“I read your silence very well,” he went on calmly. “Your heart is not ungrateful but your modesty was alarmed. You consider yourself Greville’s wife in all but name. Am I wrong?”
She moved her head slightly, but said nothing.
“Well, that matter is for you and Greville to settle, and since we both have written, for I wrote and conclude you have done the same, we shall soon know his mind. Meanwhile I wish to assure you that you have no occasion for alarm. I shall not offend in that respect again. You are perfectly safe.”
Terror seized her. What was there in Greville to count on? What would be her fate if Sir William were offended beyond hope? How could she convey to him that her prayer had really been, “O Lord, protect me, but do not protect me too much!” How could she make him understand her doubts and fears? Impossible! Therefore she took refuge in a quiet grief which must touch and plead for her.
“You are angry with me,” she repeated sorrowfully, “and what can I say? Oh, if you could but see the warm true affection in my heart you would not be so cruel to your unhappy Emma. Once you said I was your friend—”
“You are my dear friend. I shall never call you otherwise.”
She turned with eyes swimming in sudden tears.
“Do you call me your dear friend? Ah, what a happy creature is your Emma—me that had no friend, no protector, nobody that I could trust, and now to be the friend, the Emma of Sir William Hamilton!”
He was literally obliged to look away from her. How otherwise could he persist in his purpose of leaving her to the cruel reflection that she had wounded him. And yet it was necessary that he should go. He knew it. Still, he trifled with temptation.
“And yet, though you feel this, you were shocked at the thought of being wholly mine, Emma; bound to me by the tenderest ties?”