“Emma,” he said tenderly, “I think you deceive yourself about Greville. Not that I blame him, nor, I am sure, will you. He is a poor man, heavily dipped. What is he to do; how can he support you?”
“I would live on a crust with him!” the muffled voice interrupted.
“Yes. But men don’t accept such sacrifices from women. And if he marries—have you thought of that? And have you thought, dearest angel, my most lovely, that if he does you are not alone? That there is a man who loves you, who would give all he has for your smiles, who will cherish you in his bosom while life is left to him! Emma, Emma!”
She drew herself slowly away with her hands against his breast and stared at him in mute horror and amazement. More moved than he could have believed possible, he caught her repelling hands and held them clasped in his.
“My adored Emma, I have grown to love you more passionately and tenderly than ever Greville did or can. You are the sunshine of my life and here I swear never to fail or forsake you. Can you not forget Greville’s coldness and his faithless heart and trust yourself to me—me only?”
Her eyes never wavered, her hands never shook. They stiffened, as if to hold him at arm’s length—a lovely pose of fear and grief, her head thrown back, as if half swooning.
“And your kindness, your marvellous goodness, was all for this!” she said at last. “What shall I say? Oh, miserable, unhappy Emma! Oh, cruel Greville! Leave me, I entreat you, or I shall go mad.”
She hid her face in her arms and flung herself on her knees before her chair as if to bury herself from the sight of man, shuddering in every limb. He tried to lift her face towards his but could not. Instinct warned him that he had better leave her to herself for a while, and after hovering over her vainly, almost inarticulate with anxiety, he went very softly out of the room. She lay a few minutes, then sprang up and dashed off a few words to Greville.
“I will come to England. I have had a conversation with Sir William this morning that has made me mad. He speaks—no, I do not know what to make of it! But Greville, my dear Greville, pray, for God’s sake, wright to me and come to me for Sir William shall not be anything to me but your friend.”
She sent that also. It would go with the other, and then, her head aching, her whole being in disorder, for she was a spendthrift of her emotions down the whole range from triumph to despair, she sent word to Sir William that she could not appear all day.