Mrs. Heneage Legge, with her husband’s support, instantly and coolly declined the visit of Hamilton’s unwedded wife, the gentleman explaining with painful candour that Emma’s “former line of life” made her kind intentions impossible of acceptance.
Emma, as spoilt as Hamilton himself by Neapolitan attentions, was furious, but had the tact to keep her temper to herself. Pale and in tears, her kindness flung back upon her, despised and scorned, she touched every chivalrous string of Hamilton’s heart. It was vain to rage against Heneage Legge, who certainly had the right to choose his wife’s acquaintances, but Sir William felt the position was rapidly becoming unendurable, and his alternatives shrinking to the choice between parting with Emma forever and making her Lady Hamilton. For a month more, he vacillated pitiably, and still Emma’s new wisdom kept silence. Palely and quietly she accepted the insult as he could not, and shutting herself up would go nowhere. How could she face the cruel world? Heneage Legge meanwhile sounded his note of warning in a hasty letter to Greville.
“Her influence over him exceeds all belief. The language of both parties, who always spoke in the plural number—we, us, and ours—staggered me at first, but soon made me determined to speak to him on the subject, when he assured me, what I confess I was most happy to hear, that he was not married, but flung out some hints of doing justice to her good behaviour, if his public situation did not forbid him to consider himself an independent man. I am confident she will gain her point, against which it is the duty of every friend to strengthen his mind as much as possible. And she will be satisfied with no argument but the King’s absolute refusal of his approbation.
“Her Attitudes are beyond description beautiful and striking and I think you will find her figure much improved since last you saw her.
“They say they shall be in London by the latter end of May, that their stay in England shall be as short as possible, and that having settled his affairs he is determined never to return. She is much visited here by ladies of the highest rank and many of the corps diplomatique.”
Across that letter the nearly frantic Greville might have scrawled the words Too late when he received it. The whole thing was his own doing, his mistaken kindness to Emma and Sir William, and he was now hoist with his own petard. Had ever a man been so betrayed by his own virtues?
For a few days after Heneage Legge’s letter reached him, Sir William, coming in at sunset from the Villa Columbaia, found Emma in the room of the mirrors, leaning her chin on her hand, her arm on the window-sill commanding the noble view of sea and islands—Vesuvius fluttering a pennon of smoke into the blue. Her face was still and quiet, a melancholy resignation shadowed it—the look of one who relinquishes something infinitely precious and turns with patience to sadder duties. He came and sat beside her, and together they looked out at the evening star swimming in rosy vapours.
Presently, and very gently, he spoke.
“Emma, this cannot last. I have seen your grief and felt it most sensibly in my own heart. For years now you have been my true and faithful wife in all but name—”
She looked up in mute terror.