CHAPTER XIII.
After composing her feelings, smoothing her hair, and cooling her face at the fountain close by, she ventured to return to the Castle, with the intention, if she were permitted, of seeing Lady Gordon, though she had not yet decided upon telling her how deeply her feelings were involved in the melancholy past. Her friend was in the morning room when she returned to it, lying on a sofa, and on Emma's entrance there was a general expression of wonder as to where she had been for so long a time from the three who were sitting there. Her only answer of course was that she did not know she had been long away: she had been sitting in the flower-garden.
"I wonder you like to sit there," said Miss Carr; "I always am stung by gnats if I venture on such a thing."
She then turned herself sleepily on the sofa and dozed again.
Sir William, after an earnest look at Emma's countenance, withdrew his eyes, and was apparently occupied with a newspaper, whilst Emma drawing her embroidery frame close to Lady Gordon's sofa, sat down with apparent industry to her work, with the satisfactory consciousness that every time she drew a long breath, her precious letter was more closely pressed to her swelling heart.
The long silence which ensued was only broken by Sir William at last throwing down the paper, and proposing to his wife a walk or a drive—anything for change of air and scene. She agreed to the drive, and he went to hurry the phæton, she to arrange her dress. Miss Carr begged to accompany them, and could not be refused, though they did not particularly desire her society; and thus Emma was left alone to indulge in sad recollections and tender reveries, which were, however, speedily cut short by the entrance of Lord Osborne.
It was natural that, having seen the others go out without Emma, he should calculate on finding her alone, and equally so that he should be exceedingly anxious for an interview, as his question was still unanswered, his hand unaccepted, his future happiness as yet uncertain.
She looked up with an air of consciousness on his approach, which encouraged him to advance, and draw a seat by her side. He tried to take her hand, but the attempt was made with so much hesitation and awkwardness that she was not even sure whether he intended it; no repulse was requisite, the simple not encouraging it was enough to prevent so daring an act of gallantry. In fact, he had lost the courage which on the previous night had distinguished him; the warmth and animation were gone—he was again himself, labouring under rather more than his usual awkwardness of manner, and quite overpowered by his various sensations. To have expressed all his feelings would have been impossible even for an eloquent man—his love was so mingled with jealousy, his hope with doubt, and his satisfaction with regret.
He sat looking at her for some minutes in silence, which Emma thought particularly disagreeable, until at length she concluded that he expected her to commence the conversation, and looking up with as steady a voice as she could command, she enquired whether he had received any further intelligence from Wales.
"No!" he replied, abruptly, but the question roused him to exertion, and he added,