After composing her feelings, smoothing her hair, and cooling her face
at the fountain close by, she ventured to return to the Castle, with
the intention, if she were permitted, of seeing Lady Gordon, though
she had not yet decided upon telling her how deeply her feelings were
involved in the melancholy past. Her friend was in the morning room
when she returned to it, lying on a sofa, and on Emma's entrance there
was a general expression of wonder as to where she had been for so
long a time from the three who were sitting there. Her only answer of
course was that she did not know she _had_ been long away: she had
been sitting in the flower-garden.
"I wonder you like to sit there," said Miss Carr; "I always am stung
by gnats if I venture on such a thing."
She then turned herself sleepily on the sofa and dozed again.
Sir William, after an earnest look at Emma's countenance, withdrew his
eyes, and was apparently occupied with a newspaper, whilst Emma
drawing her embroidery frame close to Lady Gordon's sofa, sat down
with apparent industry to her work, with the satisfactory
consciousness that every time she drew a long breath, her precious
letter was more closely pressed to her swelling heart.
The long silence which ensued was only broken by Sir William at last
throwing down the paper, and proposing to his wife a walk or a
drive—anything for change of air and scene. She agreed to the drive,
and he went to hurry the phæton, she to arrange her dress. Miss Carr
begged to accompany them, and could not be refused, though they did
not particularly desire her society; and thus Emma was left alone to
indulge in sad recollections and tender reveries, which were, however,
speedily cut short by the entrance of Lord Osborne.
It was natural that, having seen the others go out without Emma, he
should calculate on finding her alone, and equally so that he should
be exceedingly anxious for an interview, as his question was still
unanswered, his hand unaccepted, his future happiness as yet
uncertain.
She looked up with an air of consciousness on his approach, which
encouraged him to advance, and draw a seat by her side. He tried to
take her hand, but the attempt was made with so much hesitation and
awkwardness that she was not even sure whether he intended it; no
repulse was requisite, the simple not encouraging it was enough to
prevent so daring an act of gallantry. In fact, he had lost the
courage which on the previous night had distinguished him; the warmth
and animation were gone—he was again himself, labouring under rather
more than his usual awkwardness of manner, and quite overpowered by
his various sensations. To have expressed all his feelings would have
been impossible even for an eloquent man—his love was so mingled with
jealousy, his hope with doubt, and his satisfaction with regret.
He sat looking at her for some minutes in silence, which Emma thought
particularly disagreeable, until at length she concluded that he
expected her to commence the conversation, and looking up with as
steady a voice as she could command, she enquired whether he had
received any further intelligence from Wales.
"No!" he replied, abruptly, but the question roused him to exertion,
and he added,
"You cannot imagine, however much I may think of the unlucky event,
that I came here to talk about _that_ to you. I am come to ask, to
entreat, to claim an answer to my question last night: for every man
has a right to an answer to such a question!"
He paused, and she tried to speak; it was at first with difficulty she
could utter a syllable: but her courage rose as she proceeded, and she
was able to finish with firmness.
"Lord Osborne, I cannot deny your claim to an answer, but I regret
that I should be under the necessity of paining you by that answer; I
cannot accept the offer you have made me, but I shall always remember
your good opinion, and liberality of sentiment, with gratitude."
"I did not ask for gratitude," replied he reproachfully, "what good
will that do me? Besides I do not see that I deserve it."
"You have judged me kindly, my lord; you have given me credit for
rectitude, nay you have exerted yourself to prove it, when others
might have thought and acted very differently."
"Yes; I dare say—some who did not know you as well, might have judged
you harshly, but Emma, dear, beautiful Emma, I knew you could not be
wrong. I have loved you so dearly, and I never loved any woman before,
it is very hard you will not like me in return."
"I cannot, my lord," said she, her eyes filling with tears, "I have no
love to bestow on any one, my heart is—" she stopped abruptly.
He looked very fixedly at her, and then said,
"You _did_ love Howard."
She raised her eyes proudly for a moment, but there was nothing of
impertinence in his look or tone, nothing which need offend her; and
moved by her feelings at the moment she exclaimed,
"Yes I _did_ love him—how can I listen to your suit?"
He looked down intently, and taking up one of her embroidery needles
thrust it backwards and forwards through the corner of her work, for
some minutes, with an energy which ended in breaking the needle
itself—then again addressing her he said in a feeling tone.
"Poor fellow, he did not live to know that, I am sorry for him!"
There was something in the manner of this very unexpected admission
which quite overpowered Emma's heroism; it was so different from what
she had expected; she covered her face and burst into tears.
He sat looking at her, then said, "Don't Miss Watson, pray don't
cry—it makes me so very uncomfortable; but indeed I do pity our poor
friend, and the more so because loving you so very much myself, I feel
what he has lost; and I am so sorry for you too; you must have felt
it—the shock of his death I mean."
Emma's sobs quite prevented her speaking, but she struggled to
suppress her tears, and presently succeeded in mastering her
agitation.
"Did you know he loved you?" asked Lord Osborne suddenly.
"I did, but not till this very morning," answered she, hardly
conscious of what she was saying.
He was again silent for a good while, but ended with saying firmly,
"With such feelings, I cannot expect you to listen to my suit, and
will not torment you with it. Remember you have not a sincerer friend
in the world than myself, or one who would do more to prove his good
opinion. And I do not say it merely to be thanked—as I mean to shew
you whenever I can."
He took her hand this time, and pressed it, looked at it as he held it
for a moment, and then as she drew it away, he rose and left the room.
She was quite surprised at the way in which the interview had
terminated; he had shewn so much good feeling, so much less of
selfishness than she had been in the habit of mentally attributing to
him; there was no indignation, no wounded pride, no pique or
resentment at her refusal; it was almost as if he had thought more of
her disappointment than of his own, and regarded her feelings as of
more consequence than his attachment. Her opinion of him had never
been so high as when she thus declined his proposals: she felt that
with a suitable wife, one who could value his good qualities, improve
his tastes, and really love him, he might in time turn out a very
estimable character.
If he were but as fortunate in his selection of a partner, as his
sister had been, there was every probability of his equalling her in
domestic happiness. She did not regret her own decision, but she
regretted that he should have been so unfortunate as to love where no
return could be given; if he had but chosen one whose heart was
disengaged;—but as for herself, _she_ was not the woman who could
really make him happy; she had not the energy and decision of
character requisite for his wife; she did not wish to govern, and she
felt that she could only be happy, in proportion as she respected as
well as loved her husband; unless she could trust his judgment and
lean on him, she felt convinced she should despise him and be
miserable.
When the family met at dinner, Lord Osborne was there, and she had not
the slightest hint as to his probable departure; but there was nothing
in his conduct or manners to create unpleasant feelings, or reveal the
past to lookers on. There was but little said in their small circle
that evening; the shock had been too recent to be yet so soon rallied
from. Lady Gordon had been so very much attached to Mr. Howard; from
her girlhood he had been her peculiar admiration, and her standard of
excellence as a clergyman: the only wonder was that this attachment
had continued on both sides so entirely platonic; that considering
their opportunities of intercourse there had never been any approach
to love. But so it was—whether there was too much pride on both sides,
or whether her heart had been unknowingly engrossed by Sir William
Gordon, she could not have told, but certainly, though they had talked
and jested, quarrelled and been reproved, agreed and differed for the
last four years, they had never passed the temperate zone of
friendship, and her sorrow at his death was expressed fully,
unreservedly, bitterly, without exciting the shadow of jealousy in her
husband's mind. Indeed he fully sympathised in her feelings for he had
loved and highly valued Howard, whom he had known intimately at
College, before he became the young lord's tutor.
Fanny Carr was the only member of the party who seemed quite
unaffected by what had occurred, but she was out of temper about
something which concerned herself, and was fortunately silent.
Emma went to her friend's dressing-room the next morning by particular
desire to breakfast quietly with her, whilst Sir William was sent down
to do the honours of the house to Miss Carr and his brother-in-law.
"I want to talk to you, my dear friend," said Lady Gordon, "but I
hardly know how to begin—about this shocking affair—poor, dear Mr.
Howard, is it not sad?"
Emma's eyes filled with tears, and she could not answer.
"I thought so," said Lady Gordon, earnestly gazing at her face, "I
knew your heart—you have, of us all, the most reason to regret his
death."
Emma continued silent, for she had no voice to speak.
"You are not angry with me for the suggestion," continued Rosa, taking
her hand, "I would not offend or vex you, but I cannot help expressing
my interest in your feelings. It was so natural that you should return
his affection."
"You knew of his love then," sobbed Emma.
"I could not help seeing what was so very evident, but you, doubtless,
were better informed on the subject?" replied Lady Gordon, with some
curiosity.
Emma controlled her feelings enough to give her a sensible account of
the letter which she had received the morning previous; that precious
letter which had doubled her sorrow, and made her feel her misfortune
so much more deeply.
"How very sad," cried Lady Gordon, "and that was really the first you
heard of his attachment—the first declaration you had from him; it
must have broken your heart. I can imagine in some degree what you
have felt. Had he been alive what answer would you have returned?"
"What answer?" exclaimed Emma, "how can you ask, Lady Gordon—you
_know_ what I should have said; that his love was dearer to me than
all the wealth of the country, or the honors of the peerage!"
"Poor girl—you will never recover from such a shock."
"Never, never—I can never love another, or cease to regret the one I
have so sadly lost. Time can only increase my regret. But we must not
think only of ourselves, what must his sister have felt—dear Lady
Gordon, think of her; how I wish I were near her, to love and comfort
her."
"Poor thing," sighed Lady Gordon, "yes I do pity her. She was very
fond of him, and she can never have another brother."