This etext was produced by Pat Castevans <patcat@ctnet.net>
and David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By George Meredith
Lady Charlotte was too late for Emilia, when she went forth to her tospeak for Wilfrid. She found the youth Braintop resting heavily againsta tree, muttering to himself that he had no notion where he was, as anexcuse for his stationary posture, while the person he presumed he shouldhave detained was being borne away. Near him a scrap of paper lay on theground, struck out of darkness by long slips of light from the upperwindows. Thinking this might be something purposely dropped, she tookpossession of it; but a glance subsequently showed her that the writingwas too fervid for a female hand. "Or does the girl write in that way?"she thought. She soon decided that it was Wilfrid who had undone herwork in the line of thirsty love-speech. "How can a little fool readthem and not believe any lie that he may tell!" she cried to herself.She chose to say contemptuously: "It's like a child proclaiming he ishungry." That it was couched in bad taste she positively conceived—taking the paper up again and again to correct her memory. Thetermination, "Your lover," appeared to her, if not laughable, revolting.She was uncertain in her sentiments at this point.
Was it amusing? or simply execrable? Some charity for the unhappydocument Lady Charlotte found when she could say: "I suppose this is thegeneral run of the kind of again." "Was it?" she reflected; and drank atthe words again. "No," she came to think; "men don't commonly write ashe does, whoever wrote this." She had no doubt that it was Wilfrid. Byfits her wrath was directed against him. "It's villany," she said. Butmore and more frequently a crouching abject longing to call the words herown—to have them poured into her heart and brain—desire for theintoxication of the naked speech of love usurped her spirit of pride,until she read with envious tears, half loathing herself, but fascinatedand subdued: "Mine! my angel! You will see me to-morrow.—Your Lover."
Of jealousy she felt very little—her chief thought coming like a waveover her: "Here is a man that can love!"
She was a woman of chaste blood, which spoke to her as shyly as a girl's,now that it was in tumult: so indeed that, pressing her heart, shethought youth to have come back, and feasted on the exultation we havewhen, at an odd hour, we fancy we have cheated time. The sensation ofyouth and strength seemed to set a seal of lawfulness and naturalness,hitherto wanting, on her feeling for Wilfrid. "I can help him," shethought. "I know where he fails, and what he can do. I can give himposition, and be worth as much as any woman can be to a man." Thus shejustified the direction taken by the new force in her.
Two days later Wilfrid received a letter from Lady Charlotte, saying thatshe, with a chaperon, had started to join her brother at the yacht-station, according to appointment. Amazed and utterly discomfited, helooked about for an escape; but his father, whose plea of sickness hadkept him from pursuing Emilia, petulantly insisted that he should go downto Lady Charlotte. Adela was ready to go. There were numbers eithergoing or now on the sp