“Oh, we know quite well, I assure you,” she replied playfully.
“Let me do that for you, Julia!” said Edmund, starting forward to assist her he named, in plucking a branch of geranium, which she was very awkwardly attempting to reach.
“Good Heavens, Julia! what is the matter?” he exclaimed, catching up her hand; for in presenting the flower he had just pulled, he perceived that her countenance expressed the utmost wretchedness; and that her tears, in despite of an evident struggle to suppress them, were falling fast. She turned away, drew her hand forcibly out of his, and hurried to a further part of the greenhouse. He thought of the hand he had seen her give to Henry; permit him to retain so long, and even raise to his lips; and a vague sensation of pain and dread came over him. He followed her, however; he found her hastily drying her eyes. Again she endeavoured to avoid him.
“I have no right,” he said, detaining her, “to demand your confidence, Julia; perhaps, I am guilty of impertinence in thus seeking it—withhold it, if it must be so; but do not make me miserable, by seeming not only unhappy, but seriously offended with me!” His voice and manner renewed Julia’s habitual feelings of tenderness.
“I have no desire to make you miserable, Edmund! I wish you, sincerely wish you all happiness,” she replied, in a scarcely audible voice, “but do not speak to me now; do not speak to me, just now!”
He endeavoured to take her hand, and was about to reply; but she shrunk from his touch, and hastened, as for refuge, into the midst of the company in the drawing-room. He followed, and stood near her in silence. Frances had quitted the greenhouse, as soon as she made her laughing speech to Edmund, and, consequently, without perceiving her sister’s emotion.
At this moment Colonel Murray, of the Moorlands, was announced. He led by the hand a fine boy of about twelve or thirteen; with fair, curly, glossy hair; fair skin, glowing cheeks, soft hazel eyes, and a sweet open expression of countenance; the mouth and smile, as was afterwards universally observed, very like Edmund’s. He was dressed in the uniform of one of the Highland hunts, and carried in his hand a cap and plume, like young Norval’s.
“This is Arthur Oswald, the son of our friend Sir Archibald,” said the Laird, presenting him to Lord Arandale.
“Indeed!” cried his lordship, taking the boy’s hand, and glancing a look towards Edmund, which was answered by one of intelligence on his part. “I am truly happy to see him—fine little fellow! How did you leave your mamma, my dear? Well, I hope?”
“She was quite well when we came away,” he answered, “but that’s a good while now.”