She was just beginning to recover, but still unable to move, when she heard Sir William's voice enquiring,
"Where is Emma—Osborne, have you seen her? she was not in the ball-room."
"She was with me in the conservatory," replied his companion.
"Good heavens, then she must have heard it all," cried Sir William, then hurrying forward as he caught a glimpse of her white gown, he gazed with anxious enquiry at her.
Her bloodless cheek, and her whole air, at once betrayed her knowledge of what had passed; but making a violent effort to conquer emotions which were almost choking her, she attempted to rise and come forward. She had hardly strength for the exertion, she trembled so violently, but still the effort did her good. Sir William looked at her compassionately, and drawing her hand under his arm without a word, led her away. Lord Osborne followed with a look of deep dismay in his face, and an air of indescribable dejection over his whole figure.
"Can I be of any use to Lady Gordon?" enquired Emma, forcing slowly, one by one, from her parched and trembling lips, the words which she could scarcely articulate.
"Lady Gordon is tolerably composed, and gone to bed," replied he, "let me recommend the same course to you. I am shocked to think you should have been left so long uncared for. You seem quite exhausted and worn out."
Emma gladly complied with his recommendation, and tried to sleep, but that was vain. Images of horror of every kind filled her mind the moment she attempted it, and she was glad at length to rise and throw open the window to breathe the fresh air.
The moon, which was still high in the sky, was beginning to grow pale before the increasing light in the east; the air was calm, the wind merely a gentle breathing: now and then was heard the chirp of the early birds in the neighbouring trees, but as yet the busy tenants of the rookery near the castle were still. The cry of the deer in the park, the lowing of cattle at a still greater distance, the murmur of the stream in the valley came distinctly on the ear, during the profound hush which preceded the dawn.
Everything looked so fair and calm, and happy—could it be that misery and disappointment, and suffering, were for ever lurking under all! How gay had been the commencement of yesterday; how sad the close! Such was worldly pleasure—such it must be—such it ought to be. Happiness was fled from her for ever; she could not expect to meet it again. A calm, dull future spread before her, uncheered by love, or home, or hope. Her affections blighted in their first spring, were for ever destroyed, and if she could learn resignation that was the utmost she could look forward to.