Georgiana was not proof against this simplicity of speech, backed by a little dying dimple, which seemed a continuation of the plain sadness of Emilia’s tone.

She said, “My poor child!” almost fondly, and then Emilia looked in her face, murmuring, “You sometimes doubt me.”

“Not your truth, but the accuracy of your perceptions and your knowledge of your real designs.  You are certainly deceiving yourself at this instant.  In the first place, the relation of that madness—­no, poor child, not wickedness—­but if you tell it to him, it is a wilful and unnecessary self-abasement.  If he is to be your husband, unburden your heart at once.  Otherwise, why? why?  You are but working up a scene, provoking needless excesses:  you are storing misery in retrospect, or wretchedness to be endured.  Had you the habit of prayer!  By degrees it will give you the thirst for purity, and that makes you a fountain of prayer, in whom these blind deceits cannot hide.”

Georgiana paused emphatically; as when, by our unrolling out of our ideas, we have more thoroughly convinced ourselves.

“You pray to heaven,” said Emilia, and then faltered, and blushed.  “I must be loved!” she cried.  “Will you not put your arms round me?”

Georgiana drew her to her bosom, bidding her continue.  Emilia lay whispering under her chin.  “You pray, and you wish to be seen as you are, do you not?  You do.  Well, if you knew what love is, you would see it is the same.  You wish him to see and know you:  you wish to be sure that he loves nothing but exactly you; it must be yourself.  You are jealous of his loving an idea of you that is not you.  You think, ’He will wake up and find his mistake;’ or you think, ’That kiss was not intended for me; not for me as I am.’  Those are tortures!”

Her discipline had transformed her, when she could utter such sentiments as these!

Feeling her shudder, and not knowing how imagination forestalls experience in passionate blood, Georgiana said, “You speak like one who has undergone them.  But now at least you have thrown off the mask.  You love him still, this man!  And with as little strength of will!  Do you not see impiety in the comparison you have made?”

“Oh! what I see is, that I wish I could say to him, ’Look on me, for I need not be ashamed—­I am like Miss Ford!’”

The young lady’s cheeks took fire, and the clear path of speech becoming confused in her head she said, “Miss Ford?”

“Georgiana,” said Emilia, and feeling that her friend’s cold manner had melted; “Georgey! my beloved! my darling in Italy, where will we go!  I envy no woman but you who have seen my dear ones fight.  You and I, and Merthyr!  Nothing but Austrian shot shall part us.”

“And so we make up a pretty dream!” interjected Georgiana.  “The Austrian shot, I think, will be fired by one who is now in the Austrian service, or who will soon be.”

“Wilfrid?” Emilia called out.  “No; that is what I am going to stop.  Why did I not tell you so at first?  But I never know what I say or do when I am with you, and everything seems chance.  I want to see him to prevent him from doing that.  I can.”