Griff tried to wile her on with him, but, though she
consented to wander about the lawn before the windows with him, she
always resolutely turned at the great beech tree. Emily and I
watched them from the window, at first amused, then vexed, as we
could see, by his gestures, that he was getting out of temper, and
her straw bonnet drooped at one moment, and was raised the next in
eager remonstrance or defence. At last he flung angrily away from
her, and went off to the stables, leaving her leaning against the
gate in tears. Emily, in an access of indignant sympathy, rushed
out to her, and they vanished together into the summer-house, until
her father called her, and they went home together.
Emily told me that Ellen had struggled hard to keep herself from
crying enough to show traces of tears which her father could
observe, and that she had excused Griff with all her might on the
plea of her own 'tiresomeness.'
We were all the more angry with him for his selfishness and want of
consideration, for Ellen, in her torrent of grief, had even
disclosed that he had said she did not care for him--no one really
in love ever scrupled about a mother's nonsense, etc., etc.
We were resolved, like two sages, to give him a piece of our minds,
and convince him that such dutifulness was the pledge of future
happiness, and that it was absolute cruelty to the rare creature he
had won, to try to draw her in a direction contrary to her
conscience.
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