he retrospect of his conduct at
Brookfield did not satisfy his remorseless critical judgement. In
consequence, when he again saw Lady Charlotte, his admiration of that one
prized characteristic of hers paralyzed him. She looked, and moved, and
spoke, as if the earth were her own. She was a note of true music, and he
felt himself to be an indecisive chord; capable ultimately of a splendid
performance, it might be, but at present crying out to be played upon.
This is the condition of a man in harness, whom witlings may call what
they will. He is subjugated: not won. In this state of subjugation he
will joyfully sacrifice as much as a man in love. For, having no
consolatory sense of happiness, such as encircles and makes a nest for
lovers, he seeks to attain some stature, at least, by excesses of
apparent devotion. Lady Charlotte believed herself beloved at last. She
was about to strike thirty; and Rumour, stalking with a turban of cloud
on her head,--enough that this shocking old celestial dowager, from
condemnation had passed to pity of the dashing lady. Beloved at last!
After a while there is no question of our loving; but we thirst for love,
if we have not had it. The key of Lady Charlotte will come in the course
of events. She was at the doubtful hour of her life, a warm-hearted
woman, known to be so by few, generally consigned by devout-visaged
Scandal (for who save the devout will dare to sit in the chair of
judgement?) as a hopeless rebel against conventional laws; and worse than
that, far worse,--though what, is not said.

At Stornley the following letter from Emilia hit its mark:--

Dear Mr. Wilfrid,

"It is time for me to see you. Come when you have read this letter. I
cannot tell you how I am, because my heart feels beating in another body.
Pray come; come now. Come on a swift horse. The thought of you galloping
to me goes through me like a flame that hums. You will come, I know. It
is time. If I write foolishly, do forgive me. I can only make sure of the
spelling, and I cannot please you on paper, only when I see you."

The signature of 'Emilia Alessandra Belloni' was given with her wonted
proud flourish.

Wilfrid stared at the writing. "What! all this time she has been thinking
the same thing!" Her constancy did not swim before him in alluring
colours. He regarded it as a species of folly. Disgust had left him. The
pool of Memory would have had to be stirred to remind him of the
pipe-smoke in her hair. "