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.