Her long soft eyes dwelt kindly, languidly upon him. His mind hovered a moment over the question: from which of many men would that reparation be due? Even between Greville and himself it might be hard to judge! The Duchess knew absolutely nothing of the real facts and her opinion was so much thistledown blown on an idle breeze; yet it pleased and touched him where it eddied towards his own wishes. Still, he held out.
“I am no ruffian violator like Lovelace, madam, and with all her generous qualities Emma is no saint like Clarissa.”
“Certainly. She is merely a good and trustworthy young woman, kind-hearted and liberal to a fault. She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld—but one. Her gifts are surpassing. Taken together they cannot be equalled, and I say so who have seen the world’s best for more years than I care to count. So let that slip—but I go too far, my good Sir William. We will not speak of it more.”
And though he would willingly have discussed it, for the subject interested him more than anything on earth, her Grace held discreetly away, and her talk was of roses and of scenic, not living beauties, for the rest of the visit.
Get away from it, however, he could not. Emma said nothing, sighed but hinted nothing, and this forbearance piqued him as well as pleased him. Was she drifting into indifference at long last? He looked in the glass. The lines were deepening in his face. His eyes were haggard when he sat up o’ nights. He found those madcap excursions to Capri and Ischia less and less pleasant. When they visited Vesuvius and Emma’s quick feet sped nymphlike up the steep ways he was compelled to linger behind worn-out and panting. She bloomed into a more luxuriant beauty as he waned. Suppose she wearied of her old lover? Offers from the greatest and wealthiest men of Europe were hers for the taking—would she refuse them forever? And if she went—oh, cold hearth and creeping age, and loneliness, loneliness forever!
He could not escape his problem. It confronted him at the Palace, when the Queen, business done—for the King was too idle to hear the word, much less endure the thing—asked after the health of the beautiful Mrs. Hart and commented on the Duchess’s unfeigned admiration for her.
“And who can marvel? Never was a creature so gifted. I had myself the pleasure to meet her at the Villa Columbaia and was ravished indeed. Her beauty is the least of her recommendations. Her talent, manners, tact!—” She made an eloquent gesture with her quick hands. “Your taste is immaculate!” she added.
“It was so once, madam!” he said with a meaning before which she smiled and blushed a little. It recalled—but royal memories are secret.
“It is so still,” she said, and there was a pause, while she trifled with the imperially beautiful roses he had brought her, all curled and pearled with dew.
Sir William considered. He knew the Queen well. Never a word but covered a motive. What was the motive here? Better be frank than fence in vain. She could beat any man at that game.