After dinner Sam again drew Emma aside and would not be satisfied till
he had, by close questioning, extorted from her everything that had
passed. Nothing less than the exact words, so far as she could
remember them, would do for him; he supposed things twenty times worse
than the truth, unless she could assert, on her honour, the exact
state of the facts. She was quite miserable at telling him, because
she could not get him to own what he thought, or promise to take no
further notice of the circumstance. Instead of giving her the
assurance she required, he sometimes laughed and put her off with an
evasive answer, sometimes frowned and resolutely closed his
lips—sometimes told her to go away for a foolish girl, and not meddle
with what did not concern her.
She was certain he meditated more than he would own, and her fears
made her apprehend that any demand for explanation or apology from Mr.
Morgan, would produce a quarrel which must end in a challenge. With
wretched feelings she returned to the party.
Here they found a rather noisy scene. Alfred Freemantle and Mr.
Morgan, having both elevated their spirits by the great quantity of
bad wine which they had imbibed at dinner, were trying to induce some
of the young ladies to accompany them in the boat, which was lying
near the shore. The two Miss Halls and Mrs. Robert Watson, were
carrying on a half-romping opposition to this plan, but evidently
intending to yield their consent after a proper opposition.
Alfred Freemantle accused them of being cowards, which the three
ladies of course denied.
"Come, then," cried Mr. Morgan, catching her hand and dragging Mrs.
Watson down the bank. "Come and shew that you trust me!"
George Millar turned to Sam, and said softly,
"Morgan is half drunk—can you not prevent your sister going with him."
"I have no influence with either," said Sam, coolly, "perhaps you
could dissuade her better than I!"
George followed her, and drawing her back, whispered something in her
ear, which was not communicated to the others, but which seemed to
have some effect upon her. She paused a moment, and then returning to
the others said,
"I think you are right, George Millar, it will not agree with me so
soon after dinner. I shall not go."
"And if you do not, Jane," said Miss Hall, "I am sure neither my
sister nor I shall venture—it would be quite improper without a
chaperone."
"I think you are very wise," observed Miss Bridge, quietly.
"I know what it is," cried Alfred, "you think we cannot manage the
boat, but you are quite mistaken, as you shall see. I am not drunk,
though you think we are; we will go without you!"
As he said these words he sprang on board after Mr. Morgan, who was
already there, and they pushed off from the shore, and rowed a little
way. Presently two of the other young ladies called to them to enquire
where they were going.
Mr. Morgan replied that they were going to land on a little island
opposite to smoke a cigar—would they come?
The girls acceded to the proposition; and, contrary to the advice of
the whole party, persisted in their determination. The boat returned
to take them on board, and no sooner where they seated, than Alfred
amused himself by making the boat roll in the water, in order to
frighten them. Had they sat still, there would have been no danger—but
in their alarm they both started up, and catching hold of him at the
same moment, they all three fell heavily against the gun-wale and
upset the boat at once.
A loud scream from the party on shore was, of course, the first effort
of their sympathy. The two other gentlemen simultaneously rushed into
the water, and without much difficulty, succeeded in rescuing the two
ladies—for the accident had happened so close to the shore, that it
was not out of their depth. Alfred Freemantle likewise rose, and
scrambled towards the bank, up which he crept a deplorable object.
The young women of course, excited the greatest sympathy, and none but
Emma, at the first moment, remembered that there had been a fourth
person in the boat. But she had kept her eyes on the place where he
had sunk, and saw, with horror, that there was no trace of him—he did
not reappear.
"Mr. Morgan," she exclaimed, "what has become of him?"
Every one turned at the name, from the dripping objects round which
they had been crowding—ejaculations on every side were heard.
"True, Morgan! he has sunk—he is drowning! good heavens! can you do
nothing? Call for help! run for the boatmen!" and twenty other
exclamations.
"Watson, we must look for him," said George.
Sam's coat was off before he had done speaking.
"But we must be cautious," continued Millar, "he may be sunk in a
hole, or entangled in the weeds—the bottom is very foul."
"Where did he sink," cried Sam, "did any one see."
Emma pointed out, as well as she could, the spot where he had
disappeared, and watched, with breathless anxiety, whilst the two swam
round and round, and dived again and again. His hat was floating on
the water at a little distance; but no sign or trace of him appeared.
One of the party had summoned the boatmen, who, after much delay
brought drags and hooks, and having succeeded in righting the boat,
they did their utmost to discover the missing man; but they did not
seem to have much expectation of success; they said they knew it was a
dangerous part of the bank; that there was a deep hole just
thereabouts, into which the gentleman had probably sunk, and that many
years ago, a similar accident having happened, had occasioned the
former owner of the place, to forbid boating there at all. But his son
had, for some years, allowed it, though they should not wonder if he
were to shut it up now from the public.
Their conjectures on the subject might have lasted a long time before
any one interrupted them, for the whole party were too horror-stricken
to speak. The dripping and the dry alike stood together in motionless
excitement, or intense anxiety, watching the result of their efforts.
It seemed impossible, that one but lately so full of life and spirit,
one of themselves—one who had for so long a time belonged to them,
could have thus suddenly disappeared without warning, and have left no
vestige behind. It was too horrible—to perish before their eyes, and
from so trivial a cause. For many minutes, the extremity of their
feeling was shown by their total silence; then, when the conviction
was forced on them, that he was really lost, hysterical sobs and
screams were heard, especially from the two girls, who had been the
immediate cause of the accident, and who, shocked at their own share
of the misfortune, shivering with cold, convulsed with horror, and in
every way overcome, now demanded the attention of such of the party,
as had any sense or self-possession left.
Fortunately the carriages were at this moment announced, and the only
possible thing to do, as they were far from all assistance, was for
the sufferers to be wrapped in such cloaks as could be found amongst
them, and conveyed back to Croydon as speedily as possible.
Neither George nor Sam would consent to leave the place, whilst a
shadow of a hope remained that the body might be recovered, but they
insisted that their sisters should return home at once, as they
proposed, when all was over, if the search was unsuccessful, to walk
to a public-house on the outskirts of the Park, and dry themselves
there, before returning to Croydon. Emma had the presence of mind to
propose that a carriage and a supply of dry clothes should be
despatched there to meet them, by the first of the party that arrived
at home.
Under the escort of Miss Bridge's manservant, instead of Sam,
Elizabeth, Emma, Annie, and Miss Hall, returned in the vehicle
which had borne them so gaily and light-hearted to the Park. But
little conversation passed, and the few words which were said, had
no reference to the fatal event; it was too recent and too
shocking to speak of. To Emma, indeed, after what had so lately
passed between them, the circumstance seemed beyond description or
imagination terrible. The angry feelings with which they had
parted, the malevolence he had expressed, and the evident state of
half-intoxication, to which he had perhaps resorted to drown his
disappointed feelings, and conceal his chagrin and mortification,
all seemed to rise up, as if to reproach her conscience. Why had
she been so scornful and so bitter; perhaps, had she answered more
mildly, had she shown less contempt and more compassion, he might
still have been alive, all this might not have happened. It
appeared like a horrid dream altogether, their angry dispute—Sam's
indignation, and her fears for him, and finally, Mr. Morgan's
sudden disappearance, all had passed so rapidly, that she could
scarcely feel it a reality.
One thing she was resolved—she would never join a large, mixed
pleasure-party again; it was impossible that real satisfaction could
be found in such society, and so far as her experience went, they
seemed always nothing but preludes to some heavy misfortune. It was a
relief to her to find herself once more at home in the Rectory at
Croydon, alone in her apartment, able to think without distraction,
rest without interruption, and cry without observation.
She was so completely worn out, that to sit down and indulge in a very
hearty flood of tears was the greatest relief imaginable.
Sam called at the Rectory on his return to the town, and saw her for a
few minutes. It was dark and the candles were not lighted, so she had
ventured down stairs to meet him.
"Any news?" enquired Mr. Bridge.
"Nothing," said he: then crossing the room to his sister, he
whispered,
"Emma, you are avenged!"
She shuddered and did not answer.