“And besides, do you not think, my dear Hamilton, that she has looked a little pale of late? Sea bathing acts like a charm with her. I think of Parkgate. You will see her return in even greater beauty; Aphrodite rising from the sea. And I did think, unless you disapprove, of letting her have her little Emma as a companion. One would not be inhuman, and certainly it would give her a very natural pleasure.”
Sir William demurred a little, a very little on that motion. “Whether it were well to strengthen that connection—” he hesitated. “There might in the future be difficulties, if the child—but after all, poor lovely girl, what more natural? Yes, Greville, I approve. You have a kindly heart.”
“Indeed, I would not fail where Emma is concerned,” Greville replied gravely. “I have respect for her innumerable good qualities as well as a strong affection. I am sincerely glad you approve.”
All this was broached to Emma in the most agreeable way. One and all would feel the break-up of the little household, but the Milford business was imperative, and she needed the sea air and there would be letters, constant letters.
She did not dare to kiss Sir William at parting—so she said in a pretty letter to Greville later—but tendered a velvet cheek and received his salute with shy lashes dropped.
Yet, once away, fears returned. The actual distance magnified the class distance between her and the two men. Tall, distinguished, accomplished, moving in a world of which the gates had never opened, could never open to her, it seemed they might at any time be absorbed into their own Paradise never to return. Could they have sent her away as the beginning of the end? Oh, surely no!—and yet—Somehow, Heaven knows how, a waft of Miss Middleton’s name had reached her—the Honourable Miss Middleton! Nothing certain, but disquieting. She grew nervous, self-distrustful. There was no one at Parkgate to give the necessary tribute of admiration to singing and Attitudes, and little Emma, though a charming blue-eyed creature, got on her nerves a little also.
Her letters reflected these moods.
“I am in the house of a laidy whose husband is at sea. The price is high but they don’t lodge anybody without boarding, and I thought it would not ruin us till I could have your oppinion which I hope to have freely as you will give it to one who will always be happy to follow it, lett it be what it will. And though my little temper may have been sometimes high, believe me I have always thought you right in the end when I have come to reason. I bathe and find the water very soult. Pray, my dearest Greville, write soon and tell me what to do with the child. For she is a great romp and I can hardly master her. She is tall, has good eys and brows, and as to lashes she will be passible. I am makeing and mending all I can for her. Do lett me come home as soon as you can for I am allmost broken-hearted being from you. You don’t know how much I love you and your behaiver to me when we parted was so kind. Greville, I don’t know what to do. How teadous does the time pass awhay until I hear from you. Endead I should be miserable if I did not recollect upon what happy terms we parted—parted, yess, but to meet again with tenfould happiness.”
There was sharp anxiety in her mind as she wrote protesting these poor certainties. She could not enjoy the child’s company with a care-free heart. As in an eclipse the lurid shadow slowly invades the rim of the sun and sheds a livid light that slowly darkens all, so a fear intangible, nothing to fight directly and therefore the more alarming, invaded her little world of content. Suppose Sir William should take Greville with him to Naples? Suppose—a hundred supposes!
She wrote again. He did not.