Greville wrung his hand with real gratitude.
“But marriage, my dear Hamilton? You are still a young attractive man and I hope, I sincerely hope, to see you yet settled in a happy home of your own.”
“I shall never remarry,” Sir William said gravely and sadly. “You know as well as I the devotion and piety of your aunt. She was a saint on earth and an example of all that is loveliest in woman’s character. It would be impossible to replace her and I shall not try. No, tell Lord Middleton my mind is resolved. As to the debts—but we will consider that later. What are your views for Emma?”
Greville reflected. He really had not yet formulated them even to himself. The concert-room, the opera, the stage, all these ideas had jostled one another in his head, but there was not one that did not call for a training he could not afford. And furthermore, he was very far from willing (in the Middleton interest) to superintend her affairs in any way or seem to preserve the slightest thread of attachment between them. He put this matter to his uncle and they discussed it for a while as a difficulty.
“An Italian training for her voice is what she needs,” said Greville. “It has that kind of pure light brilliance which corresponds exactly to the Italian idea. That would be a settled career for her. But we must not go too fast. You must hear her. You are a far more finished connoisseur in music than I, and perhaps I may overstate her powers. I will have her singing-master here to-morrow and you shall judge. Let me call her back. She has invented a pretty little amusement you will approve, I am sure. She throws herself into uncommon attitudes and thus makes quite elegant little sculpturesques of herself. Whether it could be developed as a paying entertainment—but you shall see.”
Sir William, deeply interested, assented and Emma was recalled from the tinkle of china audible in the distance. She came tripping in, her little dog running after her, the ideal young married niece and elderly uncle’s delight, for that was how she saw herself at the moment. That impression was also instantly conveyed to Sir William. She pulled a low seat beside him and began to talk with those fluty low notes which captivated the listener quite apart from any nonsense or sense she chose to utter. She must hear about Naples, about his great house there, and did he really ever see the Queen? Was she beautiful? Did she wear her crown often? Was Naples as lovely as in Greville’s book of pictures? And, oh, if she could but ever, ever see it!
Sir William was enchanted. He saw no reason why his niece Emma—for so he really must call her—should not come out some day and taste the beauties of that land of the orange and myrtle. He knew not whether she would be the more admired or admiring, probably the former. “For,” said he, “lovely as the Italian women are there is a sameness. The same glorious black eyes flash on you from every countenance. The same rippled raven hair crowns every brow; I may almost say the same finely chiselled features are the rule, so that each must depend for distinction upon her expression and manner. Now you, my dear Emma, have the beauty of their most famous antiques, but the glory of your warm auburn colouring and violet eyes, for so they appear at this moment, must single you out instantly. Added to this, Greville has been dwelling on your accomplishments to me, and these are rare among the Italian belles, who are foolish enough to believe beauty alone can enchain a man for ever and ever.”
“It could only hold a fool,” says she, catching responsive fire from the idea. “Men of culture and learning like you and Greville would demand much, much more. Oh, Sir William, I have tried indeed, but I will try harder still to deserve your approval as well as Greville’s and make myself an accomplished woman.”
So it went on, and Greville sitting a little in the background, watched them. And as he did so, and saw those liquid eyes beaming confidence and affection to his uncle, and Sir William’s elderly orbs lost in their pellucid depths, a thought flashed across his mind so rapid, so overwhelming in its lucidity that he caught his breath audibly, and marvelled he had never considered it before.
Sir William must not marry, for that would be the ruin of his own plans. But Sir William must run the gauntlet of a thousand temptations to the wedding ring. One had but to look at him for that assurance. Furthermore, women’s society was a necessity of his life. The widower of the Palazzo Sessa was certainly not its hermit; no man living more loved gaiety, amusement with thronging interests of every description. And Emma—the exquisite modern-antique—a Pompeian dancer floating up from dark dead ages to charm a modern world; Emma, with her maddening beauty, her poses and attitudes which repeated at command all the statues and pictures which were the delight of Sir William; Emma, with her voice of crystal to enchant him with the bel canto he loved so passionately; and above all, Emma, with her shameful story which set marriage once and for ever out of the question—there was the perfect solution! An unrivalled companion for Sir William’s loneliness, the position for Emma of an old man’s darling on whom every cost, every accomplishment, would be lavished; and for himself freedom—freedom, and the graceful attitude of having conferred a heavy obligation on an attached relative! He sank into deep thought as they murmured on, lost in the interest of this meeting.