informing her that

the said organ conducted one of the most important functions of her

bodily system.

Emilia listened to the lecturer, and promised to take his medicine,

trusting to be perfectly quieted by the nauseous draught; but when Mr.

Powys came, she rushed up to him, and fell with a cry upon his breast,

murmuring broken words that Georgiana might fairly interpret as her

suspicions directed. Nor had she ever seen Merthyr look as he did when

their eyes next met.