“Oh! who can speak what all can feel!”
Julia and Frances, during the straying and waiting which ensued, happened
to wander into a path which separated them from the rest of the young
people.
“Do you know, Julia,” said Frances, “that I have become of late a great
judge of love?”
“And pray how has that happened?” asked Julia, trying to laugh.
“Why, it is in consequence of all those new lovers that you and I have
had of late. I now understand the business perfectly. I know their
ways of looking, and their ways of sighing, and their ways of lowering
the voice.—There is no describing it, you know; but, in short, I now
understand it perfectly.”
“You will, at this rate, become quite a dangerous member of society,”
rejoined Julia, with another effort to laugh.
“What a novice I must have been but a few days since,” continued Frances,
“to have been so taken in as I was by that business between Edmund and
Lady Susan. Why, he no more loves her (nor ever did,) than I do that
stick, Sir Philip!—That she loves him, indeed, I have no doubt.”
Julia’s heart beat so fast, that she made several attempts before she
could articulate the following words: “Then why did he wish her ladyship
to marry him?”
“That is what puzzles me,” replied Frances, “I think there must have
been something strange in the business; Lady Susan did say a good deal
about his being so modest in consequence of his want of rank, that she
feared she had been obliged to meet him more than half way.”
“But why meet her any part of the way, if he did not wish it?” said Julia.
“He might, you know, have been dazzled by the great advantages of such a
marriage,” replied Frances. “Or been induced by her ladyship’s evident
preference to mistake his own feelings. But, however that may have been,
of two things I am now certain: the one, that he does not love Lady
Susan; the other, that he does love you.” She paused, but Julia made no
reply. “Yes, Julia,” Frances continued, “I am convinced that he loves
you in the most extravagant, the most passionate, the most enthusiastic
manner! Oh, it is so plain to be seen in every thing!”
Julia was still silent; but she pressed her sister’s hand, involuntarily,
as if thanking her for the joyful emotions her words were exciting. “In
short,” continued Frances, “he loves you with my love and the Marquis’s
put together, if you can imagine what sort of a love that would make.
And I am sure he is breaking his heart because he knows papa will never
consent to your marrying him. I wish,” she added, “he did love Lady
Susan—don’t you, Julia?” Julia made no immediate reply. “I say, Julia,”
repeated Frances, “don’t you wish it was Lady Susan that Edmund loved?”
“Why no—don’t you think it would be very unamiable of him to love a
stranger better than those he has always loved, ever since they were
children?”
“Unamiable?—Oh, I don’t know,” said Frances; “but I am sure that loving
you will make him very unhappy!”
“Why?”
“Oh, you know, because papa will never allow you to marry him.”
“But—but can’t—can’t we always have a great regard for each other
without—without marrying?” asked Julia.
“Oh, a regard, yes,” said Frances, “but I think that poor Edmund would be
much happier, if he loved Lady Susan, and were married to her, than he
will be loving you, and going to sea, and you marrying the Marquis, or
some such person.”
“That I will never do!” said Julia, with sudden energy.
At this moment Edmund appeared coming towards them. Julia hastily put up
her parasol, though the walk was perfectly shady. The parasol entangled
in every branch, and she as hastily took it down again.
Edmund now joined them, and offered an arm to each. Colonel Morven,
however, whom they soon encountered, interrupted this arrangement,
declaring that the walks were too narrow for three, and requesting
Frances to take his arm. Thus they proceeded, with the rest of the party,
towards the rock conservatory.
Julia was unusually silent, but there was something in her manner more
dangerous, if possible, than ever to Edmund’s right resolves. So true
is it, that nothing can pass in the minds of those we love, without our
knowing, at least, that there is something passing. And of what nature
that something was, seemed in the present instance to be recognised, for
he, too, became silent, yet, during that silence, both felt a conviction
of each other’s affection, stronger perhaps than any they had before
known.
How often, how very often, when distance, both of time and place
intervened, was the impression received during that, to both, for ever
memorable day remembered, and attempted to be renewed, severally, by
both; how often inwardly appealed to! How often called upon to contradict
proofs, to bear down facts! But the misery of this species of evidence
is, that though at the moment the most entirely convincing, it fades
in absence to a mere dream of the imagination; and while, with strange
inconsistency, we find the greatest aggravation of our suffering, in the
fear that we never did possess that of which we are thus lamenting the
loss, we still do lament, and with the bitter feelings of those entitled
to complain, that they have been bereft of all!
A pretty general meeting of stray couples now took place in the
conservatory, and many were the observations made on our hero’s perilous
_couche_. After viewing various other beauties of the place, our party,
at length, agreed that it was time to proceed to Arandale, which they
reached without further adventure.
Their arrival was soon followed by that of the Marquis of H⸺, and such
other guests as were not of the immediate family circle.