I turned round, and saw Mr Somerville and Emily on horseback, within six paces of me; so still they stood, so mute, I could have fancied Emily a wax-work figure.  They neither breathed nor moved; even their very horses seemed to be of bronze, or, perhaps the unfortunate situation in which I found myself made me think them so.  They had come as unexpectedly on us as we had discovered them.  The soft turf had received the impression of their horses’ feet, and returned no sound; and if they snorted, we had either not attended to them in the warmth of our conversation, or we had never heard them.

I rose up hastily—­coloured deeply—­stammered, and was about to speak.  Perhaps it was better that I did not; but I had no opportunity.  Like apparitions they came, and like apparitions they vanished.  The avenue from whence they had so silently issued, received them again, and they were gone before Eugenia was sensible of their presence.

Chapter XXVII

  Fare thee well; and if for ever—­
    Still for ever fare thee well: 
  Even though unforgiving, never
    ’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

  BYRON.

I was so stunned with this contretemps, that I fell senseless to the ground; and it was long before the kind attentions and assiduity of Eugenia could restore me.  When she had succeeded, my first act was one of base ingratitude, cruelty, and injustice:  I spurned her from me, and upbraided her as the cause of my unfortunate situation.  She only replied with tears.  I quitted her and the child without bidding them adieu, little thinking I should never see them again.  I ran to the inn, where I had left my horse, mounted, and rode back to ——­ Hall.  Mr Somerville and his daughter had just arrived, and Emily was lifted off her horse, and obliged to be carried up to her room.

Clara and Talbot came to enquire what had happened.  I could give no account of it; but earnestly requested to see Emily.  The answer returned was that Miss Somerville declined seeing me.  In the course of this day, which, in point of mental suffering, exceeded all I had ever endured in the utmost severity of professional hardship, an explanation had taken place between myself, my father, and Mr Somerville.  I had done that by the impulse of dire necessity which I ought to have done at first of my own free will.  I was caught at last in my own snare.  “The trains of the devil are long,” said I to myself, “but they are sure to blow up at last.”

The consequence of the explanation was my final dismissal, and a return of all the presents which my father and myself had given to Emily.  My conduct, though blamable, was not viewed in that heinous light, either by my father or Mr Somerville; and both of them did all that could be done to restore harmony.  Clara and Talbot interposed their kind offices, but with no better success.  The maiden pride of the inexorable Emily had been alarmed by a beautiful rival, with a young family, in the next village.  The impression had taken hold of her spotless mind, and could not be removed.  I was false, fickle, and deceitful, and was given to understand that Miss Somerville did not intend to quit her room until she was assured by her father that I was no longer a guest in the house.