"To-morrow, if you please," replied Emma, gratefully; Lady Gordon promised that the means of conveyance should be at her service, and they proceeded to discuss other topics.
She insisted on detaining Mr. Howard to spend the afternoon and to dine with them—pleading, as a reason, the absence of his sister, who was away on a visit; and when this point was carried and settled, she led them out into the flower garden again, and loitered away the rest of the intervening time, amidst the perfume of summer flowers, and the flickering lights and shadows of the alcoves, and their gay creeping plants. It was the day and place for love making; who could resist the fascinating influence of sweet scents, sunshine, murmuring fountains and soft summer airs? Not Mr. Howard, certainly! Gradually his frozen manner melted away—his purposes of reserve were forgotten, and he became once more the Mr. Howard of Emma's first acquaintance, pleasant and gay—sensible and agreeable.
Lady Gordon left them several times together, whilst she occupied herself with her flowers or her tame pheasants; and each successive time of her absence, there was less check and constraint in his manner; and when, at last, she totally disappeared, and they were left without other witnesses in that delightful spot, than the silent trees, or the trickling waters, his reserve had disappeared altogether, and she could converse with him as in former times.
"Have you enjoyed your visit at Croydon, Miss Watson," enquired he, presently.
She looked surprised at the question.
"Enjoyed it," she repeated—then, after a momentary hesitation added, "I wonder you can apply such a term to circumstances connected with so much that is—that must be most painful."
He was exceedingly vexed with himself for the question, and attempted to make some excuse for the inadvertence.
"It is unnecessary." she replied, with a something almost of bitterness in her tone, "I had no right to expect that the memory of our misfortune would remain, when we ourselves were removed from sight. I ought rather to apologise for answering your question so uncivilly."
"No, no, indeed," cried he eagerly, "I cannot admit that—but indeed, Miss Watson, you do me injustice, and the same to all your former friends in that last speech. We cannot cease to regret the misfortune—the Providential dispensation, which in removing your excellent father from among us, robbed us likewise of you and your sisters."
"My dear father," said Emma involuntarily, her eyes filling with tears—she turned away her head.