"I do not think you ought to jest on such subjects," replied he, gravely; then, as she turned her head towards him with an expression of surprise, he added, "Excuse my liberty of speech. I quite forgot who I was speaking to."
She was silent and looked down, so that her bonnet concealed her countenance. He viewed her uneasily, and wanted to know whether she was affronted—or from what other reason she maintained this silence. Mr. Morgan saw all this; he could not read Annie's feelings exactly, but he felt convinced that, had they, at that moment, been without witnesses, some very tender scene would have ensued.
He now took up the conversation by observing, how much more beautiful the landscape would be in two months' time, when the tints of autumn gave a little variety to the scenery. The dull, heavy green of summer, he declared, reminded him always of mourning; it was so sombre.
He appealed to Emma, and she was compelled to reply. She had nothing to urge against his preference for the autumnal tints—except, that their proximity to winter gave them sadness, which, in themselves, they did not merit.
"The sadness of autumn is, however, compensated by the hopes of returning spring; we can bear to part with the verdure, which we know will be restored in fresh beauty. In that respect, how superior is inanimate nature, and our feeling of love for it, to human friendship, or regard, or esteem."
"I do not see that," said Emma.
"Who can tell when a faded friendship shall be renewed, or when a withered hope shall again look flourishing and verdant. The blast of winter is certain to pass away, and its consequences vanish with it—but the fatal breath of enmity—the chilling effects of whispered malevolence—the poison of calumny—tell me Miss Watson, of a cure for these, if you can."
"I know of none, save patience and a good conscience," replied Emma.
"Yes, patience—one needs that, indeed, to bear what I alluded to—when one sees the face which used to meet one with a smile, averted gravely—the hand once freely extended, now drawn back—the kindly words, once gushing out from the friendly heart, like water from a copious fountain, exchanged for the slow and measured accents which freeze the heart, as they drop out one by one; when one sees all this," he continued, lowering his voice, but speaking with impressive energy; "and knows it to be the cold deadness of feeling produced by the ill-will of others—the blighting words of malice—what can one hope—to what spring shall one look forward? when may one expect the young feelings of friendship to bud again?"
"Depend upon it they will, unless there is something more than unkind breath to check them. To pursue your allegory, Mr. Morgan, if the plant of friendship wither irretrievably, it must be because there is something wrong at the root, otherwise, it is certain once more to revive."