He took her hand this time, and pressed it, looked at it as he held it for a moment, and then as she drew it away, he rose and left the room.
She was quite surprised at the way in which the interview had terminated; he had shewn so much good feeling, so much less of selfishness than she had been in the habit of mentally attributing to him; there was no indignation, no wounded pride, no pique or resentment at her refusal; it was almost as if he had thought more of her disappointment than of his own, and regarded her feelings as of more consequence than his attachment. Her opinion of him had never been so high as when she thus declined his proposals: she felt that with a suitable wife, one who could value his good qualities, improve his tastes, and really love him, he might in time turn out a very estimable character.
If he were but as fortunate in his selection of a partner, as his sister had been, there was every probability of his equalling her in domestic happiness. She did not regret her own decision, but she regretted that he should have been so unfortunate as to love where no return could be given; if he had but chosen one whose heart was disengaged;—but as for herself, she was not the woman who could really make him happy; she had not the energy and decision of character requisite for his wife; she did not wish to govern, and she felt that she could only be happy, in proportion as she respected as well as loved her husband; unless she could trust his judgment and lean on him, she felt convinced she should despise him and be miserable.
When the family met at dinner, Lord Osborne was there, and she had not the slightest hint as to his probable departure; but there was nothing in his conduct or manners to create unpleasant feelings, or reveal the past to lookers on. There was but little said in their small circle that evening; the shock had been too recent to be yet so soon rallied from. Lady Gordon had been so very much attached to Mr. Howard; from her girlhood he had been her peculiar admiration, and her standard of excellence as a clergyman: the only wonder was that this attachment had continued on both sides so entirely platonic; that considering their opportunities of intercourse there had never been any approach to love. But so it was—whether there was too much pride on both sides, or whether her heart had been unknowingly engrossed by Sir William Gordon, she could not have told, but certainly, though they had talked and jested, quarrelled and been reproved, agreed and differed for the last four years, they had never passed the temperate zone of friendship, and her sorrow at his death was expressed fully, unreservedly, bitterly, without exciting the shadow of jealousy in her husband's mind. Indeed he fully sympathised in her feelings for he had loved and highly valued Howard, whom he had known intimately at College, before he became the young lord's tutor.
Fanny Carr was the only member of the party who seemed quite unaffected by what had occurred, but she was out of temper about something which concerned herself, and was fortunately silent.
Emma went to her friend's dressing-room the next morning by particular desire to breakfast quietly with her, whilst Sir William was sent down to do the honours of the house to Miss Carr and his brother-in-law.
"I want to talk to you, my dear friend," said Lady Gordon, "but I hardly know how to begin—about this shocking affair—poor, dear Mr. Howard, is it not sad?"
Emma's eyes filled with tears, and she could not answer.
"I thought so," said Lady Gordon, earnestly gazing at her face, "I knew your heart—you have, of us all, the most reason to regret his death."
Emma continued silent, for she had no voice to speak.