“Would it make you happier if the bond were broken? You can never be dearer to me than you are at this moment, for I love and trust you beyond all words. But, if it be your wish to leave me—”
Still she looked at him in strained, terrified expectation, her lips apart, white with fear. He turned his face from her and, with infinite hesitation and reluctance, said, slowly:
“I see that cannot be. We cannot part. We have grown too close together. Therefore I ask you to be my wife, if that is your desire. I will not fail you; neither, I think, will you fail me.”
She fell upon her knees, sobbing hysterically, and hid her face against him.
CHAPTER XVI
TRIUMPH
London and triumph—so dizzy and dazzling that Emma might have almost repeated her favourite saying that she did not know whether she was on her head or her heels. Almost, only, for success had given her a confidence so robust that she foresaw none but glittering vistas. “Alone I did it!” was her pride. Not to Greville, not to Hamilton, but to her own conquering personality was the victory due, and looking about her she saw none to rival her and therefore none to fear. There might be one or two women as beautiful in the eyes of men whose taste was on a lower plane than Sir William’s, she thought, but that was beauty only expressing itself in feature, whereas in herself it overflowed into such song, such pose, that Gallini, the famous impresario, offered her £2000 a year and two benefits if she would engage with him, whereupon Sir William gaily retorted that he had engaged her for life. Was it wonderful that she should see herself laurel-crowned, almost divine?
For life! and Greville had to bear this amazing result of his plot with what fortitude he could muster. The shock was so great that it was really not fortitude but the stoicism of good breeding which alone carried him through. Could he ever forget that first meeting with the lovers at Sir William’s hotel? Even his frosted heart beat a little quicker as he climbed the broad shallow stairs. He could not for the life of him tell what Emma would be at when the door opened. Would she have changed, grown distant and formidable, less or more beautiful? Would she triumph vulgarly? (He could imagine that very well.) Would all the plotting facility which had placed her where she was be turned mercilessly against his interests henceforward! And would his dear Hamilton look the fool which in every fibre Greville felt him to be? The contradictions so confused him that at last he could only say within himself—“Emma! Good God!”—almost stupefied at the work of his own hand, and abandon himself to fate.
The door opened. Hamilton was in an armchair reading a letter to her, she perched on the arm like a child, one hand about his neck. Greville bowed at the door and advanced with cordial haste.
“My dear Emma, my dear Hamilton!” unpleasantly conscious of a flush which seemed to pervade his whole being and not his face alone.
She ran forward with the prettiest grace imaginable and caught his outstretched hand, looking back for Hamilton as he came up behind her.