“You do yourself justice, my dear Emily. I have a sincere wish to see you improve and—”
She caught one word and caressed it with lingering sweetness.
“Your dear Emily! Can the poor unhappy girl be Greville’s dear Emily? Oh, how happy for me could that be possible, but no, it never, never will be. And do you go soon?”
“In four days, but you will not pass wholly from my mind. I shall wonder occasionally if Emily is studious and loves her work.”
“She will, she shall!” cries the pupil softly, “and when you come again you shall say, ‘Mrs. Wells is admirable, but Emily too improves and behaves as I would have her.’ Oh, Greville, Sir Harry yesterday flung his boot after me because I wouldn’t bring him t’other and Hawkins was downstairs, and indeed my temptation was to fly upon him and drive the boot at his head. But not me. I recalled your words and advanced and fetched it. ‘Sir,’ says I, politely, ‘I won’t imitate your bad manners. Here’s your boot, and I’ll desire Hawkins to come to you when I go down!’ Was that well?”
“Excellent—on the whole!” says Greville, qualifying, “but you might have left out the bad manners. Men don’t love to be reproached. A gentle endearing sweetness would have served your turn better. Again, don’t suppose I defend Sir Harry, but it is the woman to bend and adapt herself suavely to the man’s requirements.”
With tear-filled eyes she owned him in the right and promised to repay his interest by gratefully doing as he bid her.
Her docility delighted him. He knew it sincere, as indeed it was, and supposed it not so much a mere vein of gold as the basis of her nature. What he could not estimate was that the violent scenes with Sir Harry, the rollicking songs and jests with his companions, were equally natural and a part of her many-coloured temperament. She was exactly what her surroundings might be. Life, for her, was a drama and she played the part the moment allotted, boldly adapting herself to her fellow actors. She reflected their own personalities in increased vividness, eager only to catch and retain the part of prima donna, be it what it would. This was instinctive. She was ignorant that she caught Greville by his desire to instruct and prose, to express his store of maxims where they would be heard with reverence and exalt him by displaying a masterpiece of his own discovery, whether woman or crystal. Yet she did it, and had she held a chart of his mental windings, could not have done it better.
Is this the secret of the immortal siren who flashes out on us from so many conquering faces down the pages of history—to catch and repeat a lover, but with the added passion of sex and temperament on honeyed lips ripe for kisses? The Greeks, it may be, aimed at this truth in declaring that in the Trojan Helen every man beheld his heart’s delight in the form he best loved; which, we may believe, will mostly be the reflection of himself. It was no nymph, but the boy Narcissus, who fell in love with his own image in the pool, and does this eternally.
He had several brief passages with her before the four days passed, and each time she grew on him surprisingly. It was against his code to meddle with another man’s mistress, and entirely against his inclination to incur the complications it would ensure. Sir Harry would resent with loud complaint and oath any such poaching and the clubs would ring with his honest indignation. Greville, be sure, had no intention of upsetting his own quiet comfort and running the risk of making himself ridiculous for a woman of Emily Hart’s character, but was equally determined that he would not lose sight of her.