And Emma, with a faint thrill of returning life, bathes in luxuriously warmed water, and rises fresh as a swan new-laved, and braids the wonderful hair and beholds—Lord! what a sight!—hanging in a vast closet dresses of exquisite fineness; “muslin loose to tye with a sash for the hot weather, made like the turkey dresses, the sleeves tyed in foulds with ribbon and trimmed with lace.” Such lace, too! Fine as cobwebs and floriated with exquisite stitchery. Even the ribbons were not forgotten, nor the sashes, the very blue that turned her eyes violet, the faint rose that matched her own roses, the delicate Parma violet that she chose on days when her eyes must match the mauve hat which Greville gave her the birthday before this. Oh, goodness and kindness unparalleled! But how had he known her height, her waist? Ah, that was Greville! He—he had written, so that nothing might be wanting. It was always his goodness. He had devised this Paradise for her that she might not be forlorn while he—her dear lonely Greville—must be hard at work in Scotland and Wales, retrenching, saving for their happy meeting. Then what could she do but her utmost to reward the kind Sir William for having fallen into Greville’s views? No, she would not cry. She would show that she too had courage and could endure for his sake as Greville was enduring for hers. She dashed the fresh cold water against her tired eyes until her cheeks bloomed again. She tied her favourite blue ribbon through the matchless auburn hair at which the servants had stared in a delighted surprise that made itself felt. She boldly chose the foamiest dress of all, and a long sash of softest silken blue, and when Teresa knocked at the door, instead of hiding her head ashamed and vanquished she bade her enter in good stout English, and stood to have her sash tied on, and the cloudy folds of muslin shaken out, and then posed radiant before the mirror prepared to go forth and conquer in Greville’s cause.
La Signora Madre was put safely to bed, too bewildered for any refuge but the laced pillows, and terrified even of those. A village blacksmith’s wife and come to this! What it is to be the mother of a beauty! A black-browed Giulia held her in awe and arrested her temptation to cling to Emma and beseech to be taken home on the earliest opportunity, and at last she sank into a wearied sleep which carried her back on the swifter wings of dream to the little kitchen in Edgware Row.
Emma went out into the spacious room where the casements commanded one of the rememberable views of Europe—sea and land bathing in glory that uplifted earth to heaven and made them one, blue Capri beyond her, the noble curve of the coast from Sorrento onward.
And this was the world, and this was life for the rich and great; and she herself a part of it. Oh, if he had been there her soul would have escaped into the radiance like a bird floating in serene joy on deeps of azure air, half sleeping, half waking in a sunny ecstasy.
That mood passed and she looked down and marvelled at the gaily chattering streets crowded with many-coloured people in dresses that reminded her of a masquerade once seen at Vauxhall. Could those women be living their actual life in brilliant short bodices bright with gold, and full skirts black-banded with velvet that showed smart ankles and white stockings? No, surely. The conductor would raise his stick and the band strike up and away they would all go with a “Tra la la,” and linking hands and dancing feet to the strain of a merry measure. The drop scene suggested it—the sea. Vesuvius. Yes, and the men matched the women, as noisy and gay, as absurdly brilliant in ribbons and splashes of colour.
She was amusing herself idly with all this, and thinking it the strangest birthday that had ever befallen any girl, when there came a soft little tap at the door; a friendly, hesitating tap. She turned and, catching her breath, halted a second, irresolute, and then ran to the door, the white soft muslin billowing out about her like a blossoming flower. It opened almost timidly as she came, and a very well-known voice said through the opening, “Emma, child! May I come in?”
It opened wide and Sir William stood on the threshold, then closed it quietly after him. One instant she stood, doubting the manner of reception, turning her head half away from him with an indescribable feeling. Did instinct whisper a warning? If so, it was silent next minute, and she sprang to him all gratitude and affection.
“Dear, dear Sir William, I’ve been waiting, longing for you to come that the poor Emma might thank you for all this wonderful goodness. Don’t I know it isn’t for my sake but for Greville’s, and don’t I love you the more for that! Oh, if I must be away from him where could I wish to be but in your house and sharing your fatherly goodness? My more than father, I thank you with all my heart and soul.”
And with a daring that surprised herself she put up her face and timidly offered a niecely kiss.
If Sir William winced at the “fatherly” he did not show it nor belie the ascription. Holding her hand he led her to a chair and took another beside her, and drew the talk dexterously away from moving subjects.