Good Lord!—that brutal beast Sir Harry! He was turning her loose on the world, an expectant mother and without a guinea—a girl of seventeen! Yet even before he read the rest his prudence had suggested the thought that as likely as not she had brought it on herself by some unpardonable levity. Caution—caution! That was the basis of all his thoughts as he read. It went on like the cry of a tortured, unreasoning animal, a hare caught in a gin awaiting its murderer. That would not have moved him, but this stirred him somewhat.
“Yesterday did I receve your kind letter. It put me in some spirits for believe me I am allmost distrackdid. I have never hard from Sir H and he is not at Lechster now, I am sure. I have wrote 7 letters and no anser. What shall I dow? Good God, what shall I dow? I can’t come to town for want of mony. I have not a farthing to bless myself with and I think my friends looks cooly on me. I think so. O. G. what shall I dow? Oh how your letter affected me when you wished me happiness. O. G. that I was in your possession or in Sir H’s what a happy girl would I have been! Girl indeed! What else am I but a girl in distres—in reall distres. For God’s sak, G. write the minet you get this, and only tell me what I am to dow. Direct same whay. I am allmos mad. Oh for God’s sake tell me what is to become on me. O dear Greville write to me. Write to me. G. adieu and believe yours for ever, Emily Hart. Don’t tell my mother what distres I am in, and do afford me some comfort.”
A strange letter for a man of his age to be faced with since it did not concern him personally. He sat staring at it with distaste, seasoned with pity. Girls must expect to suffer who have no safeguards in a world made for and by men, but after all she was very young, and Sir Harry, with his abounding plenty, a brute. He sat long, for there was much to consider—even more for himself than for her. He drew up two mental columns for and against what she was obviously praying for. He liked the girl after a fashion; her docility pleased him; her passionate and submissive adoration of his own greatness won him; her beauty stirred him more than any he had ever beheld. Here he paused for a swift review of the past and deciding that so it certainly was, passed on to the next consideration. Now if he were to take a little home for her in the suburbs and make it his headquarters he might well sell or let this great mansion in Portman Square and thus pass the time in modest retrenchment until he could find the exactly suitable heiress who must ultimately become the Honourable Mrs. Charles Greville and provide him with unlimited means for the purchase of articles of virtu. This economy might be a most valuable matter to him at the present moment. And lastly, there was pity. Greville’s heart was not as mineralogical as his collections. It must be a petrifaction through and through if he were not stirred to compassion by this hopeless plight of despairing youth. It was not that. He remembered the great impassioned eyes, dewy with tears, looking into his own in the evergreen copse. He remembered the long embrace. He remembered her almost frantic joy when she stepped from the coach in London from those visits to her mother, the so-called Mrs. Cadogan, and found him waiting for her with his superfine air of a great gentleman who dropped these favours as trifles from chilly altitudes. How lovely she had been, all sparkling, smiling, trembling, gay as a daffodil tossing on a spring breeze. And he remembered, for in this gentleman prudence was his foremost virtue, that the fact of Mrs. Cadogan’s presence in London would relieve him from much responsibility should he decide to be gracious, and furthermore that he had heard she was an unsurpassable cook. She would naturally follow her daughter’s fortunes if needful and be a faithful steward of her interests.
Yet on the other side must be set the uncertainties of such a connection. Naturally it would not reflect on his own character, but he knew Emily’s temper uncertain, and her conduct to himself while in Sir Harry’s possession certainly suggested possible levities which he would not for one moment endure. Yet again, why should he? A very modest provision would always free him, especially with Mrs. Cadogan in the background.
And though he had no money to fling about idly he had quite sufficient for discreetly conducted pleasures. Above all, he hoped and expected everything from Emily’s obedience and the amazed gratitude which any condescension now would rivet to him unmovably. He could imagine her saving every expense, waiting in tender submission on his every look, lovely, worshipping—a sweeter Eve enclosed in a Paradise no other man should enter. Would he expose her to the attentions of a set of roisterers like Sir Harry’s companions? Never!
But the final thought that clinched his resolves was that never man could own a more wonderful pupil. The more he reviewed and dissected, the more certain he became that here was an uncut jewel of many carats and facets. To cut, to polish, to make her a lady, a woman of demirep fashion, a brilliant Aspasia, singing, posing, acting, the desired of all desires—this would be fame and envy in his world, and contempt for the boor who had tossed her away like a common pebble.
At last he saw his path. He drew the paper to him, read it once more and set himself to the answer. In short, he had decided he could rule her.
“My dear Emily, I do not make apologies for Sir H.’s behaviour to you, and altho’ I advised you to deserve his esteem by your good conduct, I own I never expected better from him. It was your duty to deserve good treatment from him, and it gave me great concern to see you imprudent the first time you came from the country, as the same conduct was repeated when you was last in town, I began to despair of your happiness. To prove to you that I do not accuse you falsely I only mention five guineas and half a guinea for coach. But, my dear Emily, as you seem quite miserable now I do not mean to give you uneasiness but comfort, and tell you I will forget your bad conduct to Sir H. and myself, and will not repent my good humour if I find you have learned by experience to value yourself and preserve your friends by good conduct and affection.
I will now answer your letter.
You tell me your friends look coolly on you; it is therefore time to leave them; but it is necessary for you to decide some points before you come to town. You are sensible that for the next three months your situation will not admit a giddy life if you wished it. After you have told me Sir H. neither provides for you nor takes any notice of your letters, it might appear laughing at you to advise you to make Sir H. more kind and attentive. I do not think a great deal of time should be lost, for I have never seen a woman clever enough to keep a man who is tired of her. But it is a great deal more for me to advise you never to see him again and write only to inform him of your determination. You must, however, do either the one or the other. You may easily see, my dear Emily, why it is absolutely necessary for this point to be settled before I can move one step. If you love Sir H. you should not give him up.