Emma was content to lie down quietly in her own room, for her ankle
was not strong, and she had taxed it so severely, that she felt
dancing would be out of the question for her that night; she was
rather sorry, for she really liked dancing; but she felt that prudence
required the sacrifice, lest she should be lame for a much longer
period.
How the rest of the afternoon was spent by the guests, she could not
tell, except that the sounds of music and merriment were often borne
through her open windows, and came apparently from the lawns or the
terrace.
Refreshed by a couple of hours' peace and solitude, she repaired,
about seven o'clock to Lady Gordon's dressing-room, and found her busy
with her toilette. Her own dress and appearance received due
commendation both from her friend and her friend's bower woman. It
being the gift of the one, and the work of the other, it was no wonder
perhaps that they thought it looked well. The attendant observed:
"It was quite a pleasure to make gowns for Miss Watson, she became
them so completely: the work was never thrown away on her."
Perhaps the speaker had an eye to some future situation as
waiting-woman to the young Lady Osborne, for his Lordship's devotion
was quite evident to the inmates of the still-room, as it was then
called; and Miss Watson was honoured accordingly. Whilst she was
there, Sir William came in likewise, and chatted in a way, which drew
from Emma the observation that he had quite recovered his spirits; his
wife did not hear the remark, and taking advantage of the occupation
which at that moment engrossed her, to speak without her notice, he
begged Emma not to allude to it before _her_ again. Of course Emma was
quite ready to comply, but she thought it strange that he should
attach so much importance to the circumstance.
They all went to the grand reception rooms together: they were already
gay with parties impatient for the continuance of their pleasures.
When the dancing commenced, Emma withdrew into the conservatory, which
was cool and refreshing, for the ball-room was already heated by the
company and the lights. Here she walked in solitude for some time; her
friends were all dancing, Lady Gordon, her brother, her husband, and
Miss Carr, so there was no one to interrupt her reverie, or disturb
her meditations.
But at length, by the cessation of the music, she learnt that the long
country dance had finished, and soon afterwards, couples and groups
sought the same refreshment as herself. She sat down in a moon-lighted
corner, where amongst the flowers and shrubs, and by the soft and
subdued light, her white crape gown showed like the sculptured drapery
of some marble statue, and here she was still suffered to remain in
peace, though the conservatory echoed to merry voices, and the light
laugh and sparkling sally of wit, sounded above the trickling of the
silvery fountain.
Presently, the music recalled all the dancers to the ball-room, and
she was again in solitude, but not now for long: a heavy step
approached, and just as she was rising from her seat, Lord Osborne
joined her.
"Now do sit down again," said he, "but how completely you have hidden
yourself; I began to despair of finding you—ain't you going to dance?"
She told him her reason for declining it, at which he expressed
concern, but immediately added:—
"However, perhaps on the whole, it is as well, for I wanted
particularly to talk to you, without being overheard: can you listen
to me now?"
She acceded, with some surprise at the request; he leaned against the
wall by her side, and began.
"Do you know my journey the other day was all on your account?"
"Indeed," she exclaimed, in some surprise.
"Yes, I will tell you why, only don't interrupt me till I have done,
that puts me out; Miss Carr, whom you know I do not like, but perhaps
you do not know I do not believe, would say such ill-natured things
about you and Lady Fanny Allston, and her reason for not taking you as
governess, none of which I believed, so you need not look angry, that
I determined to go to her Ladyship, and make her contradict them. What
do you think of that?"
"You really went to Lady Fanny on that subject," exclaimed Emma, "may
I ask what authority you had for interfering in my affairs?"
"The authority, Miss Watson, the right which every man has to protect
a woman who is slandered and defenceless. Miss Carr had slandered
_you_ to my sister, in my hearing; she referred to her cousin as her
authority, I compelled her cousin to acknowledge the sources of the
calumny, and having traced it to a contemptible and envious Miss
Jenkins, I forced her to eat her words, and retract every aspersion
she had cast on the character of one whom I always believed blameless.
Are you now angry with me Miss Watson?" his voice softened at the last
words, his energy fled, and he looked again like himself.
"I cannot tell what I feel," said she hesitating, "Tell me what Lady
Fanny says now of me!"
"That she is convinced that she was misled by vile calumniators, and
that she wished me to use any influence I possessed with you to renew
her former negotiation."
"Which you promised to do," said she, "and so you tell me this?"
There was a tone of playfulness in her voice which reassured him.
"You are not angry with me?" said he enquiringly.
"I think not; it depends partly on your motive, but on the whole I am
inclined to forgive you."
"A hundred thanks, but if you do forgive me—give me your hand!"
She extended one finger towards him, saying with a smile her whole
hand was too much at once: but he did not listen to her words; her
hand was caught and pressed in his, and raised to his lips before she
could release it from the unexpected thraldom. Then mustering all his
courage and becoming eloquent under an emotion which makes many an
eloquent man silent, he added,
"It was for your hand I did it, to earn a claim on that, that I
travelled and met strangers, and wrangled with and coaxed them. It was
because I could not bear a blot on your fair fame—you whom I love so
very much: dear Emma—you who are so kind, so good-natured, will you
not love me!"
"Lord Osborne," said she with profound gravity, "cease I beg; this
species of conversation becomes neither your station nor mine. If I
own myself obliged by your exertions for my sake, do not annul the
obligation by words which never should have been spoken. Let me go!"
But he stood before her, and would not let her pass; whilst saying in
a low, deep voice,
"You must misunderstand me, Miss Watson, or you would not speak thus.
Have I not as much right as any one, to love what is fair and
excellent—if I am plain and awkward myself, can that make my love an
insult—and you—are you not deserving to be loved, worshipped, idolised
by every man who comes near you. Have you not everything that I
want—everything that would grace a far higher title, a much larger
fortune than mine. But because I have none of these things is that any
reason I should not admire, and love them, or offer my coronet to one
who would so well become it. It is yours if you will but accept it;
hand, fortune, title, everything—do give me an answer."
But before Emma could find voice to answer, or arrange her ideas, they
were startled by a scream from the ball-room—the music stopped
completely, and a sudden stillness for a moment prevailed, seeming
awful by the contrast to what preceded: then came a murmur, like a
hundred whispers in one, which seemed to gather and increase.
Emma had started up at the scream, and now stood suspended, with a
beating heart and unsteady breath.
"What can be the matter," said he, "shall I go and see—sit down, do
not alarm yourself."
She really was obliged to seat herself, for she could not stand; he
went a few steps, where he was met by Sir William.
"For Heaven's sake Osborne come here and send off all these people,
your sister is in a fit, and I am almost as bad from horror."
"What in the world is the matter," cried he, struck by the agitated
tone and look of his brother-in-law.
"A report has been brought from Wales that Howard is dead," said Sir
William, "killed by a fall from a horse amongst the mountains, and
Rosa heard it suddenly—and I am afraid—"
"Killed—Howard—dead—good Heavens," instinctively he was turning to the
spot where Emma sat, but Sir William impatiently seized his arm and
hurried him away unconscious that she was near.
She was left alone to her feelings, and how the next half hour passed
she never knew. She could neither think nor move; to feel was too
much, for a confused murmur rang in her ears; a sound of suppressed
voices, and hurried footsteps, and rolling wheels, and then all seemed
still again. How long she sat there she could not calculate,
horror-struck and immoveable, she seemed unconscious of everything but
the one thought that he was _dead_. And so suddenly, so awfully—it
could not be!—and yet it must be true; she shivered with horror, and
then she seemed again to become insensible to everything, closing her
eyes to the gay lights and gaudy flowers which appeared to mock her
when she gazed at them.
She was just beginning to recover, but still unable to move, when she
heard Sir William's voice enquiring,
"Where is Emma—Osborne, have you seen her? she was not in the
ball-room."
"She was with me in the conservatory," replied his companion.
"Good heavens, then she must have heard it all," cried Sir William,
then hurrying forward as he caught a glimpse of her white gown, he
gazed with anxious enquiry at her.
Her bloodless cheek, and her whole air, at once betrayed her knowledge
of what had passed; but making a violent effort to conquer emotions
which were almost choking her, she attempted to rise and come forward.
She had hardly strength for the exertion, she trembled so violently,
but still the effort did her good. Sir William looked at her
compassionately, and drawing her hand under his arm without a word,
led her away. Lord Osborne followed with a look of deep dismay in his
face, and an air of indescribable dejection over his whole figure.
"Can I be of any use to Lady Gordon?" enquired Emma, forcing slowly,
one by one, from her parched and trembling lips, the words which she
could scarcely articulate.
"Lady Gordon is tolerably composed, and gone to bed," replied he, "let
me recommend the same course to you. I am shocked to think you should
have been left so long uncared for. You seem quite exhausted and worn
out."
Emma gladly complied with his recommendation, and tried to sleep, but
that was vain. Images of horror of every kind filled her mind the
moment she attempted it, and she was glad at length to rise and throw
open the window to breathe the fresh air.
The moon, which was still high in the sky, was beginning to grow pale
before the increasing light in the east; the air was calm, the wind
merely a gentle breathing: now and then was heard the chirp of the
early birds in the neighbouring trees, but as yet the busy tenants of
the rookery near the castle were still. The cry of the deer in the
park, the lowing of cattle at a still greater distance, the murmur of
the stream in the valley came distinctly on the ear, during the
profound hush which preceded the dawn.
Everything looked so fair and calm, and happy—could it be that misery
and disappointment, and suffering, were for ever lurking under all!
How gay had been the commencement of yesterday; how sad the close!
Such was worldly pleasure—such it must be—such it ought to be.
Happiness was fled from her for ever; she could not expect to meet it
again. A calm, dull future spread before her, uncheered by love, or
home, or hope. Her affections blighted in their first spring, were for
ever destroyed, and if she could learn resignation that was the utmost
she could look forward to.
She burst into tears, went back to her bed, cried herself to sleep,
and did not wake till a late hour the following day.
Of course she was looking wretchedly pale and miserable when she
descended the next day. So conscious was she of this that she longed
to remain in her own room, but feared that it might have even a more
suspicious appearance than her pale cheeks. She was relieved on
entering the sitting room to find only Sir William, Lord Osborne
having breakfasted and gone out. He was looking sad and grave, but
replied to her anxious enquiries, that his wife was better, but not
well enough to leave her room yet. He regarded her with a
compassionate expression, and said,
"You too are suffering from the events of yesterday—no wonder; such a
blow coming after so much excitement and fatigue."
Her lip quivered, and she could not answer.
"Miss Watson," added he, "the gipsy must have known of this before we
met her. She must have alluded to this shocking event."
Emma made an effort, and succeeded in articulating,
"Certainly."
Then after a pause, she ventured to enquire,
"How did the report reach you?"
It had been brought, it appeared, by one of the guests, whose cousin
or brother, or some such friend, had just arrived from Wales, and
learnt it before leaving Denbighshire. It had been accidentally
mentioned by this gentleman in Lady Gordon's hearing; and she being at
the time in a nervous, irritable state from fatigue, excitement, and
the heat of the ball-room, had been seized with a violent fit of
hysteria at the information, which had broken up the dancing and
compelled her to quit the company.
"And my abruptness I fear overpowered you, Miss Watson," added Sir
William, "I had no idea that you were there when I met Osborne, and
spoke with the conviction that I was distressing no nerves weaker than
his."
"But even Lord Osborne must feel such a shock," said Emma.
"Oh yes he feels it very much, but it is not his way to be overpowered
by his feeling. None who had known Howard could help feeling it—so
sudden an event—and quitting us quite well only a few days before—what
his poor sister must have felt!"
Sir William paused, for Emma had walked away to hide her tears and
smother her sobs at the window. The entrance of Miss Carr at the
moment, well-dressed, and cheerful looking as usual, tended greatly to
compose Emma's spirits, but quite overpowered Sir William.
He escaped instantly out of the room. Miss Carr came up to Emma.
"How miserably uncomfortable everything seems to-day. I cannot imagine
why the death of this man—even supposing he is dead—should derange
everybody here to such a degree. A thing which happened too some
hundreds of miles away, Rosa in bed, and neither Sir William, nor
Osborne visible. Don't you think it's too bad?"
"I dare say Lady Gordon will soon recover," replied Emma, "but I
cannot wonder if she is indisposed considering everything—the heat,
the fatigue, and all the excitement of yesterday."
"Have you breakfasted, Miss Watson?" enquired Miss Carr.
Emma replied she had not.
"Then come with me, and let us get some," said she, passing her hand
under Emma's arm. "There is no reason that we should fast, I suppose;
for, though Mr. Howard's death is very shocking, I confess it does not
take away the appetite quite."
Emma thought it would be the easiest way to consent, and they went
accordingly. On entering the breakfast-room, which they had entirely
to themselves, they found that, owing probably to the confusion in the
household, the letters, by that morning's post, had been laid on the
table there, and no one had seen them. Miss Carr immediately began
looking them over, and presently exclaimed:
"Here are two—three for you Miss Watson. I wonder there are none for
me!"
Emma received them, and glanced at their exteriors to see whether she
should open them there. One she saw was from Miss Bridge—one from
Elizabeth—and thinking that the occupation of reading them would
prevent her hearing Miss Carr's chatter, she broke the seal of the
latter, and began to peruse it.
It gave her a lively account of Lord Osborne's visit, and contained
many hints as to the object of his journey and the motive for it,
which suddenly re-called to Emma's mind the fact, which until that
moment, had absolutely escaped her memory—his proposal to herself—a
proposal to which he had, as yet, received no answer. It seemed hard
and cruel to keep the poor young man in suspense, which would end in
disappointment—for she could not hesitate a moment, as to her answer.
Under no circumstances could she ever accept him, or persuade herself
to think him an agreeable man. But the meditation on his love, and her
intentions with regard to it, forced another consideration upon her,
what else should she do with reference to him. Would he leave the
house, or should she, or could they go on as before with any comfort
to herself. It would be very disagreeable to have to continue in daily
intercourse with a rejected lover, unless, indeed, he were much more
magnanimous than the rest of his sex; for, with men in general, it
appears, no insult can be deeper, no injury more severe, than a woman
differing from their estimation of themselves, and doubting the fact
of their making a suitable and agreeable husband. This is so
unpardonable an offence, that there are few men who would acknowledge
having met with such a rebuff, or if they do, it is in the well-known
language of the "Laird o' Cockpen."
Emma flattered herself, on consideration, that she should not suffer
from any pique on his part, as when her unalterable resolution was
once known to him, there would be nothing to prevent his immediately
removing himself and his disappointment to some other scene.
After dreaming over these things for some time, she took up the other
letters and rose to go. Casting her eye, as she did so, on the
post-mark and address of the third, which, hitherto, she had not
noticed, she was startled by perceiving that it came from North
Wales—and, if her senses did not deceive her, it was Mr. Howard's
handwriting.
The small remains of presence of mind which this discovery left her,
was just sufficient to check the exclamation rising to her lips; and
the impulse of her feelings prompting her to seek solitude and fresh
air—she rushed out on the terrace, down the flight of steps into Lady
Gordon's flower garden; and there, secluding herself under a wide
spreading bay tree, she endeavoured to recover sufficient breath and
composure to examine the letter. With trembling fingers, beating
heart, and tearful eyes, she broke the seal, and after hurriedly
glancing at the date and signature, laid it down on her knees, and
resting her head on her arm, burst into a fit of crying, which she
tried vainly to control.
And was the hand which had penned those lines never to clasp hers
again! Did the heart which dictated them—did it beat no more! Had the
declaration of his love been delayed until the acknowledgment of her
own could never gratify his ears! Why, oh! why was this! Why had he
suppressed his feelings! Why had he left her! Why had he tortured her
thus!
She caught up the letter—covered it with kisses—and then through her
blinding tears attempted to read it. It contained a short and simple
statement of his love, and an offer of his hand; if she could consent
to be a poor man's wife, he would do his utmost to make her happy.
But it was all too late now; by the date it was evident that the
letter had been written nearly a fortnight ago, and the tardiness of
the post-office arrangements had alone prevented his receiving a
reply. And he had, perhaps, been blaming her for silence and proud
disdain—perhaps with the mixed quick-sightedness and blindness of
love, he had been alike jealous of Lord Osborne's passion, and alarmed
lest she were influenced in his lordship's favor. He might have been
attributing her silence to this cause, and perished blaming her for
coquetry, coldness, or ambition. Could she but have told him of her
feelings—but now he would never know them.
It was a very great relief to her to give unrestrained course to her
tears—there was no occasion now to repress them. She need not fear
harsh constructions, nor shrink from animadversions on her feelings.
She had a _right_ to grieve. She had lost a declared lover, one too
whose passion she had returned—and who would blame her now for pale
cheeks and tearful eyes?
She did not think this with such distinctness as to put it into words,
but she felt it deeply, and it was a strange comfort to her.
After the letter had been read many times, every word weighed and
examined, and the reason which dictated his choice of each expression
guessed at; after even the address had been accurately surveyed, and
either anxiety or love discovered in every curve or stroke of the pen,
it was carefully folded and placed in her bosom, there to remain for
ever; for never could the feelings with which she regarded its writer
change; never could she love another, or listen to another suit. Her
lot in life was fixed for ever, and perpetual celibacy for his sake
was not too great a compliment to the memory of one so dearly loved,
so sadly lost.