Had there been no Emma Watson in the world, or had she been, as he feared she would soon be, married to Lord Osborne, he must still have refused the proposal which had just been made to him. It never could have presented itself as a temptation to his mind. But under present circumstances, with a heart full of her memory, all the more precious, the more dwelt on, because he feared she would never be more to him, it was more than impossible, it was entirely repulsive. If he must love her in vain, as he told himself he should, that was no reason he should marry another; and if she were to become Lady Osborne as he feared, her mother-in-law would be the last person he would be tempted to accept. Step-father to her husband—oh, impossible! rather would he remove a thousand miles than voluntarily bring himself into contact with that charming girl in that relationship. If he could not have her, he would remain single for her and for his sister's sake, and his nephew should hold the place of son to him. These were his resolutions, and a further determination to avoid all intercourse at present with the dowager was the only other idea which could find any resting place in his troubled brain. He returned the next day to his Vicarage, and there, with his sister, his garden and his parochial duties, he sought alike to forget the pleasures and the pains of the past.
CHAPTER VI.
A month of tranquillity and peace of mind, passed in the society of Miss Bridge, was sufficient to restore Emma Watson to all her former health and more than her former beauty. When Lady Gordon wrote to remind her of the promised visit, she was almost sorry to go. Yet her heart would flutter a little at the notion of again visiting Osborne Castle—of being again in the vicinity of Mr. Howard, of seeing, hearing, meeting him again. It was very foolish to care so much about it—extremely so when he had so completely shown his own indifference, and yet she could not help feeling a good deal at the idea of meeting.
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?"