"Good heavens, then she must have heard it all," cried Sir William, then hurrying forward as he caught a glimpse of her white gown, he gazed with anxious enquiry at her.
Her bloodless cheek, and her whole air, at once betrayed her knowledge of what had passed; but making a violent effort to conquer emotions which were almost choking her, she attempted to rise and come forward. She had hardly strength for the exertion, she trembled so violently, but still the effort did her good. Sir William looked at her compassionately, and drawing her hand under his arm without a word, led her away. Lord Osborne followed with a look of deep dismay in his face, and an air of indescribable dejection over his whole figure.
"Can I be of any use to Lady Gordon?" enquired Emma, forcing slowly, one by one, from her parched and trembling lips, the words which she could scarcely articulate.
"Lady Gordon is tolerably composed, and gone to bed," replied he, "let me recommend the same course to you. I am shocked to think you should have been left so long uncared for. You seem quite exhausted and worn out."
Emma gladly complied with his recommendation, and tried to sleep, but that was vain. Images of horror of every kind filled her mind the moment she attempted it, and she was glad at length to rise and throw open the window to breathe the fresh air.
The moon, which was still high in the sky, was beginning to grow pale before the increasing light in the east; the air was calm, the wind merely a gentle breathing: now and then was heard the chirp of the early birds in the neighbouring trees, but as yet the busy tenants of the rookery near the castle were still. The cry of the deer in the park, the lowing of cattle at a still greater distance, the murmur of the stream in the valley came distinctly on the ear, during the profound hush which preceded the dawn.
Everything looked so fair and calm, and happy—could it be that misery and disappointment, and suffering, were for ever lurking under all! How gay had been the commencement of yesterday; how sad the close! Such was worldly pleasure—such it must be—such it ought to be. Happiness was fled from her for ever; she could not expect to meet it again. A calm, dull future spread before her, uncheered by love, or home, or hope. Her affections blighted in their first spring, were for ever destroyed, and if she could learn resignation that was the utmost she could look forward to.
She burst into tears, went back to her bed, cried herself to sleep, and did not wake till a late hour the following day.
Of course she was looking wretchedly pale and miserable when she descended the next day. So conscious was she of this that she longed to remain in her own room, but feared that it might have even a more suspicious appearance than her pale cheeks. She was relieved on entering the sitting room to find only Sir William, Lord Osborne having breakfasted and gone out. He was looking sad and grave, but replied to her anxious enquiries, that his wife was better, but not well enough to leave her room yet. He regarded her with a compassionate expression, and said,
"You too are suffering from the events of yesterday—no wonder; such a blow coming after so much excitement and fatigue."