The week that preceded Elizabeth's wedding, seemed extremely short to
the whole of the parties immediately concerned; every day was occupied
with some excursion for their amusement, and every evening was passed
at the house of some friendly acquaintance, who would not be refused
the pleasure of their company. Nobody, at this epoch, was more popular
than the future Mrs. George Millar; since her neighbours could not
prevent her marriage, they were determined to extract as much pleasure
from the occurrence as possible. For this end they gave a number of
tea-parties to welcome her brother and say good-bye to her sisters,
and learn as much as they could of the future plans and prospects of
each. The handsome Mr. Samuel Watson, with his lively manners,
promising prospects, and probable disengaged heart, was really a most
interesting object; and since Emma was supposed to be engaged, and
there was no further ground for her exciting jealousy, she was
allowed, on all hands, to be uncommonly handsome and agreeable too.
Nothing, therefore, was omitted, which could express their favourable
opinion of the whole family, or their anxiety to be on good terms with
them all.
It was no particular misery to Jane that, whilst every one else was
pressing for their company, there was not one day left disengaged for
her. She liked a great better to be invited to meet them, as she was
every evening: for, unless she could quite outshine all her neighbours
in the elegance of her entertainment, she preferred giving none at
all; and as it happened that Robert was in a stingy mood, she had,
with difficulty, extracted from him sufficient money to buy the very
handsome gown and bonnet in which she was to appear at the wedding.
At all these parties where, of course, the Millars regularly met the
Watsons, Sam still contrived to be a great deal with Annie,—but the
most favourable opportunities for intercourse, were during their long
rambles in the country. Then he was always her cavalier, and they
quarrelled and laughed together without interruption. Her spirits
seemed as inexhaustible as her strength; she could both walk and talk
for miles without mental or bodily exhaustion, and often tired out all
her companions except Sam.
It was no wonder then, when he paid her the compliment of untiring
attention, and unvarying amusement, that she should, in her turn, find
him a most delightful companion, infinitely more agreeable than any
one she had ever known. No more was heard about his profession—she
forgot it entirely, and only considered him in the light of a very
pleasant acquaintance.
It was natural that, during some of their many engagements, Emma
should again meet Mr. Morgan; and equally natural that she should feel
some embarrassing recollections at doing so. A bow was all that their
situation, at the first moment of meeting, allowed to pass between
them; but, when by a movement amongst her neighbours, a vacant seat,
and the power of reaching it allowed him, he did not hesitate to avail
himself of the opportunity, and place himself by her side.
There was nothing of restraint or embarrassment in his manner—no
appearance of consciousness or shame; he did not know, perhaps, how
much their joint names had been made the subject of gossip and
scandal—she thought so for a moment, but then, from what she
remembered, she knew he must have been aware of it; then she felt
angry at his impudence; but finally, she concluded that, after all, he
was taking the wisest course; and that to converse quietly, as if
nothing had passed to raise an unpleasant feeling, would be, on the
whole, the conduct least calculated to excite attention.
Calm and polite as she was, he was sensible of a difference in her
manners from past days, and he did not indulge a hope of regaining her
confidence; but it wounded his vanity to suppose that she, amongst all
the women of his acquaintance, beheld him with calm dislike; whilst he
could not even to himself deny her superiority over the many whose
approbation or admiration constantly followed his footsteps.
If he could not regain her friendship he wanted at least to excite
some emotion in her mind, and call up one of her former smiles so full
of brightness and feeling. With the tact which gave him half his
popularity, he hit upon the subject most likely to awaken kind
sentiments in her heart; he began praising her brother. The
introduction had given him so much pleasure, he was, he would not say
astonished, but certainly most agreeably surprised to find Mr. Samuel
Watson so very superior a young man. There was no likeness to Mr.
Watson—no—he could not compliment his good friend, Robert, by saying
that there was; seldom had he seen two brothers more dissimilar; but
her younger brother's manners were so good—such a young man must make
his way in the world, must be a favourite; there was every probability
of his success; nay, there was certainty of it: there was intelligence
and spirit in his eye, which promised nobly. Then he enquired minutely
into his prospects; entered with the warmth of a friend into the plan
for his establishing himself at Chichester, and gave several hints for
his benefit.
Emma, in spite of her aversion to the speaker, and her determination
that nothing should make her admit even the semblance of mutual
friendship in their future intercourse, found herself speaking with
unintentional warmth and animation. She checked herself immediately,
and a shade of vexation passed over her countenance; which was not
lost on her companion. Accustomed to study the minds and inclinations
of his various patients, his quickness at reading all the little marks
of feeling evinced in their countenances, enabled him pretty well to
appreciate the state of her mind; but when he proceeded on the same
subject, in hopes of once more inducing her to express her feelings,
he was extremely vexed to find that, after making him some short and
trivial reply, she rose and walked away.
This movement marked a decided aversion on her part which piqued him
deeply, and for which he was not prepared. He remained in his seat,
spoke to no one else, and occupied himself, whilst he continued in the
room, in considering whether he no longer had any chance of regaining
his influence with her.
He knew pretty well all that had passed, and all that had been
whispered about their former intimacy; but he thought that since all
that had been set in a favourable point of view, and her character
perfectly cleared, she need not now have been so cold and distant to
him. If, as was whispered, she was engaged to some one else, there was
no reason for shunning him, unless, and the thought actually thrilled
his mind with delight, unless she had really preferred him, and now
feared to trust herself in his power. This would account for all her
conduct; her flight to Burton—her engagement itself, and her present
shrinking from him—all might be traced to the same source. His vanity
was excited to the highest pitch, as he thought of this
interpretation, and he could believe her quite capable of such
strength of mind, and firmness of purpose. Other women when they had
liked him, had thrown themselves in his way, but it was perfectly
consonant with what he supposed her character to be, that she should
follow a precisely opposite course of conduct.
If this were the case he felt sure he might regain his former
influence by a little dexterous management, and as a first step
towards it, he resolved to cultivate the friendship of her youngest
brother. Had he known that he was perfectly excluded from her regard
by the double barrier of a very ill opinion of himself, and a warm
attachment to Mr. Howard, he might have spared himself the trouble of
the attempt.
Towards the end of the week a sort of gipsy party had been arranged to
form an expedition to a pretty park in the neighbourhood, which from
the absence of the owner was a frequent resort on such occasions. Mr.
Morgan was not originally asked to join it; but knowing what was going
on, he presented himself at the door of George Millar's house just
before the company started, and his expressions of regret at not
having time to see more of Sam speedily produced a very hearty
invitation from Mrs. Turner, the chaperone of the party, to accompany
them; for, as she observed, "on such occasions the more the merrier."
It was a very large party without him. Mrs. Turner and the two
Millars, four Watsons, for Jane was of the party, with Alfred
Freemantle as her escort, since her husband would not leave the
office, two cousins of hers, young ladies who had arrived the day
before to grace Elizabeth's wedding, Miss Bridge, and some young
ladies, natives of the town: in short they numbered fourteen without
Mr. Morgan, but as ladies were in the majority he was heartily
welcomed by several of the party at least, if not by those particular
individuals whose favour he most desired.
How the whole of the party were disposed of in different vehicles,
need not now be particularised; there was variety at least in their
equipages, and the power of choice in arranging themselves. Sam was
the charioteer of an "inside Irish car," which of course amongst its
passengers numbered Annie Millar, and likewise Emma Watson; Mrs.
Robert Watson; two young cousins, completed this party, and apparently
made any addition impossible; but one of the girls, not liking to be
entitled to only a fifth part of the attention of any gentleman,
suddenly abdicated her seat in favour of Mr. Morgan, that she might
enjoy the place of third in a gig, under the escort of Alfred
Freemantle. Nothing could have been more consonant to his wishes, than
this sudden piece of good luck which thus befell Mr. Morgan: his
gaiety was quite remarkable, but his judgment and tact, were still
more so. For he devoted himself at first to please the stranger, and
do the honors of the country to her; he was bent on making himself
agreeable, but it was in the most open and unsuspicious way. There was
nothing of tenderness or sentiment in his manners, nothing approaching
to flirtation in his address to Miss Hall, and to the others it was as
perfectly correct, as if dictated by Lord Chesterfield himself.
Annie, indeed, was too much engrossed by the driver to notice the
intruder; she had no attention to bestow on any one else; and had not
the horse been particularly quiet and sagacious, and the road
remarkably smooth and straight, it is by no means unlikely that their
drive might have terminated abruptly under some hedge, so much more
was Sam himself occupied with the lady behind, than the road in front
of him. Neither Miss Hall nor Emma, however, made any complaint of his
coachmanship; for Emma, being opposite to Annie, enjoyed the full
benefit of her lively remarks; and whilst her neighbour confined his
attention to his _vis-à-vis_, the proximity to him, in which she
unexpectedly found herself, did not discompose her at all, nor did she
feel any impatience for the termination of so agreeable a drive.
When they alighted in the park, which was the termination of their
drive, they found most of the company assembled before them, and
separated into groups strolling about on the borders of the artificial
lake, a sail on which was one of their projected pleasures. In
consequence of this, these five were left together to entertain each
other, until the arrival of the whole party enabled them to arrange
their plans for the day's amusement. The point of rendezvous was an
ornamental boat-house, standing at one angle of the lake, embowered in
fir trees, and commanding a pretty view of the opposite banks, which
were high and woody. Miss Hall was, what was then more rare than now,
a sketching young lady: and her pencils were speedily produced. But
she could not bear inspection whilst taking her views, and
unceremoniously desired the other four to walk away.
It was a proof of Sam's great good-nature to Emma, that he continued
with her, and declined the tempting opportunity of securing a
comfortable walk with Annie Millar, that he might not leave his sister
with no other companion than Mr. Morgan. Perhaps Miss Millar might not
entirely appreciate this self-sacrifice on his part, or possibly might
not thank him for it, so much as Emma; certainly Mr. Morgan, who had
calculated on a different line of conduct, judging from the evident
admiration which Sam had previously testified for Annie, was very much
disappointed at it. He took care to keep close to Emma's side, ready
to improve any opportunity that might present itself; and thus they
wandered about, without thinking much of where they were going, or
paying much attention to the really pretty scenery around them. The
consequence of this was, that they lost their place in the boat, for
being quite out of sight and hearing when it was ready, their
companions did not wait for them; and the intended sail had so
entirely escaped the memory of the quartet, that the first thing which
recalled it to their memory, was the sight of the boat, which caught
their eyes just us they gained the summit of an eminence commanding a
view of the whole sheet of water at their feet.
Sam expressed a hope that Miss Millar was not vexed at this incident.
Annie protested that for herself she did not care about it, but she
should be very sorry indeed, if she had beguiled Emma from sharing in
any pleasure she would have enjoyed.
Emma, on her side, was of opinion that they were much more comfortable
as they were; the boat seemed very much crowded, and she thought to be
squeezed in such a way that they could not move, nor even turn their
heads to contemplate the scenery, was not half so pleasant as sitting
on the green bank where they were resting so comfortably.
"In parties of this sort," said Mr. Morgan, "all depends on the
company; an uncongenial companion will spoil everything—even the
finest landscape in the world."
"Very true," replied Annie, quickly; "but how can one help that? One
can not say to a disagreeable person, 'Go away—you annoy and distress
me!' One can only smile politely and suffer internally."
"You, I dare say, can smile whilst annoyed," observed Sam, "but I
never can; whether I am happy or miserable, I show it immediately."
"Do you indeed," replied she, "I am sorry to hear that; I had been
hoping that the gloomy look and air of despondency with which you have
treated us, were your habitual manners, and might not really indicate
the state of intense suffering to which I suppose I must now attribute
them."
"I am certain my looks have expressed my feelings accurately," replied
he sturdily.
"Very well, I shall set my imagination to work to invent some romantic
cause for the dejection of spirits which you display. You are,
probably, repenting over some lost patient, whose end you hastened by
your surgical arts."
"I do not think you ought to jest on such subjects," replied he,
gravely; then, as she turned her head towards him with an expression
of surprise, he added, "Excuse my liberty of speech. I quite forgot
who I was speaking to."
She was silent and looked down, so that her bonnet concealed her
countenance. He viewed her uneasily, and wanted to know whether she
was affronted—or from what other reason she maintained this silence.
Mr. Morgan saw all this; he could not read Annie's feelings exactly,
but he felt convinced that, had they, at that moment, been without
witnesses, some very tender scene would have ensued.
He now took up the conversation by observing, how much more beautiful
the landscape would be in two months' time, when the tints of autumn
gave a little variety to the scenery. The dull, heavy green of summer,
he declared, reminded him always of mourning; it was so sombre.
He appealed to Emma, and she was compelled to reply. She had nothing
to urge against his preference for the autumnal tints—except, that
their proximity to winter gave them sadness, which, in themselves,
they did not merit.
"The sadness of autumn is, however, compensated by the hopes of
returning spring; we can bear to part with the verdure, which we know
will be restored in fresh beauty. In that respect, how superior is
inanimate nature, and our feeling of love for it, to human friendship,
or regard, or esteem."
"I do not see that," said Emma.
"Who can tell when a faded friendship shall be renewed, or when a
withered hope shall again look flourishing and verdant. The blast of
winter is certain to pass away, and its consequences vanish with
it—but the fatal breath of enmity—the chilling effects of whispered
malevolence—the poison of calumny—tell me Miss Watson, of a cure for
these, if you can."
"I know of none, save patience and a good conscience," replied Emma.
"Yes, patience—one needs that, indeed, to bear what I alluded to—when
one sees the face which used to meet one with a smile, averted
gravely—the hand once freely extended, now drawn back—the kindly
words, once gushing out from the friendly heart, like water from a
copious fountain, exchanged for the slow and measured accents which
freeze the heart, as they drop out one by one; when one sees all
this," he continued, lowering his voice, but speaking with impressive
energy; "and knows it to be the cold deadness of feeling produced by
the ill-will of others—the blighting words of malice—what can one
hope—to what spring shall one look forward? when may one expect the
young feelings of friendship to bud again?"
"Depend upon it they will, unless there is something more than unkind
breath to check them. To pursue your allegory, Mr. Morgan, if the
plant of friendship wither irretrievably, it must be because there is
something wrong at the root, otherwise, it is certain once more to
revive."
"I believe," said he, after a momentary pause, "my feelings are deeper
and more permanent, than those of most people."
"Yours Mr. Morgan!" interposed Annie, amazed, "I had no idea you were
troubled with any thing of the sort—when did you first find out that
you had any feelings?"
"Have I ever given you cause to doubt it," enquired he, significantly.
"Why, to own the truth, though we have been so long acquainted," said
she, "I cannot say that I ever undertook to investigate the nature or
extent of your feelings on any subject. I had a sort of general idea
that you had some; but of what quality I should have been very much
puzzled to say, except that I certainly should _not_ have thought of
constancy as your particular _forte_. However, I am willing to plead
total ignorance on the subject. Ignorance for which I alone am to
blame, arising from indifference and inattention."
"You need hardly remind me of that, Miss Millar," retorted he with
mock humility, "I am quite aware that I am too entirely an object of
indifference to you, for my feelings to be considered worth a moment's
attention."
He walked away, as he spoke, to a short distance, and seemed occupied
in viewing the landscape from the brow of the hill on which he stood,
his features expressing an appearance of wounded feelings struggling
with pride.
"You have hurt him, Annie," whispered Emma, "you are too severe."
"At least he wants to make us believe so," replied she softly, "but
it's all seeming—seeming—there is nothing real about that man."
"Now I rather like him," said Sam, "he seems so kind and friendly
towards me, I am quite indebted to him for the interest which he has
taken in my prospects, and the useful hints which he has given me."
"Did he recommend you to marry, Sam?" enquired Emma.
"I did not consult him on the subject, it is a point on which I should
neither ask nor take advice."
"Bravo, Mr. Watson—a most spirited determination. It is a point of so
little consequence indeed, and one in which your own experience must
be so calculated to guide you, that no doubt your intention to reject
all advice, is most judicious and praise-worthy."
"Are you of opinion that I am incompetent to act for myself in such a
case?" enquired he.
"I shall tell you as I did Mr. Morgan just now, I am ignorant and
indifferent on that subject—and now _you_ can go and walk on the other
side of the hill—or if you think it will look more picturesque, by the
side of yonder angry gentleman."
"No, Miss Millar, your ignorance, and indifference shall not drive me
from you; I would rather try to enlighten the one and overcome the
other."
This, though whispered softly, seemed to overpower her; she coloured
deeply; rose from the bank where they were sitting, and walked away to
the side of an adjoining thicket, where she employed herself in trying
to gather some brier roses from the hedge. Sam watched her for some
minutes, then perceiving that in stretching forward to grasp a
blossom, her veil had become entangled in a thorny shrub, he started
up, and in a moment was at her side to aid and release her.
Emma did not like to follow them, thinking she should be in the way,
and expecting that a few minutes would bring them back. In the mean
time Mr. Morgan looked round, and seeing her alone joined her. He
still affected to look hurt and sad, and Emma generously gave him
credit for more feeling than he deserved.
"That volatile girl—" said he, and then stopped.
"You must not mind what she says," suggested Emma kindly, "I am
certain she sometimes speaks without thinking, but never from malice
or ill will, even when she seems severe."
"She does not surprise me," replied he; "I am used to her ways, and
there is no change in _her_; she is always the same, it is
vacillations of friendship, variations of good opinion which I confess
astonish and pain me. And yet why should they—after all, the human
mind is so liable to error, so prone to seek misconstructions, so
inclined to change and variation, that nothing of the kind ought to
surprise me."
She was determined to be silent, and occupied herself in wishing for
the return of her brother and Annie, who had strayed farther than she
had expected, and were now out of sight.
He was disappointed at her silence, and changed the subject into an
enquiry as to whether she should make a long stay at Croydon. She told
him she was only to remain until her sister's marriage, which would,
as he knew, very shortly occur.
"And then," said he, "may I ask where you are going—do you return to
Osborne Castle?"
"Certainly not," replied she decisively, "I do not think I am likely
to go there at all. Sir William and Lady Gordon have taken a house in
the neighbourhood of his own property, and if I visit them, it will be
there."
"Then where will be your home?"
"At Burton, with Miss Bridge, for the present I believe."
"I trust _you_, with your talents and accomplishments, your taste and
your sensibility, are not doomed to pass your life as the companion of
an elderly lady, buried in an obscure country village, unknown and
unadmired."
"There might be many worse positions in life, more disagreeable
companions, and more trying situations, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma with
warmth.
"Forgive me if my interest for you has led me to express my feelings
in an unauthorised way. _I_ cannot entirely forget the past, nor
consign to oblivion all that I once flatter myself was felt between
us."
She could not exactly tell what to answer him, for she really hardly
knew what construction to place upon his words. He paused for a moment
and then resumed.
"Rumour was wrong then, when it asserted that there were ties in
contemplation, which would bind you closely to Osborne Castle—that, in
short, the young lord, doing justice to the merits which would grace a
higher rank, had sought to make you his wife."
"I am not engaged to Lord Osborne, if that is what you mean," said
Emma calmly.
"I had thought it strange indeed if a young man so unformed, so
bearish, so almost brutal, had known how to value, much more to win, a
jewel so bright and excellent."
"I must beg, Mr. Morgan, if you mention Lord Osborne's name at all, it
may be in terms such as I may listen to without offence. Pray remember
that I am under obligations to that family, for which it would be a
bad return to hear, without remonstrance, such aspersions cast on the
head of it. But I must confess I see no reason why either they or
myself should form the subject of your interrogatories. You have no
claim either past or present, which can make these enquiries anything
short of impertinent, and I must beg they may cease entirely."
She then walked a few steps to see if she could obtain any view of her
brother and friend, for whose return she felt anxious. Nothing,
however, was to be seen of them, and as she paused, her companion was
again at her side.
"How unfortunate I am," said he in a low tone, "it is constantly my
fate to offend those for whom I feel the deepest interest, and to be
misunderstood on every occasion where my sentiments are concerned.
Interest, friendship, zeal, constantly carry me beyond the bounds
proscribed by cold custom and formality, and I am repulsed in a way
which all but annihilates me. At this moment _you_ are angry with me;
have I sinned unpardonably?"
"I am not _angry_" said Emma, drily, "but I must beg that all personal
subjects of conversation may be dropped; we have neither sentiments
nor interests in common, and on all topics connected with feeling I
must impose a total silence."
"Unfeeling, cruel girl," cried he, then seeing that she resolutely
walked away in the direction of the boat-house, where she concluded
the party must be now assembled, he followed her steps in haste, and
placing himself by her side, he continued in a low but emphatic tone,
"Emma Watson, why should you scorn my offers of friendship, and my
professions of regard? Why should you shun me as if I were some
dangerous enemy? Do you mistrust my word; or am I responsible for the
silly gossiping of idle women? Did I not warn you against it?—why then
visit it on me? Or have I personally offended you?—what have I
done?—you will not speak—you try to elude me—nay, but you _shall_ hear
me; you _shall_ answer me by heaven!—Who has wronged me in your
opinion?"
"Mr. Morgan, let go my hand—is _this_ honourable?—is this manly to
attempt to obtain an answer to impertinent enquiries by
compulsion?—Let go my hand—I tell you I will neither hear nor answer
you!"
"Emma, I was wrong—" said he, softening his voice, but instead of
releasing her hand, clasping it in both of his, "I ought to know you
better—I understand your heart and feelings—"
"You do no such thing, sir,—or you would not detain me here, or compel
me to listen to such language. Let me go—I command you."
"Emma, your heart is no longer your own—am I not right?—you _love_!"
"And if I do—what concern is that of yours?" retorted she.
"Of _mine_, it is everything in the world to me—you love _me_—deny it
if you can."
"Insolence!" exclaimed Emma, "unmanly insolence."
"No, it is not insolence, Emma, you look beautiful in scorn, but you
need not scorn _me_; I am your equal in birth and education—aye! and
in taste and mental qualities too—and happily possessed of the fortune
which _you_ want. And I love you, and tender all to you. You have done
what no other woman ever did—for your sake I would even stoop to the
yoke of matrimony; so great is my love and admiration for you. Now
have I said enough—now you may venture to confess the feelings long
treasured in your heart—the love which I have long read in your
downcast eye, and averted smile—maiden modesty need no more compel you
to silence—speak, _my_ Emma—bless me with the words I am longing,
panting to hear."
He advanced one step nearer as he spoke, and seemed about to pass his
arm round her waist, but Emma availed herself of the movement to
snatch her hand from his, and stepping back, whilst she cast on him a
look of withering scorn, she replied,
"Yes, you _have_ said enough, Mr. Morgan, to warrant _my_ speaking
plainly—and I _will_ speak—from what extraordinary perversion of
reasoning, you have persuaded yourself I loved _you_ I cannot tell,
but I trust you will believe me once for all—when I say _my_ feelings
are entirely the reverse of yours—and when I add—I _love_ and am
_engaged_ to another."
Mr. Morgan stepped back in his turn with an air in which disbelief and
bitter mortification struggled, with an attempt at indifference and
contempt.
"Engaged—impossible—Emma, you are deceiving me—it is a downright
falsehood!" exclaimed he.
"I must beg you to leave me," said she, haughtily. "I am not
accustomed to associate with those who accuse me of falsehood—I can
find my way alone."
She had continued to walk on from the moment she had declared her
engagement, and she flattered herself she must be approaching the
boat-house, but as they had reached the low ground, and were making
their way amidst thickets intersected with narrow paths, they could
not see the building.
"And it is for this," he exclaimed, presently, "that I stooped to ask
your hand—that I humbled myself as I never before did to woman, to be
scorned and rejected—false-hearted girl—true type of your weak and
vacillating sex—leading me to believe you preferred me, that you might
spurn me from you with disdain!" he approached one step nearer as he
spoke, and his face wore a look of malignity which absolutely
frightened Emma—he saw it.
"No, you need not shrink from me—I am not so mad as to do you harm;
you are safe under the protection of the laws. I would not risk my
freedom for all the girls in Surrey. But I must speak my feelings—"
He had no time, however, to say more, for hurried footsteps were heard
behind them, and in another moment Sam was beside his sister.
"My dearest Emma, I beg ten thousand pardons, but I was so sorry that
I left you—I assure you I had no intention of doing so—only—only—Annie
Millar persuaded me; but the moment we met some one whom she could
join, I ran back for you, and found you were gone—I am very sorry. You
are not angry with me?"
"No," said Emma softly; "but I am very glad you are come, dear Sam."
He felt her hand tremble under his arm, and looking in her face,
perceived she was very pale.
"You have walked too far, dear Emma," said he affectionately; "you
wanted my arm—how sorry I am. Why did not Morgan support you?"
He looked round, but the gentleman in question had taken another path
and was out of sight. Emma tried to speak, but instead of articulating
words, she only burst into tears, and astonished Sam by appearing on
the verge of a fit of hysterics.
He had too much sense to press for an explanation, but contented
himself with making her sit down, removing her bonnet and gloves, and
supporting her till she was calm again.
He then begged for some explanation of her emotion: she said she was
foolish: he admitted that was possible, but only if she refused him
all reasons for her conduct. She promised to be more explicit some
other time if he would only now give her back her bonnet, allow her to
make herself tidy, and rejoin the party.
These very reasonable requests could not be refused, and they returned
to the boat-house together, just as another division of their party
entered it likewise; consequently their appearance without Mr. Morgan
created no surprise or remark.
He returned a short time after, quite calm and happy in appearance,
and nothing on either side transpired to attract the attention of the
company, or give rise to the smallest surmise that anything unusual
had occurred. It was some comfort to have to deal with so complete an
actor, one who would betray nothing undesirable, by word or deed.