Sandra Belloni (originally Emilia in England) — Complete. George Meredith
North Pole sat high above such petty consolation; seldom speaking, save just to show that her ideas ranged at liberty, and could be spontaneously sympathetic on selected topics.
Their ceremonious entrance to the state-room of Richford accomplished, the ladies received the greeting of the affable hostess; quietly perturbed, but not enough so to disorder their artistic contemplation of her open actions, choice of phrase, and by-play. Without communication or pre-arrangement, each knew that the other would not let slip the opportunity, and, after the first five minutes of languid general converse; they were mentally at work comparing notes with one another's imaginary conversations, while they said “Yes,” and “Indeed,” and “I think so,” and appeared to belong to the world about them.
“Merthyr, I do you the honour to hand this young lady to your charge,” said Lady Gosstre, putting on equal terms with Emilia a gentleman of perhaps five-and-thirty years; who reminded her of Mr. Barrett, but was unclouded by that look of firm sadness which characterized the poor organist. Mr. Powys was a travelled Welsh squire, Lady Gosstre's best talker, on whom, as Brookfield learnt to see, she could perfectly rely to preserve the child from any little drawing-room sins or dinner-table misadventures. This gentleman had made sacrifices for the cause of Italy, in money, and, it was said, in blood. He knew the country and loved the people. Brookfield remarked that there was just a foreign tinge in his manner; and that his smile, though social to a degree unknown to the run of English faces, did not give him all to you, and at a second glance seemed plainly to say that he reserved much.
Adela fell to the lot of a hussar-captain: a celebrated beauty, not too foolish. She thought it proper to punish him for his good looks till propitiated by his good temper.
Nobody at Brookfield could remember afterwards who took Arabella down to dinner; she declaring that she had forgotten. Her sisters, not unwilling to see insignificance banished to annihilation, said that it must have been nobody in person, and that he was a very useful guest when ladies were engaged. Cornelia had a different lot. She leaned on the right arm of the Member for Hillford, the statistical debate, Sir Twickenham Pryme, who had twice before, as he ventured to remind her, enjoyed the honour of conversing, if not of dining, with her. Nay, more, he revived their topics. “And I have come round to your way of thinking as regards hustings addresses,” he said. “In nine cases out of ten—at least, nineteen-twentieths of the House will furnish instances—one can only, as you justly observed, appeal to the comprehension of the mob by pledging oneself either to their appetites or passions, and it is better plainly to state the case and put it to them in figures.” Whether the Baronet knew what he was saying is one matter: he knew what he meant.
Wilfrid was cavalier to Lady Charlotte Chillingworth, of Stornley, about ten miles distant from Hillford; ninth daughter of a nobleman who passed current as the Poor Marquis; he having been ruined when almost a boy in Paris, by the late illustrious Lord Dartford. Her sisters had married captains in the army and navy, lawyers, and parsons, impartially. Lady Charlotte was nine-and-twenty years of age; with clear and telling stone-blue eyes, firm but not unsweet lips, slightly hollowed cheeks, and a jaw that certainly tended to be square. Her colour was healthy. Walking or standing her figure was firmly poised. Her chief attraction was a bell-toned laugh, fresh as a meadow spring. She had met Wilfrid once in the hunting-field, so they soon had common ground to run on.
Mr. Powys made Emilia happy by talking to her of Italy, in the intervals of table anecdotes.
“Why did you leave it?” she said.
“I found I had more shadows than the one allotted me by nature; and as I was accustomed to a black one, and not half a dozen white, I was fairly frightened out of the country.”
“You mean, Austrians.”
“I do.”
“Do you hate them?”
“Not at all.”
“Then, how can you love the Italians?”
“They themselves have taught me to do both; to love them and not to hate their enemies. Your Italians are the least vindictive of all races of men.”
“Merthyr, Merthyr!” went Lady Gosstre; Lady Charlotte murmuring aloud: “And in the third chapter of the Book of Paradox you will find these words.”
“We afford a practical example and forgive them, do we not?” Mr. Powys smiled at Emilia.
She looked round her, and reddened a little.
“So long as you do not write that Christian word with the point of a stiletto!” said Lady Charlotte.
“You are not mad about the Italians?” Wilfrid addressed her.
“Not mad about anything, I hope. If I am to choose, I prefer the Austrians. A very gentlemanly set of men! At least, so I find them always. Capital horsemen!”
“I will explain to you how it must be,” said Mr. Powys to Emilia. “An artistic people cannot hate long. Hotly for the time, but the oppression gone, and even in the dream of its going, they are too human to be revengeful.”
“Do we understand such very deep things?” said Lady Gosstre, who was near enough to hear clearly.
“Yes: for if I ask her whether she can hate when her mind is given to music, she knows that she cannot. She can love.”
“Yet I think I have heard some Italian operatic spitfires, and of some!” said Lady Charlotte.
“What opinion do you pronounce in this controversy?” Cornelia made appeal to Sir Twickenham.
“There are multitudes of cases,” he began: and took up another end of his statement: “It has been computed that five-and-twenty murders per month to a population … to a population of ninety thousand souls, is a fair reckoning in a Southern latitude.”
“Then we must allow for the latitude?”
“I think so.”
“And also for the space into which the ninety thousand souls are packed,” quoth Tracy Runningbrook.
“Well! well!” went Sir Twickenham.
“The knife is the law to an Italian of the South,” said Mr. Powys. “He distrusts any other, because he never gets it. Where law is established, or tolerably secure, the knife is not used. Duels are rare. There is too much bonhomie for the point of honour.”
“I should like to believe that all men are as just to their mistresses,” Lady Charlotte sighed, mock-earnestly.
Presently Emilia touched the arm of Mr. Powys. She looked agitated. “I want to be told the name of that gentleman.” His eyes were led to rest on the handsome hussar-captain.
“Do you know him?”
“But his name!”
“Do me the favour to look at me. Captain Gambier.”
“It is!”
Captain Gambier's face was resolutely kept in profile to her.
“I hear a rumour,” said Lady Gosstre to Arabella, “that you think of bidding for the Besworth estate. Are you tired of Brookfield?”
“Not tired; but Brookfield is modern, and I confess that Besworth has won my heart.”
“I shall congratulate myself on having you nearer neighbours. Have you many, or any rivals?”
“There is some talk of the Tinleys wishing to purchase it. I cannot see why.”
“What people are they?” asked Lady Charlotte. “Do they hunt?”
“Oh, dear, no! They are to society what Dissenters are to religion. I can't describe them otherwise.”
“They pass before me in that description,” said Lady Gosstre.
“Besworth's an excellent centre for hunting,”