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.