“It is not,” said Sir William Hotham, a typical man about town discoursing at his club, “that London has turned suddenly moral or that any sensible person cares a damn about Nelson’s chastity. It’s his confounded vanity that leads him to brandish himself and the woman in the face of society and think every one is to swallow it because he is the great Lord Nelson. And such a woman! As for that poor wife of his—the least a man can do is to hide that sort of weakness. It’s damned unjustifiable to wound her feelings publicly as he does, when there isn’t a man or woman alive but knows she’s one of the best good women that ever stepped. Look at him now, going off to Fonthill with the Hamiltons for Christmas and leaving her alone here in town, and he only lately home from sea! I declare I can barely stand it, though God knows it’s no concern of mine.”
“The mischief is,” said another man, in the little group at the club, “that Nelson is no rake. If he were, he would manage his affairs with much better breeding and a deal more consideration for that poor wife of his. He’s as infatuated as a fool about the Hamilton woman as if he were a boy of sixteen in love for the first time—which is exactly the case. It’s his damned innocence that’s more than half the trouble.”
But pity or no pity, the climax was nearly upon Fanny now. Nothing could stave it off. She spent her solitary Christmas sitting at the window of their lodgings in Arlington Street and wondering whether in all broad London there was any heart so heavy as hers. Not in London perhaps, but certainly in the midst of all the gaiety at Beckford’s palace of Fonthill. Nelson was sick in spirit—and the more mortally offended with his wife because he knew that in ways he could not explain to himself she was the cause of his unrest—even in Emma’s company and the noisy gaieties of Beckford’s meretricious Fonthill; all of which suited her Ladyship exceedingly well.
They returned to London, and Fanny had her orders to attend the Hamiltons to the opera and show herself in the box with them. Emma made a point of that, for the time was not now far distant when Lady Nelson’s countenance might be vital to her in Sir William’s and the world’s eyes. Fanny pleaded fatigue, but soon saw there was no alternative. She put on her quiet black satin and sat in the box a little behind the beautiful glittering Emma in her purple spangled satin with the cachemire draping her fair shoulders. There were very few eyes in the house which were not turned upon that box, with their owners speculating on the drama it held. Nelson sat in front, brilliant in stars and orders as Emma in jewels. Sir William went placidly to sleep.
Half-way through the performance, in the very midst of the great soprano aria, “Non dirmi addio,” where the prima donna swoons into the arms of the distracted tenor, Emma followed her example and fainted quietly away. Nelson and her husband sprang together to her assistance. Fanny sat death-still, not moving a finger. It was as if something had snapped in her brain with the result of an extraordinary lucidity in all her perceptions. She saw, she understood, and her own hitherto obtuseness filled her with shame and self-disgust. No wonder that Nelson, that every one despised her. She had carried obedience into caricature and made a show of herself for all London. She rose and walked out of the box without a look in Emma’s direction.
Presently the two men followed, supporting Emma between them. She was recovering but still pale as death, her eyes showing but as a blue line under heavy lids. They had dragged some cushions out of the box and made a kind of couch for her in the passage, which was quite empty.
“Have you no smelling salts?” Nelson said imperiously. He was stooping over the sufferer with Sir William. There was no direct answer.
“I am going home,” Fanny said. She pulled her cloak about her and turned her back on the group without another word. She walked swiftly along the passage.
“My dear Nelson, pray attend to your wife. I will see to Emma. See, she is recovering quickly. Lady Nelson cannot return alone.” So said Sir William, realizing the potentialities of the situation and anxious to avoid them. An attendant came hurrying up with salts, and Nelson strode away after his wife with a heart full of anger which was but pain reversed.
He overtook her half-way down the stairs, and calling a carriage, put her in in dead silence, and followed her. Not a word was said on the way to Arlington Street, the wheels jolting over the cobbles, and the dim lamps shining and darkening as they passed. Fanny opened her own door at the end, and got out and went upstairs. She knew she must face it now, and a kind of desperate resolution came to her. Things could not last like this. A change there must be and who could tell it might not be for the better? Certainly nothing could be worse.