The melancholy gentleman did Emilia this good, that, never appearing to imagine others to know misery save himself, he gave her full occupation apart from the workings of her own mind.  As to her case, he might have offered the excuse that she really had nothing of the aspect of a lovesick young lady, and was not a bit sea-green to view, or lamentable in tone.  He was sufficiently humane to have felt for anyone suffering, and the proof of it is, that the only creature he saw under such an influence he pitied so deplorably, as to make melancholy a habit with him.  He fretted her because he would do nothing, and this spectacle of a lover beloved, but consenting to be mystified, consentingly paralyzed:—­ of a lover beloved!—­

“Does she love you?” said Emilia, beseechingly.

“If the truth is in her, she does,” he returned.

“She has told you she loves you?—­that she loves no one else?”

“Of this I am certain.”

“Then, why are you downcast? my goodness!  I would take her by the hand ’Woman; do you know yourself? you belong to me!’—­I would say that; and never let go her hand.  That would decide everything.  She must come to you then, or you know what it is that means to separate you.  My goodness!  I see it so plain!”

But he declined to look thus low, and stood pitifully smiling:—­This spectacle, together with some subtle spur from the talk of love, roused Emilia from her lethargy.  The warmth of a new desire struck around her heart.  The old belief in her power over Wilfrid joined to a distinct admission that she had for the moment lost him; and she said, “Yes; now, as I am now, he can abandon me:”  but how if he should see her and hear her in that hushed hour when she was to stand as a star before men?  Emilia flushed and trembled.  She lived vividly though her far-projected sensations, until truly pity for Wilfrid was active in her bosom, she feeling how he would yearn for her.  The vengeance seemed to her so keen that pity could not fail to come.  Thus, to her contemplation, their positions became reversed:  it was Wilfrid now who stood in the darkness, unselected.  Her fiery fancy, unchained from the despotic heart, illumined her under the golden future.

“Come to us this evening, I will sing to you,” she said, and the ‘Englishman under a rope’ bowed assentingly.

“Sad songs, if you like,” she added.

“I have always thought sadness more musical than mirth,” said he.  “Surely there is more grace in sadness!”

Poetry, sculpture, and songs, and all the Arts, were brought forward in mournful array to demonstrate the truth of his theory.

When Emilia understood him, she cited dogs and cats, and birds, and all things of nature that rejoiced and revelled, in support of the opposite view.

“Nay, if animals are to be your illustration!” he protested.  He had been perhaps half under the delusion that he spoke with Cornelia, and with a sense of infinite misery, he compressed the apt distinction that he had in his mind; which was to show where humanity and simple nature drew a line, and wherein humanity claimed the loftier seat.