Meanwhile, in the warm languor of the south and with this heavy anxiety upon her, she nagged a little, visibly. She was exercising her brain as it had never been exercised in her life; knowledge, experience, accomplishments, all crowding in upon her. She who had been a despised nobody, subsisting on Greville’s cold favours, had now not only Sir William’s scarcely hidden adoration, but the King perpetually in her train, eager for a word, a look; letters, gifts, offers, rained in upon her. For a while she swam exultingly on the blue wave of success; then, physically wearied, it threatened to drown her. How could she wear her laughing mask always—she, so little to the manner born, and with this gnawing anxiety at her heart?
She sat one morning by the great casement looking out into the soft haze, all opalescent and pearl grey that veiled Posilippo and made Capri dim as a dream of heaven. The sea was breathless—still: its bosom scarcely heaved. A warm enervating languor enfolded the world and imposed its own quiet. She had just finished a letter to Greville and sent it off, for she wrote generally in the early morning, and now her drawing lay before her and her listless hand on that, wearied with pleasure and anxiety. For still Greville had not written—no, not a word, and it was now July. The hat she asked for had come, but as an order might be fulfilled by a stranger. Was he ill, estranged, mad? For he had not written even to Hamilton, as she was told, yet scarcely could believe. So she wrote again:
“My ever dearest Greville, I am now onely writing to beg you for God’s sake to send me one letter if it is onely a farewell. Sure I have deserved this for the sake of the love you once had for me. Think, Greville, of our former connexion and don’t despise me. I have not used you ill in any one thing. I have been from you going of six months. So pray let me beg of you, my much loved Greville, only one line from your dear, dear hands. For if you knew the misery I feel, oh, your heart would not be intirely shut up against me for I love you with the truest affection. Don’t let anybody sett you against me. Greville, you will never meet with anybody that has a truer affection for you than I have. As soon as I know your determination I will take my own measures. If I don’t hear from you and that you are coming I shall be in England at Christmass at farthest. I will see you once more for the last time. Oh, my heart is entirely broke. Then for God’s sake, my ever dear Greville, do write me some comfort. I have a language-master, a singing-master, musick, etc., but what is it for? If it was to amuse you I should be happy. I am poor, helpless and forlorn.”
She had paused there. Could it be he feared that her new experiences had spoilt her, made her expensive and covetous? She snatched her pen again; she implored him to let her come, to give her only a “guiney” a week for all expenses and she would be satisfied so long as she could be with him, and so sent the letter off, and relaxed with a long sigh.
The door, the soft tap she knew so well, and Sir William entering, healthy and well preserved after his morning swim in the tepid water; eager to see his flower, grown so lovely now and still so unattainable that he was compelled to assure himself every now and then she was still there, even as a miser counts his gold.
“And how does my Emma this morning? Tired after last night’s excitement? Prince Dietrichstein told me two things which will interest you. First, that in Vienna where, as you know, all the great singers come and go, he had never heard anything that moved him so much as your singing of ‘Per pieta’; second, that the Queen has heard so much of your beauty and talents that she means to be in the gardens on Thursday to study you for herself. What does my little Emma say to those two pieces of news?”
He put a caressing hand on the hand with its fine cameo ring which lay on the drawing. She sighed softly and did not draw it away.
“Wonderful. What don’t I owe to you and Greville’s goodness! Are you satisfied with me, my kind, kind friend?”
It would not be Emma if she did not put forth every lure to win every heart, Greville or no Greville. She swayed towards him as naturally as a blossoming bough on a breeze.
“I’m tired; languid. I suppose it’s the warm damp heat,” she said, “and, oh, Sir William, the anxiety. Why, why doesn’t he write? You and he have many friends in England. Do they say anything of him?”