Emma thought it would be the easiest way to consent, and they went accordingly. On entering the breakfast-room, which they had entirely to themselves, they found that, owing probably to the confusion in the household, the letters, by that morning's post, had been laid on the table there, and no one had seen them. Miss Carr immediately began looking them over, and presently exclaimed:
"Here are two—three for you Miss Watson. I wonder there are none for me!"
Emma received them, and glanced at their exteriors to see whether she should open them there. One she saw was from Miss Bridge—one from Elizabeth—and thinking that the occupation of reading them would prevent her hearing Miss Carr's chatter, she broke the seal of the latter, and began to peruse it.
It gave her a lively account of Lord Osborne's visit, and contained many hints as to the object of his journey and the motive for it, which suddenly re-called to Emma's mind the fact, which until that moment, had absolutely escaped her memory—his proposal to herself—a proposal to which he had, as yet, received no answer. It seemed hard and cruel to keep the poor young man in suspense, which would end in disappointment—for she could not hesitate a moment, as to her answer. Under no circumstances could she ever accept him, or persuade herself to think him an agreeable man. But the meditation on his love, and her intentions with regard to it, forced another consideration upon her, what else should she do with reference to him. Would he leave the house, or should she, or could they go on as before with any comfort to herself. It would be very disagreeable to have to continue in daily intercourse with a rejected lover, unless, indeed, he were much more magnanimous than the rest of his sex; for, with men in general, it appears, no insult can be deeper, no injury more severe, than a woman differing from their estimation of themselves, and doubting the fact of their making a suitable and agreeable husband. This is so unpardonable an offence, that there are few men who would acknowledge having met with such a rebuff, or if they do, it is in the well-known language of the "Laird o' Cockpen."
Emma flattered herself, on consideration, that she should not suffer from any pique on his part, as when her unalterable resolution was once known to him, there would be nothing to prevent his immediately removing himself and his disappointment to some other scene.
After dreaming over these things for some time, she took up the other letters and rose to go. Casting her eye, as she did so, on the post-mark and address of the third, which, hitherto, she had not noticed, she was startled by perceiving that it came from North Wales—and, if her senses did not deceive her, it was Mr. Howard's handwriting.
The small remains of presence of mind which this discovery left her, was just sufficient to check the exclamation rising to her lips; and the impulse of her feelings prompting her to seek solitude and fresh air—she rushed out on the terrace, down the flight of steps into Lady Gordon's flower garden; and there, secluding herself under a wide spreading bay tree, she endeavoured to recover sufficient breath and composure to examine the letter. With trembling fingers, beating heart, and tearful eyes, she broke the seal, and after hurriedly glancing at the date and signature, laid it down on her knees, and resting her head on her arm, burst into a fit of crying, which she tried vainly to control.
And was the hand which had penned those lines never to clasp hers again! Did the heart which dictated them—did it beat no more! Had the declaration of his love been delayed until the acknowledgment of her own could never gratify his ears! Why, oh! why was this! Why had he suppressed his feelings! Why had he left her! Why had he tortured her thus!
She caught up the letter—covered it with kisses—and then through her blinding tears attempted to read it. It contained a short and simple statement of his love, and an offer of his hand; if she could consent to be a poor man's wife, he would do his utmost to make her happy.
But it was all too late now; by the date it was evident that the letter had been written nearly a fortnight ago, and the tardiness of the post-office arrangements had alone prevented his receiving a reply. And he had, perhaps, been blaming her for silence and proud disdain—perhaps with the mixed quick-sightedness and blindness of love, he had been alike jealous of Lord Osborne's passion, and alarmed lest she were influenced in his lordship's favor. He might have been attributing her silence to this cause, and perished blaming her for coquetry, coldness, or ambition. Could she but have told him of her feelings—but now he would never know them.