She called it curiosity to see how he was looking, when she admitted that thoughts of him had anything to do with it; but more often she persisted that it was affection for Lady Gordon, or a wish to see her old neighbourhood, or to visit Osborne Castle in the summer. In short, she found a hundred surprisingly good reasons why she should wish to go to Osborne Castle, any one of which would have been sufficient had it only been true, but as they were mostly imaginary, she never felt quite deceived about them in her own mind. This was provoking, as she would have liked, had she been able, to convince herself that she no longer took any interest in Mr. Howard. She had, however, a right to remember his sister with regard, and she readily owned to herself that she should be extremely glad to renew her acquaintance with Mrs. Willis. She hoped to see Margaret again, and judge of the comparative happiness of her married life. Yet she looked back with regret to the four past weeks and reckoned them as some of the happiest she had ever known. Elizabeth had spent part of the time with her, and she had enjoyed herself so very much.
The more she had known of Miss Bridge, the better she had liked her, and the parting was accompanied with mutual regrets and hopes of meeting again.
It was June when she returned to Osborne Castle—June with its deep blue skies—its sunny days—its delicious twilight; June with its garlands of roses scenting the air, and its odoriferous hay-fields. The weather was such as any lover of nature must revel in—delicious summer weather—fit for strolling in the shade or sitting under trees, making believe to read, whilst you were really watching the birds flitting among the bushes, or the bees humming in the flowers—weather for enjoying life in perfect listlessness and idleness—when scarcely any occupation could be followed up beyond arranging a bouquet or reading a novel. So thought and so declared the young bride when her husband pressed her to engage in any serious pursuit; she enjoyed the pleasure of teasing him by her refusals perhaps rather more than she ought to have done, but she never teased him very far now; she knew what he would bear, and ventured not to go beyond it.
"I am glad Emma Watson is coming today," said she, as she threw herself on a seat in the flower-garden; "you will have something else to look at then besides me, and I shall quite enjoy the change."
"Are you sure of that, Rosa?" said he doubtfully.
"Why you have not the impertinence to suppose that I value your incessant attentions," said she; "can you not imagine how tired I am of being the sole object of your love. Emma Watson shall listen to the grave books you so much love, shall talk of history or painting with you, shall sit as your model, and leave me in my beloved indolence."
"May I enquire if you suppose you are teasing or pleasing me by this arrangement, Rosa—is it to satisfy me or yourself?"
"Oh, don't ask troublesome questions; I hate investigations as to meanings and motives—all I want is to be left alone, and not asked to ride or walk when I had rather lie on a sofa in quiet."
"Shall I leave you now then, my dear little wife?" enquired he smilingly, and offering to go as he spoke. "I have a letter to write now, and you can stay here in solitude."
He returned to the Castle, she remained musing where he left her, and thus it happened that when Emma was announced, she found the young baronet alone in their morning sitting-room. He laid down his pen and advanced to meet her with great cordiality, desiring a message to be sent to summon his lady.