“There are two excellent reasons against that plan. In the first place it would be madness to appear in public before you are sufficiently trained. In the next, I cannot be in London. I am obliged to be at least six months in Scotland and Milford, and it is impossible you should be with me.” He reckoned on his fingers and added:
“Six months; that would bring us to November, if you left in March. Should you dislike a winter in Italy with me?”
The inflammable nature of her! Instantly the outlook changed. A winter in Italy with Greville! Oh, joy of joys! But would he really come? Swear? She did not want Pliny. She wanted to be alone with her mother and work night and day at her singing until she could lavish riches on their joint life.
“I trust my Emma will see that to offend Sir William would be a very poor return to me!” he said gravely.
“So it would indeed,” cries she, swinging round instantly. “No; I will be a most dutiful niece to him. Trust me, Greville. But sure you’re not angry because I can’t bear to leave my dearest? How could I be otherwise and have a heart? Oh, tell me the time will be long to you too, and then I’ll go rejoicing!”
“How like a woman!” says Greville, with his small fine smile. “Directly you are sure I shall be perfectly miserable you can be happy. Well, I am thankful my affection is not so selfish. I shall hope you will enjoy every moment in Naples, and will improve every moment also, not only in singing but in good sense. And now had you not better read your letter?”
She opened it with listless fingers. That last speech chilled her. Of course he was right—why should she wish him to be miserable? And yet—one might understand lovers living apart in hopeless longing, but sure if they began to enjoy themselves with others they ceased to be lovers. That was the dilemma.
“It’s very kind. He’s a kind, good man!”—laying it on Greville’s knee. “He says he knows of rooms for mother and me near his house. But somehow—well, I wish he hadn’t thought of it. No, forgive me, Greville. I know I shall be wiser when I’ve had time to think. I shall have time to think in six months away from my own, own Greville. Six months! It seems like forever and ever.”
She rose and went heavily out of the room. It was Greville’s perfect equanimity that wounded her most deeply. It would have served his turn better if he had lamented a hard necessity with her. He saw that directly, and when they met again, took her in his arms and said, with deep-toned tenderness:
“And can my Emma who has been all but my wife for near on four years suppose that I have no regrets? Because I endeavour to support herself and me with courage does she think that my own heart is not torn?”