Just at this moment a gentle tap was heard at the door; Lady Gordon
gave her permission to enter; and the opening door displayed to their
astonished eyes, Howard himself.
Yes, there he was, to all appearance perfectly well,—the man whom they
had been mourning over as dead, stood before them in flesh and blood,
with no other difference from his usual air, than that he looked
rather flushed with exercise, and somewhat surprised at his reception.
"Mr. Howard!" gasped Lady Gordon, scarcely believing her senses.
Emma was speechless with twenty different feelings.
"I fear I am an unwelcome visitor," said he, amazed at his reception;
"shall I withdraw?"
Before either of the ladies could reply, Sir William precipitately
entered the room; he had apparently been in the act of dressing, for
he made his appearance without a coat, and unmindful of where he was,
he rushed up to Howard, and actually embracing him in the excitement
of his joy, exclaimed:
"My dear fellow, twenty millions of welcomes to you, how came you
here—we never thought to see you again!"
Lady Gordon too, had risen, and clasping both his hands in hers, she
exclaimed:
"Oh, how I rejoice to see you alive—you cannot think how we all
grieved when we heard you were dead!"
It was now Howard's turn to look bewildered: he turned from the
husband to the wife in uncontrollable amazement, and said:
"May I ask what is the meaning of all this—are you performing a comedy
or acting a charade!"
"Why I suppose," said Sir William, recovering himself a little, "we do
all seem rather frantic to you, since you must be alike ignorant of
our anxieties and the relief your presence has occasioned. The fact
is, we heard you were dead!"
"Indeed!" exclaimed Howard.
"Take care, or Mr. Howard will begin to believe it too, and that will
frighten him," said Rosa, laughing almost hysterically.
"But do tell me what you thought was the matter with me," said Howard
impatiently.
"We heard you had fallen and been killed amongst the rocks," said Sir
William, "and we were very unhappy about it. I assure you, you have
been wept by bright eyes, and fair cheeks have turned pale at the news
of your death. There is not a man in the whole county has been more
talked of than you; the news of your melancholy death reached us in
the gayest moment of a _fête_, sent Lady Gordon into fits, and all the
company out of the house, broke up the dance, interrupted six tender
flirtations and three rubbers at whist, in short, caused more
unhappiness, disappointment, and dismay, than an ordinary individual
would reasonably expect to excite either living or dying."
"Really it is a very uncommon fate for a man to hear the lamentations
occasioned by his death, and if what you say is not exaggerated, Sir
William, I ought to be greatly flattered," replied Howard smiling, but
at the same time looking round the room to see what was become of the
one face, whose expression he was most anxious to read. But Emma was
gone; she had left the room without a word of congratulatory greeting,
or a single expression of interest.
"I cannot think how you can jest about so serious an affair, William,"
said his wife reproachfully, "you did not jest, however, whilst you
believed it; he is not quite without feeling, Mr. Howard."
"And did you honor me with tears, Lady Gordon?" said the young
clergyman, taking her hand with an irrepressible feeling of
gratification. "That was a thing almost worth dying for."
"Come, come," said Sir William interposing, "do not be making love to
Rosa before my face; though she did cry, hers were not the only tears
shed on the occasion, nor the most flattering to you."
"Who else wept for me?" enquired he with something more than
curiosity.
"Your old housekeeper, and your gardener's daughter," replied Lady
Gordon maliciously.
"Nobody else?"
"Abominable conceit—who else do you expect to hear of?" exclaimed she,
"I declare all men are alike, if you give the smallest encouragement
to their good opinion of themselves, they set no bounds to their
presumptuous expectations. I shall tell you no more. Find out for
yourself who feels any interest in your fate."
"Miss Carr expressed great sensibility on the occasion," interrupted
Sir William, "I was dancing with her at the time the news arrived, and
she said:
"'Dear me, how very shocking—poor young man.'"
"Thank you," replied Howard with a glow of satisfaction, "you have
told me quite enough to satisfy a much less modest man than I am. I
have heard sufficient. But I think I know how the report arose. I
_was_ left behind at a riding party, as the girth of my saddle broke,
and I stopped at a country shop to get it repaired. I dare say in the
imperfect Welsh which was all we could muster of the country's
language, there was some confusion made between a broken girth and a
broken neck, which gave rise to the distressing intelligence."
"That may be very possible," replied Lady Gordon, "but I shall never
in future believe any report of your misfortunes again, and if you
want me to grieve again for you, you must break your neck in good
earnest."
"Excuse me, but I have no wish to cause you any concern, Lady Gordon,
or to put your feelings to such a test."
"By the bye, when did you arrive, Howard?" enquired the baronet.
"About two hours ago; and I own I was rather surprised to find my
house shut up, and nobody at home; but if my servants thought me dead,
it was all very natural."
"No doubt they will tell you they were afraid of remaining lest you
should walk again," observed Sir William.
"As I do not know when they will return," continued he, "and I do not
wish to break into my house, I must throw myself on your hospitality
for to-day, if you will receive a poor wanderer."
Of course he was made extremely welcome by his friends, and invited to
remain as long as was convenient. It was very pleasant to be so kindly
received; but there was another voice he was longing to hear welcome
him, another hand he wished to press, another smile to bless his eyes.
As soon as he could he left Lady Gordon, and went to look for Emma. In
the breakfast-room, the library, the conservatory, the flower-garden
he sought her, but in vain; in fact she had shut herself into her own
room, to give utterance, in grateful thanks, to the emotions which
swelled her heart; emotions far too powerful for words.
At the moment she could not have encountered him with anything like a
due and decorous dignity; had she seen him, she must have been guilty
of expressing too warmly her interest in his welfare: it would not do
to flatter him with a knowledge how very glad she was at his having
safely returned; for he was but a man, and as such, liable of course
to all the foibles of mankind: the vanity, the triumph, the selfish
gratification which such a dangerous knowledge would create. She
thought very well of him certainly, but the temptation to conceit
might be too strong, and she might have to rue the day if she placed
such confidence in him.
No, she would not see him till her feelings were in better order, and
more under her own control.
Such was her resolution as she sought the shelter of her
dressing-room; it did not occur to her, that he might consider he had
a claim on her attention, and a right to demand an interview with her;
a claim and a right which no man very much in love could be expected
to forego.
Having been quite unsuccessful in his search for her, he took a very
plain and straight-forward course to obtain what he wished, going to
Lady Gordon for assistance.
"Will you be my friend," said he, appealing to her with a look of
great concern, "my friend in a very important matter."
"Have I ever been otherwise, why should you ask?" replied she.
"Then procure me an interview with Emma—I cannot find her any where,
and I cannot exist longer in suspense. Dear Lady Gordon, do pray have
pity on me!"
"Yes!" replied she, affecting to look very grave, "I have pity on you;
and since you wish so much for an interview, I will try and procure
one, that is if Emma is not absolutely bent on refusing to hear you.
But are you prepared—can you stand the shock which awaits you?"
"Good Heavens! what do you mean, Lady Gordon?" cried he, catching her
hand in his with an accent of alarm.
"Why, what do you expect?" said she, withdrawing her hand, "but that
she will refuse you; what else can you anticipate?"
"Refuse me, why—do not torment me—I am _not_ afraid—" he added, trying
to smile.
"Upon my word, a very modest speech!" exclaimed she, "so you feel no
alarm—tranquil self-confidence possesses your soul. Emma will be
intensely gratified!"
"Dear Lady Gordon—" said he, pleadingly; but she would not listen.
"So I am to call Miss Watson down to you, persuading her to come with
an assurance, that you feel so confident of what her answer will be
that you entertain no anxiety, no alarm. Is that what I am to say?"
"Say anything you please, Lady Gordon," exclaimed he, in desperation,
"only procure me the sight of Miss Watson, and the opportunity to
speak to her."
"Very well, go to the library, and I will bring her there."
He anxiously hastened to the rendezvous she appointed; she crossed the
gallery to her friend's dressing-room.
On obtaining admission, she found Emma had been lying on the sofa in a
darkened room; she sat down by her, and affectionately kissing her
forehead and cheek, she said,
"I am come to congratulate you, my dear Miss Watson, that our
imaginary tragedy has proved an entire fable—Mr. Howard is quite well,
and all the loss on the occasion is that of a very pleasant dance,
which I had intended should be very much enjoyed."
"It seems so strange and incomprehensible," observed Emma, putting
back the ringlets from her forehead, "I could hardly believe my eyes,
or credit my senses, and as to speaking, that was out of the question.
I hope you did not think me very rude if you noticed me, but the only
thing I could do, was to run away."
"But now you have recovered your self-possession, and the use of your
speech, I hope you do not mean to seclude yourself here all day; pray
come and join us all. You had better."
"Perhaps I had," said Emma, "I will come with you in a moment; just
let me smooth my hair first."
"It is very nice I assure you, but I will wait as long as you please."
Miss Carr and Sir William were in the sitting-room; but Lady Gordon
did not stop there; to the great relief of Emma, who dreaded the
remarks of the young lady, they walked into the conservatory, through
it, and entered from the other end the library window.
Lord Osborne and Mr. Howard were there together, but the former
instantly took flight at their approach. Lady Gordon still keeping
Emma's hand under her own arm, led her up to Mr. Howard, and said,
"I have brought my friend to congratulate the dead-alive, Mr. Howard;
she was wishing to say civil speeches to you like the rest of us, but
as I have done my duty in that way, and a twice told tale is tedious,
I shall leave you, to go after my brother."
As Emma had held out her hand to the gentleman, she could not follow
Lady Gordon in her flight, though looking exceedingly inclined to do
so; for he held her with a gentle pressure, and would not let her go.
His eyes were so earnestly bent upon hers, that she dared not look up
after the one glance she had given him; and she stood, her slender
fingers trembling in his grasp, longing to speak, but wanting courage
to break the silence.
"I am glad Miss Watson is not to be the only one from whom I hear no
word of welcome," said he gently. "If you knew how very grateful I
should feel for one sentence of kindness—even one look which evinced
interest, could you refuse me?"
"I assure you, Mr. Howard," said she, determined no longer to stand
silently blushing like a criminal before him; "I assure you it was not
want of interest, or kindly feeling towards you, which kept me
silent."
"Thank you—you were glad to see me again?"
"Indeed I was."
"And you guess—you must know and feel why I hurried home?"
"No, indeed," but the words were accompanied by so very deep a blush,
that they looked exceedingly like a falsehood.
"There was a letter, which I wrote, but to which I received no answer,
which hurried my movements—do you now know what I mean?"
"I believe I do," she uttered in desperation finding he seemed
determined she should answer him.
"And though you would not write, you will condescend now to answer
that letter by word of mouth," taking her hand in both of his; "I am
sure you are too generous wilfully to torment me—and if you had known
how much pain your silence gave me, you would not have allowed it to
last so long."
"Mr. Howard," said Emma, looking up, but making no attempt to withdraw
her hand; "I only received that letter yesterday morning; and as I
then thought you were dead—you cannot imagine the pain which the
receipt of it occasioned _me_."
She spoke hurriedly, without considering the full value of her words;
but _he_ saw the implied meaning—where was the man ever blind to such
a compliment. The speech he made on the occasion, was a great deal too
rapturous and lover-like to bear transcribing, indeed, when lovers'
speeches really come from the heart, they would seldom be sufficiently
intelligible to interest general readers. There is so much understood
by the pressure of the hands—so much explained by the language of the
eyes—and so much made up by other signs well-known to the initiated,
but unnecessary to detail to those who have never gone through such an
ordeal, that in most cases it seems probable an accurate relation in
words would be the most tiresome, the most incomprehensible, the most
ridiculous thing in the world to those not taking a principal part in
it.
Where the heart takes but a small share in the proceedings, indeed,
fine speeches may be made, but where the affections are engaged, the
meaning can be perfectly understood without them.
The result of his speech, and Emma's answer, was much more favorable
to his happiness, than the reply which she had made the previous day
to a similar question from Lord Osborne. She acknowledged that she
loved him, and that the dread of being poor, or the desire of being
great, would not prevent her promising to become his wife.
When the first effervescence of his joy had subsided, and he was able
to speak in a calm and reasonable manner, and consider what was best
to be done, he urged her to come out with him into the park, as the
first step to securing her company perfectly undisturbed—for, in the
library, they were constantly exposed to be interrupted. Here she
tried to obtain from him some rational account as to why he had
tantalised her so long by deferring an explanation—which, for any
thing she could see to the contrary, might just as well, or better,
have been made long before. Since he professed he had loved her even
before she went to Croydon, why did he take no steps to tell her so;
or why, since he ended in writing, did he not write to her there? Was
it necessary to go as far as North Wales to find courage for such an
epistle.
He told her it was doubt and want of courage kept him silent—then he
contradicted himself and said it was really jealousy of Lord Osborne.
He had believed the young baron loved her.
So he might, perhaps, was Emma's reply—but what had that to do with
it; to make the admiration dangerous, it was necessary that she should
return his affection, "and surely, you never suspected me of that?"
said she.
"How could I tell? Might you not naturally be dazzled with the idea of
a coronet; why, should I have interfered with your advantage or
advancement?"
"As if it would be to my advantage to marry a man like Lord Osborne,"
replied Emma. "I do not wish to say anything derogatory to your
friends, or to Lady Gordon's brother, but indeed I think you might
have given me credit for rather a different taste at least. I have no
wish either to flatter you too much; but I fancy, whether better or
worse, _our_ tastes are more consonant than mine and Lord Osborne's."
"But, my dearest Emma, did he not love you?"
"What right have you to ask me any such questions, Mr. Howard? so long
as I assure you, I did not love him, that ought to be sufficient for
you—let his feelings remain a secret."
"There should be no secrets between us, Emma."
"Very well—but there shall be between Lord Osborne and me."
"For shame, Emma, I shall certainly forbid anything of the kind."
"Set me the example of sincerity and openness then, tell me to how
many ladies you have made love—how many hopeless and inextinguishable
flames you have nourished, and how many hearts you have found obdurate
to your finest speeches."
Mr. Howard protested he had never loved any other woman, never sought
any other hand than hers, and never made fine speeches to any one.
With all his eloquence and ability he was not able to extract from her
the fact, that she had refused Lord Osborne. She had two motives for
her silence; a feeling of delicacy towards her rejected suitor, and a
decided determination not to flatter Howard's vanity by such a mark of
her preference. She thought it quite enough for him to know himself
accepted without learning, at least at present, how many she had
refused for his sake.