.dt The Younger Sister, Vol III, by Mrs. Hubback--A Project Gutenberg eBook
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THE YOUNGER SISTER.
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A Novel
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<s>BY</s>

<l><sc>Mrs.</sc> HUBBACK,</l>
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IN THREE VOLUMES.—VOL. III.
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<l>LONDON:</l>
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER
30, WELBECK <sc>St.</sc>, CAVENDISH <sc>Sq.</sc>

1850.
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CONTENTS

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#CHAPTER I:v3ch01# 

#CHAPTER II:v3ch02# 

#CHAPTER III:v3ch03# 

#CHAPTER IV:v3ch04# 

#CHAPTER V:v3ch05# 

#CHAPTER VI:v3ch06# 

#CHAPTER VII:v3ch07# 

#CHAPTER VIII:v3ch08#    

#CHAPTER IX:v3ch09#    
 
#CHAPTER X:v3ch10#   

#CHAPTER XI:v3ch11#    

#CHAPTER XII:v3ch12#    

#CHAPTER XIII:v3ch13#    

#CHAPTER XIV:v3ch14#    

#CHAPTER XV:v3ch15#    
 
#CHAPTER XVI:v3ch16#   

#CHAPTER XVII:v3ch17#    

#CHAPTER XVIII:v3ch18#    

#CHAPTER XIX:v3ch19# 
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<xl>THE YOUNGER SISTER.</xl>
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CHAPTER I.
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The afternoon passed away, and Margaret, who had been incessantly walking
from one window to another, to watch for her lover's curricle, now began to
create a new sensation for herself, by a conviction which suddenly seized
on her, that some dreadful accident had happened to him. It was towards the
end of March, and the lengthened days allowed them plenty of time to dine
by daylight, and enjoy a long twilight afterwards; as the evening began to
close in, her alarm and tribulation increased; when, at length, her fears
were dissipated by seeing the curricle drive up to the door with a most
important bustle, followed by a loud and prolonged knock, which instantly
brought twenty heads to the neighbouring windows.

Margaret sank on a sofa, and exclaimed in feeble tones,

"He is there—my heart tells me he is there—support me, my dear
sisters—support me in this trying hour."

Before any one had time to answer her, his step was heard on the stairs,
and recovering as rapidly as she had appeared to lose her strength, she
flew to the door and was ready to have thrown herself into his arms on the
smallest encouragement. He did not, however, seem to desire her embraces,
but coolly held out his hand, and enquired how she was—then, without
waiting for an answer, turned and paid a similar compliment to the other
ladies. She looked a little disappointed at the want of tenderness her
lover displayed, but consoled herself by smoothing down the nap of his hat,
which she took from his hand, and stretching out the fingers of his driving
gloves—of which she also assumed the care.

At this moment, Robert Watson and Mr. Morgan, who had been sitting over
their wine in the dining-parlour, appeared up-stairs, and Robert
immediately suggested to Mr. Musgrove that he must want some dinner, to
which the latter readily acceded.

Jane and Margaret who appeared to be almost equally interested in the
new-comer, both left the room to see after the necessary preparations, and
whilst they were gone George Millar came in and persuaded Elizabeth to go
home with him, to take tea with his sister and mother-in-law. Robert and
his new guest adjourned to the dining-room where the two ladies joined
them, and Emma was left to a <lang="fr"><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang> with Mr.
Morgan.

He had seated himself in a corner, and was looking over the newspaper
during all the bustle attending the arrival of Tom Musgrove, and the
successive entrances and exits of the several members of the party. But
when they were all gone, and Emma was quietly sitting down to work, he
threw away the paper and walking across the room drew a chair close to hers
and seemed inclined to enter into conversation.

"How happy your sister must be," was his first speech, whilst he fixed his
uncommonly penetrating eyes on her face.

"Which sister?" replied Emma, without looking up from her embroidery.

"Both must be happy," replied he; "but at this moment I imagine your sister
Margaret's feelings must be the most agreeable; meeting after a prolonged
absence must be so delightful. Don't you envy her?"

"I hope not," said Emma, for she was not quite satisfied with his tone and
manner; there was something of sarcasm in it which she did not like.

"I did not mean envy in the bad sense," he remarked, as if comprehending her
thoughts from her tone; "of that I know you to be incapable; but can you
not fancy how pleasant her emotions must be when again enjoying the society
of an attached and faithful lover like the gentleman in question?"

"Perhaps I can—but I must be in her situation thoroughly to enter into her
feelings," said Emma rather wishing to drop the subject.

"And hitherto you have not been placed in this interesting situation?"

There was something in the tone in which Mr. Morgan made this comment, with
his eyes fixed on her countenance, that gave it rather the character of a
question than a reply. She felt offended at his manner and tone, and
proudly raised her head with a look which seemed to ask what right he had
to enquire on that subject. He understood her meaning, but did not seem
inclined to take any notice of it, proceeding in the same way to observe,

"They whose hearts are untouched cannot of course understand all the
pleasing emotions which the sight of a beloved object raises after a
prolonged absence—nor indeed does it require a <i>prolonged absence</i> to
give occasion to the emotions I speak of. A month, a fortnight, even a week
passed without the intercourse which becomes dear and therefore necessary,
is sufficient to raise a variety of pleasing but most overpowering feelings
in an affectionate heart."

"Very likely," replied Emma coolly, and then she added immediately an
enquiry as to whether he thought the next change of the moon would bring
them more settled weather.

He answered that he could not tell, and then added,

"Do you not think your future brother, Mr. Musgrove, is a very charming
young man?"

"I have often heard him called so," said Emma; "but you know it is not my
business to be charmed with him," smiling a little as she spoke.

"You are most discreet," said he, delighted that she appeared inclined to
relax a little from her former gravity; "but to tell you the truth I should
<i>not</i> have expected, from what I know, that you <i>would</i> be
charmed with him."

"From what you know of <i>him</i> or of <i>me</i>?" inquired Emma.

"Of you both, but especially of <i>you</i>: it is not for nothing that I
have been studying your character, and I am convinced that a man who would
attract <i>you</i>, Miss Emma, must possess more good qualities than Mr.
Musgrove can boast of."

"Perhaps I might be a little difficult to please," replied Emma; "but do
you think there is any harm in that?"

"Harm, no!" replied he with enthusiasm; "minds of a common order cannot
discriminate between what is good or evil in its tendency; they see only
what is evil to their own capacities, and are entirely unaware of the vast
difference between the intellects of one man and another. Whilst those who
by their own intellectual powers are raised above the common level, take
in, at one keen and rapid view, the different mental altitudes of their
companions, and appreciating alone the grand and elevated turn from more
ordinary minds with indifference, contempt or disgust."

"I hope," said Emma rather doubtingly, "that your description is not
intended to apply to me: that is, if I understand you rightly. I should be
very sorry to think I am guilty of setting up my understanding as a measure
for that of others, or of despising any of my companions as thinking them
less clever than myself."

"Indeed I did not mean to accuse you of voluntarily giving way to such
feelings—the sensation I meant to depict is as involuntary as your
perception of light or colour. A person endowed with a superior
understanding could no more help deciding on the different mental
capacities of her companions than she could on the beauty or fitness of the
patterns of their gowns."

"But the superiority of mental capacities, or our own estimation of them
ought not to be the standard by which we should judge of the merits of our
fellow-creatures, Mr. Morgan. Surely their moral superiority is a far more
important point, and it would be much better to live with a good but
ignorant man, than with a wicked one however clever and well-informed."

Mr. Morgan rather curled his lip.

"I doubt whether you will find your maxim work well in every day life,
however well it may sound in theory. The practice of mankind is against it
universally, and where that is the case it is because the sense of the
world leads them to the conclusion which you reject. Look around, and see
who has most success in life, the clever, unscrupulous, and if you will the
unprincipled man, or the sober, plodding, moral one, without wit or wisdom
to prevent his sinking lower than the condition in which he was born."

Emma had not the vanity to suppose that she could be a match for Mr. Morgan
in dispute, she was, therefore, contented to let the subject drop. Finding
she did not reply, he moved his chair a little closer than before, and
said, in a tone of the softest sympathy,

"Are you quite well this evening? dusk as it is, I am struck with your
looks, and was so at dinner."

She thanked him, and replied she was pretty well. He did not seem
satisfied.

"Are you sure you have no head-ache? there is a languor in your movements,
and a heaviness about your eyes, which plainly shows that all is not quite
right with you. Confess the truth—does not your head ache?"

She owned it did a little.

"I thought I knew your countenance too well to be misled," said he,
complacently—then taking her hand, without the smallest ceremony, in both
of his, he felt her pulse, and told her she was nervous and feverish. She
smiled, and said she was only a little tired, and that he must not persuade
her she was ill; she had not time for that.

"I am certain," replied he, still detaining her hand, which she had made a
slight attempt to withdraw, "I am certain, from the tremulous motion of
your little fairy-like fingers that you are suffering from over-excitement
of mind. You have so much to worry and distress you, so many small
privations and never ceasing annoyances, that your nervous temperament is
wrought up to too high a pitch. This little hand is looking too white and
delicate for health. You must indeed, for your own sake, and for the sake
of those that love you, take care of yourself, and do not tax your
constitution too far."

"I do not mind what you say, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma, playfully, again
attempting to withdraw her hand from a clasp which she felt rather too
tender for a doctor. "I know you only speak professionally, and it is your
business to persuade those who listen to you that they are ill, that you
may have the satisfaction of making them believe you cure them afterwards."

"Fie, fie," replied he, tapping her on the arm, "I did not expect such
malice from you, fair Emma!"

She decidedly drew her hand from his, and moved her chair away towards the
window, saying, as she did so, in a graver tone,

"Remember <i>I</i> have not placed myself under your power, Mr. Morgan, and
you have no business to attempt to mislead me."

The rapidly decreasing light prevented his reading the expression of her
countenance; but he felt from her tone and action that <i>she</i> would not
endure the small personal liberties in which some of his patients permitted
him.

There was a pause, which she broke, by saying,

"My sisters are a long time away, I must go to see for them."

"No, pray stay another moment," cried he, rising too, as she rose. "Allow
me one moment more, one other word."

She stopped; and he was silent for a minute, till she said,

"Well, Mr. Morgan, what am I to stop for?"

"Tell me," said he, "why you freeze me with that look and manner—did I
offend you with my remarks? is my friendship—the warm interest I feel for
you—is it unpleasant—or in what way have I sinned to deserve this sudden
check."

She was excessively embarrassed, and mentally determined not to remain in
the dusk <lang="fr"><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang> with a man again, at least, not
with Mr. Morgan: but this resolution, however good for the future, did not
help her at the present moment; when she was thus standing before him, and
under the unpleasant necessity of either admitting that she was capricious,
or allowing that she attached more importance than, perhaps, it deserved to
a trifling action on his part. Seeing that she hesitated, he continued—

"I will not press for an answer if it vexes you; and you must own mentally,
if not openly, that you judged me harshly. I forgive you, convinced when
you know me better, you will not do so again."

He took her hand again, and was just in the act of putting his lips to it,
when the door opened suddenly, and several young ladies—whom in the dusk
she could hardly distinguish—burst into the room.

"Is that you Margaret?" said one advancing, "that we have caught making
love in the dark—no, upon my honour it's Emma Watson and my brother! ha,
ha; so you are found out, James?"

"Oh, it's not the first time that Miss Emma Watson has indulged your
brother in a <lang="fr"><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang>" cried a voice, which Emma
recognised as belonging to Miss Jenkins, a particular friend of Margaret's,
towards whom she felt a strong repugnance. "They have been found <i>out</i>
before now—they are very fond of taking long walks together, aren't you, Mr.
Morgan—and carrying Janetta, too."

It was too dark for the expression of any one's countenance to be seen, so
that the angry look with which Mr. Morgan received this attack, and the
confusion and distress which Emma betrayed, were alike invisible; but could
he have annihilated the young ladies who thus intruded, including his
sister, he would certainly have done it with pleasure. Any answer, on his
part, was prevented by the entrance of the party from the dining-room with
lights, when a general scene of confusion and chattering followed, which
concluded by a general invitation to the young visitors to stay for tea,
and have a little fun, to which they readily assented.

Tom Musgrove having eaten and drank soon made himself very agreeable to the
whole party, and after the tea and bread and butter were removed, he
proposed a game at blind man's buff, or hunt the slipper, to finish the
evening. The former was adopted, and a very noisy party it proved. Tom, of
course, was the first to be blinded, and, unless he contrived to see out
from under the handkerchief, the dexterity with which he avoided catching
Margaret, though she perpetually threw herself in his way, was quite
wonderful. His first victim was the younger Miss Morgan, a pretty, giggling
girl, who laughed so excessively, and twisted about so much, that he had
great difficulty in holding her at all, and it was only by clasping his arm
very tightly round her waist, that he succeeded in keeping her prisoner.
However, he named her rightly, and the handkerchief was secured on her; her
brother was the next—apparently he threw himself in her way, whether
because he disliked her going through the process of catching and naming
Mr. Musgrove was not quite certain. Perhaps he wished himself to succeed
her; he certainly was very successful in catching prisoners, but made
extraordinary blunders in recognising them; never once hitting on the
proper name, and, consequently, having no right to make over the bandage to
another. At length, after several attempts, he succeeded in catching Emma
herself. She had not been able to avoid joining in the game, though it was
not much to her taste; but she took great pains to move about as quietly
and keep as much out of the way as possible. His ear, however, was quick at
detecting her light footstep, and, unknown to her, he had traced her into a
corner, where she was quietly resting, when he succeeded in laying hold of
her. As she neither struggled nor laughed, he knew instantly who it was,
and whilst he held her hand in his, and made believe, as usual, to feel her
features, and ascertain her identity, he whispered, under cover of the
noise which some of the other girls were making,

"Do you wish to be blinded, Emma Watson?"

"Certainly not," replied she in the same tone, and he immediately guessed
her to be some one else, and with a gentle pressure of her hand he let her
go.

Emma was very well pleased to escape, but she felt a half scruple at the
manner in which it was done, from the sort of private understanding which
Mr. Morgan assumed to exist between them. On turning away too, she caught
the malevolent eyes of Miss Jenkins fixed on her, and she could not
encounter their look without a feeling of embarrassment. Mr. Morgan soon
afterwards caught and rightly named Mrs. Watson herself, who in her turn
chased with great vigour but little success her different visitors. The
whole affair ended in a complete romp—the table was upset, chairs thrown
over, and Emma's gown narrowly escaped from a lighted candle, which the
dexterity of Mr. Morgan alone succeeded in averting. It was now judged that
they had enjoyed fun enough for one evening, and Emma, wondering much at
the taste which could select such an amusement, retired to recover from the
fatigue it occasioned. She had never seen anything of the kind before, for
the associates of her uncle and aunt were very quiet people, and she had
been quite ignorant of the extent to which liveliness might be carried when
unchecked by the restraints of good breeding.

It was a very unexpected pleasure to her, to receive the next morning a
letter from Miss Osborne, containing an announcement that the day for her
wedding was fixed and that it was to be celebrated in about three weeks.
She hoped Emma would be able to keep her promise and spend some time with
them whilst at Osborne Castle, but she did not assign any particular time
as the date of their visit.

Margaret likewise had her share of excitement and pleasure. It appeared
that Tom Musgrove had come down with serious intentions of persuading her
to marry on the same day as Sir William Gordon and Miss Osborne had fixed
on. To be distinguished, and to appear connected with the great, was so
completely the object of his life, that he did not like even to fix a day
for his own wedding entirely with regard to his own convenience, and now he
was determined to make it as important as the reflected grandeur of Miss
Osborne and her noble family could do.

The credit of this idea, however, was not entirely due to him; it was
suggested originally by Sir William himself. Miss Osborne, who could not
feel quite happy or at her ease with regard to his steadiness of purpose,
until the ceremony had actually passed, which would make it certain that
her testimony would never be required, induced Sir William Gordon to
question him as to when he intended to marry, and though he found Tom's
ideas rather vague and unsettled on the subject, he had not much difficulty
in persuading him of the advantage of fixing on the same day as their own.
The notion delighted Mr. Musgrove, and he immediately determined to run
down to Croydon and make the proposal at once.

"Well, Margaret," said he, the morning after his arrival, "since it seems
we must be married sooner or later, do you see any good in delay?"

Margaret simpered and blushed, and did not know very well which way to look
or what to say.

"I say," continued he, "there is no use in wasting time, when the thing
must be done—unless, indeed, you have changed your mind."

"Oh dear no, Tom," cried Margaret, "mine is a mind not lightly to be
changed—you know that much, I am sure, of me."

"Miss Osborne is to married this day three weeks," observed Tom, "to my
friend Sir William Gordon, and he was proposing to me that we should
celebrate ours on the same day. I should rather like it, I own, as they are
such particular friends of mine, and we are going to the same county. They
come down to Osborne Castle for their honey-moon, and we <i>might</i>;
indeed of course we <i>should</i> be asked up there on our wedding."

"Oh delightful, Tom," cried Margaret, perfectly enchanted at the prospect,
and in the rapture of the view, quite overlooking the coolness of her
lover's manner, and the total absence of even any pretence of affection. "I
should like that of all things, only perhaps I might have some difficulty
in getting my wedding things ready in time; to be sure, as I must wear
mourning I should not want much just at first, but a gown and hat—what
should my gown be, dear Tom?"

"Hang your gown! what do I know about your gown? or what has that got to do
with it; but women always make such a confounded fuss about their gowns and
their petticoats. I say, will you marry me this day three weeks?—because,
if you will not, you may just let it alone, for any thing I care."

"You are always so funny, Tom," said Margaret trying to laugh; "I never
know what you will say next. But you do hurry and flurry one so, asking in
that sort of off-hand way—upon my word I do not know what to answer—what
can I say to him, Jane—is he not odd?"

"For heaven's sake, Mrs. Watson, do try and persuade Margaret to act with a
little common sense, if she has such a commodity in her brain," cried Tom,
impatiently.

"Really," simpered Mrs. Watson, "you are the most unlover-like lover that
ever I saw—if I were you, Margaret, I would tease him unceasingly for these
speeches. I would say him nay, and nay, and nay again, before I would give
him his own way."

"Oh! I am not so very cruel," said Margaret, "he knows my disposition, and
how much he may venture on with me."

"Well, when you have made up your mind, let me know," said he, settling
himself in an easy chair, and pretending to drop asleep.

"Upon my word, Margaret," said Mrs. Watson, "he gives himself precious
airs—would I submit to such a thing from any man in the world—no, indeed—I
would see the whole sex annihilated first, that I would."

"Do not be so dreadfully severe, Mrs. Watson," said Tom, without unclosing
his eyes, "Allow me to enjoy my last few days of liberty; when I have taken
to myself a wife, where will my domestic freedom be?"

"Impudent fellow," said Mrs. Watson, going up and pretending to pat his
cheek; he caught her hand and told her in return, she was his prisoner now,
and must pay the penalty of the box on the ear, which she had so
deliberately bestowed on him. She giggled exceedingly, and he was insisting
on his right, when Robert entered the room and said, in a cool off-hand
way:

"I suppose, Margaret, Musgrove has told you he wants to marry this day
three weeks, and as I presume, you have no objection, I have resolved to
get the settlements in hand immediately. I suppose you have not much to do
in the way of preparation, have you?"

"Well, I suppose, as you all come upon me so suddenly, there is nothing for
me to do but to submit," said Margaret, "and really, I see no harm in it.
Of course you will have the marriage put in the newspapers; it must be sent
to 'The Morning Post,' Tom."

"I have no objection," observed the ardent lover.

"Well then, Jane, I suppose I had better be seeing about my gown and
wedding clothes—will you come with me and help me choose some dresses,
Tom?"

"Not I, by Jove! what do I know about dresses, I tell you!—it's all woman's
nonsense, and I will have nothing to do with it. I believe if a woman were
dying, her only care would be to secure a handsome shawl—and the idea of a
plain funeral would break her heart."

"Don't be so dreadfully severe, Tom," interposed Mrs. Watson again, "you
are a naughty, spiteful, ill-tempered satirist, and we must teach you
better manners before we have done with you."

"Beyond a question you will soon do that," returned he, "I already feel
wonderfully humbled and penitent, from sitting with you for the last hour;
and what I shall arrive at, after being your brother for a twelvemonth, can
only be guessed at now."

Margaret and Jane soon afterwards set off on the important business of
looking for wedding dresses, and purchasing more clothes than she would
know what to do with, whilst obliged to wear her deep mourning—a
circumstance which was particularly distressing to Margaret—who, whilst
anxious to make a very splendid figure in her new establishment, was
perpetually checked in her aspirations by the remembrance that she must,
for many months, continue to wear black. It was, however, a great delight
to her to think that she should be married almost as soon as Penelope, and
before Elizabeth; but, since her own good luck was now certain, she felt no
particular envy of either of her elder sisters; for, though she could not
help seeing that Elizabeth's establishment, house and carriage, would be
more expensive and grand than her own, she did not think that she would
have given up the independence and idleness of Tom's situation as a
gentleman, for the large income and luxuries accompanying the brewer's
occupation.

Emma looked on and wondered at Margaret's state of contentment under the
indifference and contemptuous treatment which her lover bestowed on her.
<i>She</i> would not have borne it for a single hour; but Margaret seemed
to feel nothing of it—and her own foolish and caressingly fond ways, were
enough to disgust a sensible man altogether.

He did not mean to remain more than a couple of days; and, during that
time, Mrs. Watson took care to occupy each evening with a party of young
people; a most judicious arrangement, which saved an immense deal of
unwilling labour and unnecessary love-making. The Morgans, the Millars, and
many others, joined them—and they had country dances and reels enough to
tire many indefatigable dancers. Emma continued to refuse to dance; and, as
the ladies out-numbered the gentlemen, she was less tempted to break her
resolution. In consequence of this, she was, on the second evening, for a
good while left quite alone, until Mr. Morgan, declaring himself quite
knocked up, took refuge in the corner where she was sitting and engaged her
in an agreeable conversation.

They were not discussing any thing very remarkable, but Emma was amused and
lively, when she heard Miss Jenkins say, in reply to something:

"Oh! no doubt, Emma Watson finds it quite agreeable to sit out—no great
sacrifice there, I fancy! She takes every opportunity of throwing herself
in somebody's way!"

It was said so loud that there could be no doubt but that it was intended
for them to hear, and from the quick glance round, and the elevation of
eyebrows which followed it on his part, it was evident it had not failed of
its object. Emma wished she could have stopped the blood which rushed to
her face and coloured her cheeks so deeply; but she could neither conceal
her feelings nor command her voice sufficiently to finish her sentence, for
she felt that Mr. Morgan's eyes were fixed on her with a keen, scrutinizing
glance, which seemed to read her thoughts in a moment. When Miss Jenkins
was out of hearing, he observed very quietly,

"I think, Miss Emma, you have not been brought up in a country town?"

"No, indeed," said Emma.

"You seem peculiarly unfitted to continue in one, with any comfort or peace
of mind," continued he.

"Indeed—I doubt whether I am to take that as a compliment or the reverse,"
replied Emma smiling a little.

"I never pay compliments," said he, "but if you want to know why I think
so, learn that I can see you mind being talked about, dislike gossip and
scandal, and have no taste for romping or noise: therefore you are unfitted
for a resident in a country town!"

"You are <i>not</i> complimentary to-night, Mr. Morgan; what has put you
out of humour with your fellow towns-women?"

"I assure you I feel most amiably disposed towards them all, especially
those who by dancing to-night have left me at liberty to converse with you.
They are all charming chatterers, and delightful dancers, and equally
exquisite, enlightened, eloquent and endearing."

"Your compliments are rather equivocal, Mr. Morgan, I do not know that I
should like such problematic praises."

"<i>You</i>—you need not be afraid, I should never think of applying such
terms to you—did I not begin with observing that you were not brought up in
a country town."

"There are some people I have observed," said Emma thoughtfully, "who
always hold the society in which they happen to move very cheap, because
they have an unfortunate power of vision which enables them alone to see
the weak, the ridiculous, the faulty side of things."

"Thank you—do not find fault with my compliments after that speech—I never
made one more severe."

"I beg your pardon," replied she colouring deeply. "Perhaps it did sound a
little harsh."

"Yes, I am deeply indebted to you for your good opinion—you probably
suppose me incapable of appreciating the beautiful and excellent when I
meet it, because I am alive to the follies, the littleness, and the
absurdities of those amongst whom I am forced to mix—some day I trust you
will judge me better."

He understood Emma's character completely—the idea that she had been harsh
in her speech, and that he felt hurt by her injustice, was decidedly the
most likely thing to produce kindness and conciliatory manners to make it
up. He assumed an air and tone of injured innocence which quite touched
her, for straightforward and artless herself, she never suspected he was
only acting. She wanted him to speak again, but he was determined to leave
it to her to make that effort, and he partly drew back and turned his chair
slightly away, as if he had not courage again to address her. She renewed
the conversation by enquiring whether he had long been resident in the
town—the soft tone of her voice immediately drew him back to his former
position, and he began to tell her that he had come to Croydon about
fifteen years before, that like herself he had lived in his youth in the
country, and the only towns he had previously been acquainted with were
Oxford and London.

"Like yourself too," continued he, "I came here frank and
open-hearted—ready to place the best construction on anything I saw or
heard, and believing that the neighbourhood would do as much for me.
Experience has taught me a very different lesson; but perhaps nothing but
experience will do. With the consciousness of the amount it cost me to buy
my knowledge with suffering, I sometimes idly think of saving others by my
cautions from a similar expense of feeling, but it is vain—and I do not
think I shall make the attempt again."

"And so," said Emma, after a short pause, "you think me ungrateful and
self-willed, because I do not like to hear whole-sale depreciation of your
fellow-townspeople."

"I certainly will be wiser another time, and keep my opinion to myself,"
replied he still in a proud and injured tone.

"Well, I do not like to seem ungracious, and if you really wanted to give
me advice—your superior age and experience certainly entitle you to form an
opinion, and to be listened to with deference. So if you speak for my good,
I will attend—but do not be too bitter, or I shall rebel again."

"I only wished to caution you against the spirit of prying curiosity and
foolish censoriousness, which seems indigenous amongst the inhabitants of a
small town."

"And you thought me likely to fall into a similar error, did you?" enquired
she simply.

"You, my dear girl, no indeed; but I thought you likely to be the victim to
this spirit, unless you took care and were cautioned against it."

"If I do nothing wrong," said Emma, "nothing blameworthy, how can there be
any danger that I shall incur censure? I hope I shall not provoke enmity in
any way."

"That will be a vain and illusive hope," replied he earnestly; "there is
too much about you to provoke ill-will, for your conduct to be regarded
with a friendly eye. Youth and beauty have innumerable enemies in a place
like this; your superior education, your acquaintance, I may say intimacy,
with those very much above your present associates in rank, your frank and
confiding disposition, all expose you to enmity and envy of the most
malignant kind."

"You will make me quite unhappy, Mr. Morgan, if you talk in that way. I
cannot believe that those I see around me are so very wicked; and why
should any one try to injure a portionless orphan like myself."

"Because they are not all possessed of the generous feelings and high
principles which form such a charm in that helpless and portionless
orphan—and which, when joined to her personal beauty, endow her more richly
than the wealthiest of all our townsmen's daughters."

"I cannot help hoping that your warnings are not more sincere than your
compliments, and then I shall have the less to fear, Mr. Morgan," replied
Emma, smiling.

"I wish you would give me credit for sincerity, Miss Watson; it is
disheartening to find myself constantly doubted. I shall give you up in
despair. Look beautiful and merry—prove yourself lively and amusing—wear
becoming bonnets—pretty gowns—and well-made shoes, and you will soon not
have a female friend in the town."

"This <i>must</i> be your prejudice—or you are quizzing me. I cannot
believe that bonnets and shoes have anything to do with female friends."

"You will persist in judging every one by yourself, and you cannot set up a
more erroneous standard. Do you suppose that <i>your</i> wardrobe will be
less commented on than your neighbours. Does Miss Tomson make any one a new
bonnet without its being known and abused by all the owner's most intimate
friends."

"But you must be wrong," said Emma; "it is impossible that all can be
watched over in that way; we do not know a great many people who live here;
even my sister does not; and why should I suppose that I am so conspicuous
a personage?"

"The inhabitants of the town," said Mr. Morgan, "are divided into many
different sets, it is true; they move in different circles, and there is no
mixture; but the individuals of each class have their eyes constantly fixed
on those above as well as those equal with themselves; the former, that
they may imitate their actions; the latter, that they may detect the first
symptom of mounting to a higher circle. They have likewise to detect and
repress the first encroachment from the ranks beneath them, so that you see
each individual has her attention fully occupied in this perpetual
watching."

"You must be exaggerating, Mr. Morgan; I trust you are, at least."

"Do you want a proof of the jealousy and exclusive spirit which reigns
amongst them? look into the church. There, where men and women ought, if
ever, to meet as equals, what do you see?—the aristocratic classes—those
who have their carriages and horses to bring them to their Sunday
devotions, who have their comfortable and elegant dwellings out of the
town, have likewise their comfortable pews for lounging through their
prayers—their cushions, their carpets, their footstools, that they may not
be too much fatigued by worship—their curtains, too, lest the vulgar gaze
should distress their modesty, or intrude on their privacy. Then come the
townspeople—the higher classes, those in professions, or, perhaps, in
business, on a large scale, like George Millar, or the Greenes. These have
their cushions and carpets, but are forced to forego the privacy of
curtains, for which they make up by the superior brilliancy of their pew
linings, and the elegance of the fringe drapery, which hangs down in front
of the galleries. Inferior classes are forced to sit on benches without
cushions, whilst the poorest of all may enjoy what comfort they can on the
hard open seats in the stone aisle."

Emma looked thoughtful, but did not answer.

"You must admit the truth of my description," continued he; "there is
sufficient stuff expended on the galleries of that church to have clothed
half the children in the parish school."

"I am sorry that you should have the power of saying such things, Mr.
Morgan, or that I cannot contradict them. Have you ever made an effort to
procure a reform?"

"Reform, no—do you suppose I should even hint at such plain truths to a
native of the town? do you imagine I impart my opinions on the subject
indiscriminately? no, indeed—my popularity, such as it is, would be soon
blown away were I to venture to contradict all their dearest prejudices. It
is a far better plan to tell Miss Jenkins that she looks like an angel in
the sky, when sitting in her blue pew, or to hint to old Mrs. Adams, that
the crimson moreen gives quite a juvenile glow to her complexion."

"In short," said Emma, gravely, "to encourage people's weaknesses in order
to gain their good will."

"Precisely so—it is the only way to live at peace with all the world; at
least, the world of Croydon; why should I risk their repose and mine, by
voluntarily encountering them on their hobbies. Follow my advice, my dear
Miss Watson, and make the best of those you meet with here."

They were interrupted by the conclusion of the dance; and Mr. Morgan
thought it best to move away. He left Emma thoughtful and dispirited; and
as he watched her from a distance, he was quite satisfied with the general
expression of her countenance.

Her next neighbour was Mr. Alfred Freemantle, who threw himself into the
chair Mr. Morgan had vacated, and began a series of enquiries as to who Mr.
Tom Musgrove might be, and whether it was really true that her sister
Margaret was on the point of marriage with him? Emma soon grew tired of his
"bald, disjointed chat," and moved away; she was met by Mrs. Turner.

"My dear child," cried she, catching hold of both her arms, "I have been
wanting to speak to you this age, but I would not interrupt you whilst you
were talking to that pleasant man, Mr Morgan—yes, what a nice man he is,
ain't he, dear? Now I did not mean to make you blush; but take care, don't
flirt with him too much, because it may mean nothing, you know, there's no
saying. But I wanted to tell you how excessively I am delighted with your
sister, and how glad I am that she is to marry George. Poor girl, I dare
say she is glad of it too; young women like to be married; but then I don't
know where you could find a nicer young woman than Elizabeth—or one that
would suit my son better. Now, I don't mean that as any reflection upon
you, my dear, on the contrary, so never mind what I say."

"I assure you, madam, what you say of my sister gives me sincere pleasure,
and I could not, I hope, be so unreasonable as to expect you to regard us
in the same light. It is a great happiness when the friends on each side
are equally satisfied with any projected marriage."

"Very true, my dear, I agree with what you say; yes, Elizabeth is a
charming girl, and much better suited to my son-in-law than you would be
perhaps—so we ought to be satisfied on all sides, as you say."

"I am certain she will make a most excellent wife," replied Emma warmly.

"And who do you mean to marry, my dear? Suppose you were to tell me now, I
would promise not to tell any one."

"I have not made up my mind yet," said Emma laughing a little; "but I will
let you know as soon as I can."

"Don't try for Mr. Morgan, my dear, he will only disappoint you—do not
trust him too far; you had better not."

"Mr. Morgan, my dear madam," repeated Emma almost laughing outright, "why
he is quite an old man! old enough to be my father I am sure. No, no, I
will lay no snares for Mr. Morgan; I am sure if I did the ladies of Croydon
would never forgive me."

"I dare say not—but indeed I do not think he deserves you, my dear; I know
things of him which I will not tell you; but don't let him make you in love
with him."

Emma only smiled at this warning, and the breaking up of the party at the
moment prevented her hearing more on the subject from Mrs. Turner.

Tom Musgrove did not stay longer than he had originally proposed, but the
next time he came everything was to be ready for the wedding, and Margaret
was in such high spirits at the prospect, as plainly showed that she had
quite forgotten the unpleasant difficulties which had previously interfered
with this happy consummation.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch02
CHAPTER II.
.sp 2

Emma had often wondered that she had heard no more from Lady Fanny Allston.
She knew she had been ill, but did not apprehend that her illness was of so
serious a nature as necessarily to cause this long delay. But she was at
length surprised one day by receiving from her ladyship's housekeeper an
abrupt and rather uncivil note, completely breaking off the negotiation.
There was something in the tone of the announcement which hurt her
exceedingly, and she was in a very uncomfortable frame of mind when she
walked out that afternoon with Janetta, for she had lately resumed this
custom. She took her little charge into some meadows to look for primroses
and violets on the sunny banks, and whilst the child was busy plucking all
she could find, Emma herself sat down on the stump of a tree to try and
discover the meaning of this communication. She had nothing, however, to
guide her conjectures; there was no clue in the note, and she was forced to
remain satisfied with the conclusion that her ladyship was capricious and
had changed her mind.

Whilst occupied in considering this subject, she was startled by footsteps,
and she looked up with a sort of fearful expectation that she should see
Mr. Morgan; it was not however the doctor who presented himself, but Mr.
Bridge, the clergyman, whom she had formerly met at the Millars'. He took
off his hat with a very respectful bow, and addressed her with an air of
politeness and courtesy which pleased her exceedingly. After a slight
remark on the bright day and the beauty of the scenery, he passed on a few
steps, and Emma supposed he was going to leave her; suddenly however he
seemed to change his mind, and surprised her by returning to her side. He
enquired if she was intending to sit there long, as he feared it must be
damp and unsafe.

"I do not perceive any damp, sir," replied she; "and it is so pleasant I am
unwilling to think it can be dangerous."

"That is not a rule," he replied smiling a little, and then gravely shaking
his head; "many things extremely agreeable are invisibly surrounded with
risks and dangers. It is a common-place remark I acknowledge, but one which
is as constantly forgotten, as it is frequently enforced. Young people like
yourself are particularly apt to slight it—but if you would bear with an
old man—"

He paused and regarded her with a look of interest, which she noticed, and
finding he hesitated, she ventured to say with warmth and earnestness,

"Pray go on, sir; if you think me in need of caution, I will listen with
the attention and reverence which is every way your due."

"I have been interested for you, my dear young lady, not only by your own
sweet and ingenuous countenance, your misfortunes and your unprotected
situation, but by the representations of my young friend Annie Millar, and
I feel that whilst you reside under my pastoral care, I should not be doing
my duty were I not to exert myself to save you from inconveniences which
you may perhaps be very innocently entailing on yourself."

Emma coloured and felt quite astonished at this address, the purport of
which she could not guess, but after a moment's hesitation, she begged Mr.
Bridge to proceed without ceremony; if he had any censure to bestow on her,
she would listen and feel obliged.

"It is not censure, it is only a caution I wish to give you—I mean with
regard to your intimacy with Mr. Morgan: you probably do not know his
character, nor is it necessary that you should learn minute particulars; I
am sure it will be enough for you to hear that he is not a safe companion
for a young woman of your age and appearance."

"I think you must be under some misapprehension," replied Emma surprised;
"there is nothing between us which can warrant the appellation of intimacy.
He visits my sister-in-law, and as her visitor only I have known him."

"I had hoped," replied Mr. Bridge gravely, "to have met with more candour
from you; I am under a very great mistake, if you have not on several
occasions met him when walking only with that little girl, and allowed him
to walk with you for a long time. Is it not so?"

"That is perfectly true—but the meetings were quite accidental," said Emma.

"So far as you were concerned, I can believe it; but the world will only
know that you were seen walking <lang="fr"><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang> with a
man of known bad principles and immoral conduct; and more than that, he has
been found with you in the drawing-room alone, and you have passed many
hours in his company when visiting in other houses."

"I was not aware," said Emma, perfectly astonished at the charge; "that my
actions could have thus been the subject of comment and inspection; but
what you say, though perfectly true in itself, is capable of a very
different interpretation—will you listen to my defence?"

"Certainly, my dear child," replied he, pleased at the frank and respectful
manner with which she addressed him.

"I met Mr. Morgan at Mr. Millar's, and there I saw him received into the
society of respectable women—he visited at my sister-in-law's house, and
was, evidently, in her confidence; he proposed to her to procure me a
situation as governess to Lady Fanny Allston's little girl, and my brother
perfectly approved of the negotiation. It was the interest he took in this
plan, which produced the appearance of intimacy which you reprobate; it was
to discuss this subject, that he joined me in my walks; but, as I did not
like the appearance of clandestine intercourse, I mentioned the occurrence
to my brother and sister-in-law; and to avoid him, I refused, for some
time, to walk out without some other companion than my niece. Latterly, I
have seen less of him; and it is a fortnight or more since we last met out
walking. Had I known him to be a man of bad principles, as you say he is, I
would never have allowed him to interfere in my affairs—but how could I
suspect that, when I found Mrs. Watson treated him with perfect
confidence?—and he was evidently courted and caressed by nearly all the
women of my acquaintance in Croydon."

"Those who know him best, have most reason to say it is unsafe for you to
associate with him; they know of what he is capable, and are most shocked,
of course, at your breach of conventional etiquette. I am sorry to say that
you are right in your assertion that he is courted and caressed by women in
general. In spite of his character, his manners make him popular, and many
weak-minded women encourage him in conduct which flatters their vanity, by
demonstrating admiration for their mental and personal charms. But those
who act thus, are severe judges of others. But tell me, are you really
going to Lady Fanny Allston's on his recommendation?"

"No—her ladyship has suddenly—and not very civilly—broken off the
negotiation."

"I am glad of it, my dear; it would have been very undesirable that you
should go there, throwing yourself completely in the way of that man; it
must have been his object. Poor girl; any thing would be better than that."

Emma was silent and thoughtful.

"If you have any resolution and strength of mind," continued he, "I advise
you by every means, to shun the neighbourhood of this dangerous man. The
struggle may be painful, but depend upon it, it will be less so by far,
than the consequences of indulging in your predilection for him."

"I do not think that the danger you apprehend for me, really exists,"
replied Emma, looking up suddenly.

He shook his head.

"The young are always confident," said he, "but, if you build your hopes on
any degree of affection, which Morgan may have manifested, believe me you
are building on a quicksand, and you will as surely find yourself deceived
as his other victims!"

"You quite misunderstand me," replied Emma, very earnestly; "I would not
dare to boast myself more infallible than other young women, but I do not
think I shall be put to the proof. I never had an idea, for a moment, that
Mr. Morgan entertained towards me any other than such friendly feelings as
you do yourself. It seemed to me very kind in him to interest himself for
an orphan—but it was a kindness which his age appeared to warrant. For,
though not quite so old as yourself, sir, he is old enough to be my father;
and I fancied it was with something of a paternal feeling that he regarded
me. As to my own sentiments towards him, I certainly felt grateful at
first—but latterly, there has been, I own, once or twice, a something in
his manner which made me suspicious of his principles, and induced me to
shun private intercourse with him. Do I speak in a way to convince you of
candour, or do you mistrust my confession, and doubt my word?"

"I think I will venture to trust you—but I must still repeat my
warning—take care of yourself, and do not allow him to hurt your
reputation. You have enemies in Croydon, my dear."

"I, sir! how is that possible?—and yet, Mr. Morgan hinted the same to me!"

"There, for once, he spoke truth, whatever may have been his motive. But
you are watched—whether from simple curiosity, malice or envy, your
movements have been traced, and are spitefully commented on. It was in that
way, that I heard of your walks with him; and meeting you here, I could not
resist warning you. I rather wonder we have seen nothing of him, for I saw
him following me as I took this path; perhaps he is waiting till I leave
you."

"Would it be too much trouble for you to see me safe home?" said Emma
anxiously, "I should be so very much obliged if you would."

Mr. Bridge readily assented; and calling Janetta, they turned towards the
town.

At one of the stiles they met the individual in question; he had,
apparently, been watching them; but though, perhaps, disappointed at the
result of their conference, he came forward with a bow and a smile, the
most insinuating, to hand Emma over it. Mr. Bridge observed gaily, that he
feared he was grown too old for gallantry, and he must not wonder if such
agreeable offices were taken out of his hands by men younger and more
alert. The hand which Mr. Morgan held, he seemed unwilling to relinquish,
but drew it under his arm with an appearance of considering it his right to
support and guide her. At another time she might hardly have noticed this,
but with Mr. Bridge's warnings ringing in her ears, she could not permit it
to continue. Resolutely she drew away her hand and turned towards the stile
to enquire whether the elder gentleman required any assistance. Mr. Morgan
fixed his piercing eyes on her with an enquiring look, as if to demand why
his attentions were thus repulsed; but he could not catch her eye, and he
was forced to content himself with walking quietly by her side.

"I want particularly to speak to you, Miss Watson," said he presently in a
low tone, as if wishing to avoid her companion's notice.

"I am quite at liberty to listen to you," replied Emma turning towards him.

"It is on your own affairs," said he as if hesitating, and glancing towards
Mr. Bridge; "I do not know how far it might be pleasant for you to have a
third person made conversant with them."

"If it relates to the business with Lady Fanny," answered Emma aloud, "I
have just been talking the matter over with Mr. Bridge, and he can
therefore quite enter into the subject now."

"It does relate to that affair, and I am sorry—exceedingly sorry—that I
should be the means of occasioning you any disappointment, but I fear your
hopes—I might say <i>our</i> hopes in that quarter are all overthrown."

"I am aware of that, Mr. Morgan," said Emma calmly; "I received a note to
that effect this morning, and your intelligence therefore is no shock to
me; I feel much obliged for the zeal you have shown in my favour, but on
the whole I am as well satisfied that things should be as they are."

"Satisfied!" cried he looking at her. "You cannot really mean that! the
loss of such a prospect may be nothing to you, but the reason—that is the
evil."

"I had no reason assigned me," replied Emma, "and only concluded that her
ladyship had changed her mind, which of course she had full right to do."

Mr. Morgan looked at her with an air as if he would penetrate her brain.

"I am so sorry," said he presently, "so very sorry that I have been the
means of leading you into this very unpleasant situation. But for me you
would never have met this repulse: I am vexed indeed!"

"Do not take it so much to heart," replied Emma more gaily than she felt,
"for after all it is only what any young woman in my situation might
expect—a few repulses will serve to teach me humility."

"Aye, if you needed the lesson; but the reason is so very—"

He stopped abruptly.

"What is the reason?" asked Emma. "I told you I knew of none."

"If you really do not, you had better not force me to say it; though you
cannot for a moment imagine that I believe there is a word of truth in Lady
Fanny's assertion—she must have been so completely misinformed."

"I really should be obliged to you to be explicit," replied Emma earnestly;
"you admit that you know the reasons—I must insist on knowing them
likewise."

"I am unwilling to pain you, my dear Miss Emma."

"Then you should not have alluded to them at all; you cannot wonder if I
now consider myself entitled to learn what these mysterious reasons are."

He drew out his pocket-book and took thence a note, which he placed in her
hand, saying,

"If it offends or affronts you, do not blame <i>me</i> for it."

Emma opened and read a short note from Lady Fanny to Mr. Morgan, stating
that having heard various very discreditable reports concerning the young
person he had named to her, she must beg to decline all further intercourse
with her. Emma's cheeks glowed as she read the lines in question; but she
said not a word. Quietly she re-folded the note and returned it to Mr.
Morgan. He was eagerly watching her, and as he took it from her hand, he
detained her fingers one moment, and stooping whispered,

"You cannot think how grieved I am thus to pain you."

"It is quite as well that I should know it," she replied very calmly; and
then a silence of some minutes ensued. They had reached the garden gate
before any one spoke again: she turned to Mr. Bridge before entering, and
whilst holding out her hand to him, said in a low voice, "I am <i>very</i>
much obliged to you; may I have a little further conversation with you
another day?"

"Certainly, whenever you wish; when can I see you?"

"I should like to see you alone," she replied.

"Then I will manage it—depend on me to-morrow."

He then warmly shook hands, patted Janetta's shoulder and walked off,
concluding that Mr. Morgan would do so too. But here he was mistaken, that
gentleman having no intention of retiring so quickly. He had opened the
gate for Emma and stood leaning against it, till she turned and prepared to
pass, but then he laid his hand on her arm, and whilst closing the gate
upon them both, attempted to draw her a little on one side where a thick
screen of filberts concealed them from the house.

"Come here, my dear girl," said he in a tone of familiarity which affronted
Emma; "I thought that old humbug was never going to leave us: it's too bad
to be beset in that way."

"Have you anything to say to me, Mr. Morgan?" replied Emma in a freezing
tone; "because I must beg, if you have no particular reason, that you will
not detain me here."

"I beg your pardon—I quite forgot," returned he in a very different tone;
"I am taking a liberty which nothing but my interest in you can excuse." He
then withdrew his hand from her arm, but still stood in her path. "The fact
is, my indignation at the slanderous tongues of our neighbours made me
quite forget everything else; do you know the meaning of that note I showed
you—the nature of the reports and their originator?"

"I know simply what I read there," returned Emma, "and unless the subject
is one of immediate importance, I must decline to discuss <i>now</i> and
<i>here</i> the cause of Lady Fanny's determination."

"Well, perhaps you are right, but I hardly expected that my warnings to you
the other night would so soon be realised; they have not scrupled to make
mischief of our meeting when out walking, and the report has reached Lady
Fanny's ears."

"If that is the case, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma, her face flushing with
indignation, and her voice almost uncontrollably trembling from emotion,
"if you <i>know</i> that to be the case, I wonder that kindness, courtesy,
nay, the common feelings of a gentleman, do not prompt you to avoid giving
countenance to such reports, by forcing yourself on my privacy, and
intruding even here on my home. I command you to let me pass this instant,
and I desire that I may not again be disturbed by a similar encounter."

He did not dare dispute her command for a moment, as she stood with her
slight and graceful figure drawn up, and her speaking face turned on him in
indignation; he drew aside, and with a very low bow allowed her to pass,
and follow Janetta, who had trotted up towards the house. He looked after
her in an attitude of despair, but it was lost on Emma, who never turned
her head, or cast one relenting glance behind, but walked straight into the
house. In fact she felt very angry, and her anger increased the more she
thought of what had passed: it seemed to her as if he sought to place her
in equivocal situations, and rather wished that she might compromise her
reputation. Compared with the kindness of Mr. Bridge, his professed
friendship and zeal appeared hollow and unsatisfactory; and now that she
found she had another friend, she looked her difficulties more firmly in
the face, and determined not to endeavour to escape from one set of evils
by risking another. Still, when she thought of the words of Mr. Bridge, so
sadly corroborated by Mr. Morgan himself, she could not help a sigh and a
shudder.

She wished to ask his advice as to what she had better do, but at the same
time she tried to form an opinion for herself, and questioned her own mind
as to what was her duty on this occasion. To avoid all intercourse with Mr.
Morgan, and let the slanders die a natural death from want of food to
sustain them, appeared to her the safest course, and she hoped Mr. Bridge
would agree with her. She would gladly have left the place had it been
possible, but just at present there seemed no chance of an escape. When the
time of her promised visit to Osborne Castle arrived, what a happiness it
would be! She lay awake many hours that night thinking over all the
difficulties in her path, and planning how she could surmount them. One
idea weighed most strongly in her mind; it was, would Mr. Howard be at all
likely to hear any report concerning her, and would he believe it if he
did. She wished she could imagine he would hear of her at all; only from
Miss Osborne had she received any news of his proceedings, and she feared
that their intercourse was brought to an end for ever. How she might have
viewed Mr. Morgan and his attentions but for her previous acquaintance with
Mr. Howard, she could not tell, but she mentally compared the two men now,
not a little to the disadvantage of the former; and she felt persuaded that
she could never care for another, unless she were to meet with one who
possessed all the good qualities of Mr. Howard, and was better acquainted
with his own mind. For, totally in the dark as to the reason why Mr. Howard
had suddenly withdrawn his attentions, and recollecting well the many
little signs which had escaped him of a more than ordinary interest, she
only concluded that he had, on further acquaintance, found her different
from what he wished, and that he had changed his mind and views
accordingly. She little knew that at this time he was suffering from a
constant, unceasing regret, and dwelling on their past intercourse as the
most precious and delightful period of his life.

It was with a heavy head, and a heavier heart, that she went through her
daily routine the next morning, hearing Janetta her alphabet, setting her
sewing, and reading to her; she had great difficulty in getting through
with it, and could hardly fix her thoughts for five minutes on the business
on which she was employed. In the course of the morning, Janetta was sent
for to the drawing-room, and returned in about ten minutes radiant with
joy. Emma, who had lain down on the bed for a few minutes, and was just
closing her weary eyes in a doze, was suddenly roused by the news that Mr.
Bridge had come to ask Janetta to go to see his garden, and that he was now
waiting for them to accompany him home.

Mindful of his promise, he had called on Mrs. Watson, and after observing
that he had met her little girl gathering flowers, he begged she might come
and see some of the beautiful violets and anemonies in his garden. Mrs.
Watson, delighted at the civility to herself, which she discovered in any
attention to her child, assented most readily, and Emma had now to rouse
herself as well as she could to accompany her young charge.

She felt so totally unequal to any exertion, that even her sense of the
kindness manifested by Mr. Bridge, and the interest he shewed in her, was
hardly sufficient to produce the energy requisite for the occasion. Her
languid movements, and the heavy eyelids immediately caught the attention
of the kind old man; but sensible how little sympathy her sufferings would
probably excite in the mind of her selfish sister-in-law, he made no
comment until they were not only out of the house, but safely hidden amidst
the picturesque shrubberies which enclosed the parsonage. Then kindly
taking her hand and looking half-smiling, half-sadly in her face, he said:

"I am afraid, poor girl, you have been fretting about what you learnt
yesterday, and that you feel it more deeply than you expected to do."

"I have been thinking a great deal about it, I allow," replied Emma, "and
more about what Mr. Morgan said yesterday after you left me. But surely you
cannot be surprised at my dejection, when you consider the various
difficulties which present themselves in my path."

"I cannot help a small suspicion," replied he, with a sort of cunning
little smile, but which he speedily checked, "that you feel some regret
about Mr. Morgan himself."

"No, you do me injustice; but on such a subject, professions are perfectly
useless, and I shall not attempt to make them. To break off my intercourse
with him will cost me nothing; but what does really depress and annoy me,
is the terrible idea than any slanderous reports should have been
circulated concerning that intercourse. He told me the story had reached
Lady Fanny Allston, and that it was for <i>that</i> reason she had so
abruptly concluded all negotiation with me."

"Very likely; her ladyship is the greatest gossip in existence, and has a
regular supply of the town news and scandal, extracted from the butcher and
baker, by her own maid, for her own private amusement."

"But if the story has travelled so far, how much farther may it not
spread—I shall lose my character altogether, and with it all chance of
earning an independent livelihood, and what will become of me?"

Her lip quivered, tears burst from her eyes, and her whole frame was
visibly agitated, to such a degree, that Mr. Bridge feared a fit of
hysterics would ensue. Emma, however, made a determined effort to conquer
her emotion, and after two or three minutes, succeeded so far as to resume
an air of calmness, though it was some time before she could speak again.

"My dear girl," said the clergyman, compassionately, "you must not give way
to despondency—remember from whence your trials come, and you will become
calmer and stronger in the contemplation. You do not seem to me at all to
blame in what has passed, and whilst your conscience is clear, you need
never despair that your path will be made clear likewise."

"It is not only the present difficulty which weighs on my mind at this
moment," replied Emma, trying to speak calmly; "but there are times when
all I have lost comes back to my memory, and seems quite to overpower me.
My earliest friends lost to me, and with them the happy home where I had
enjoyed every indulgence, and every pleasure that affection could procure.
Then just as I began to accustom myself to my new home, and learnt to value
the affection and society of my only parent, that likewise is torn from me,
and whilst I am deprived of parent and fortune, and become dependent on my
own exertions, I find myself robbed, I know not how, even of my good name,
and my prospects blighted in the most mysterious manner. It seems in vain
to struggle against such a complication of evils; what can I expect but to
sink into contempt and disgrace?"

"I admit the greatness of the losses you have sustained," said he; "I
cannot deny that it may be hard to bear; but you have still some blessings
left for which you may be thankful. You possess a healthy constitution, a
sound intellect, and a conscience unoppressed by a sense of guilt. You
might have lost your heart, as well as your fortune, and that you tell me
is not the case."

Emma looked down, and tried to appear quite careless and unconcerned; but
she could not feel quite convinced that she did enjoy the degree of heart's
ease, which Mr. Bridge seemed to imagine. An image of Mr. Howard flitted
across her mind, and she felt that whilst enumerating her peculiar
afflictions, she had omitted one which pressed almost as deeply as any. She
blushed deeply, and could not raise her eyes; he watched her countenance,
and then added, presently—

"What do you mean to do now—have you formed any plan?"

"None at all," replied she; "I feel I cannot—my head is all in confusion,
and I can hardly think connectedly."

She pressed her hand on her forehead as she spoke; he saw she was looking
extremely ill, and feared her mind was over excited.

"My first wish," she continued, "the first object of my life would be to
get away from Croydon, to see no more of those who slander me, or him who
causes the slander to circulate. But this I cannot do; whilst I have no
other refuge, and whilst Margaret's marriage is approaching, I suppose I
must not go. But if I could but leave them all, and have a little peace and
quiet—it is sometimes more than I can bear; the perpetual worry, and the
incessant anxiety to please without success—and those thoughts that will
come back in spite of all that I can do—thoughts of regret for past
happiness, and hopeless pining for what I may never see again."

"And you are quite sincere in wishing to leave Croydon, and go where you
will see no more of Mr. Morgan? is it no momentary pique that influences
you, no hope of being followed, no expectation of producing some great
effect by your disappearance."

"I wish I could convince you, Mr. Bridge, that whatever the world of
Croydon may impute to me, whatever it may choose to say for me, Mr. Morgan
was never an object of any peculiar interest in my eyes, and since they
have associated our names to my discredit, he is become positively
disagreeable. To shun him altogether is, just now, my first wish."

"Then, perhaps, I may help you there; I will, at least, try—your desolate
situation interests me deeply—poor girl—you look terribly worn and
flushed—go home, and lie down to rest; try and compose your mind, and hope
for better things. But above all, my child, endeavour to subdue a repining
spirit, and remember that there is One above, who is the Father of the
fatherless, and who has promised never to forsake those who call upon Him
faithfully!"

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch03
CHAPTER III.
.sp 2

Emma took Janetta home, and weary and worn out, she laid herself down upon
her own bed, and there dropped into a heavy slumber. In consequence of her
non-appearance at the dinner table, Elizabeth went in search of her, and
rousing her up, persuaded her to attempt coming down stairs, though Emma,
at first, felt so totally unequal to the exertion, that she declared she
could not stir.

"Jane is so very cross to-day," remonstrated Elizabeth; "I am sure I do not
know what is the matter with her, but she seems so very angry about
something or other, that if you can contrive to come down you will save a
great deal of after trouble. Is your head really so very bad; you do look
rather ill certainly, but you need not eat, only just try to sit at table."

Slowly and languidly Emma rose from her bed; her head ached so intensely
that she could scarcely raise her eyes; an iron band appeared to be
compressing her forehead, and seemed every moment to increase in pressure.
She tried to arrange her hair, and her dress, disordered by lying on the
bed, but felt incapable of the exertion; leaning on Elizabeth's arm, she
descended to the dining-parlour, and took her seat at the table. Robert
offered to help her to some meat, but Emma declined eating. Jane never
condescended to lift her eyes until the table was cleared, and then she
sarcastically observed—

"I am extremely sorry, Miss Emma Watson, that there is nothing on my table
good enough for you to eat to-day; shall I send over to the pastry-cook's,
and see if he has any little delicacies to tempt your fastidious appetite?
I am not so unreasonable as to expect a young lady like you to dine on
roast mutton and plain pudding."

"I am not very well," replied Emma, "and have no appetite to-day; but it is
my own misfortune, not the fault of your dinner, I am sure."

"Upon my word you honor my table with a very pretty costume," eyeing Emma
fixedly, "may I ask how long it has been your fashion to have your hair
awry in that way, and your gown tumbled—do you come out of your bed, or
have you been indulging in an interesting game of romps?"

Robert looked at Emma, and even he was struck with the appearance of
suffering; and coupling with it the fact that she had eaten no dinner, and
moreover, feeling rather cross with his wife, he began to defend her,
desiring Jane not to worry his sister, as it was evident she was very far
from well. Mrs. Watson fired up at this. She wondered what people could
mean speaking to ladies that way—she was sure they must quite forget who
they were addressing—as to what she said to Emma, she wondered what she
should be forbidden to say next! Really it was too good, if she might not
find fault with a girl like Emma in her own house, and at her own table
too! She supposed the next thing she should hear, would be that Emma sat
there to find fault with her. Her manners, her dress, her general behaviour
would be called into question; if Emma gave her approbation no doubt, she
should be right—she only hoped she should not be obliged to adopt the
elegant negligence of Miss Emma Watson's present style—it was not to her
taste she was afraid she must confess."

"Emma has really a very bad headache," interposed Elizabeth, "and would be
much better in bed."

"Then pray, let her to go to bed," cried Jane, tossing her head; "who wants
her to sit up? not <i>I</i>, I am sure; she may go to bed if she likes;
but, if she thinks I am going to call in a doctor for her, she is very much
mistaken; I will indulge no such whims and fancies."

Emma gladly availed herself of the permission to retire thus graciously
accorded, and Elizabeth accompanied her up-stairs and assisted her to
undress; neither would she leave her until summoned down to tea; even then,
the temptation of Mr. Millar coming in, could not detain her from Emma's
room; she told him how ill her sister was, and she returned to sit by her
bedside, and attempt, by cool applications, to allay the burning, throbbing
pain in her head, which Emma complained almost drove her mad. But she
showed no symptoms of amendment, and towards morning she was in a decided
fever. Elizabeth, who had sat up with her all night, now pressed her to
consent to see Mr. Morgan—the name made her shudder, and she resolutely
refused to do so. She declared she was not <i>very</i> ill—nothing more
than her sister's skill could alleviate; but that to see Mr. Morgan would
infallibly make her worse. Elizabeth thought this rather odd, but she let
her have her own way, and said no more about the doctor. Mrs. Watson began
to be frightened, when she found that Emma was really very ill; she too
then proposed her seeing the doctor; but with more moderation, though with
equal firmness Emma rejected her proposal, as she had done that of
Elizabeth.

She only wished to see Mr. Bridge—but she had not energy or courage to
request an interview with him; she lay in a kind of half-dreamy state,
during the greater part of that day and the next; then Elizabeth thought
her worse, and without asking her any more on the subject she went to
Robert—and with tears in her eyes, entreated that some advice might be sent
for—as otherwise, she felt sure Emma would die. This startled Robert—it
would have been so exceedingly unpleasant—it would have interfered sadly
with Margaret's marriage—and in several other ways would have greatly
inconvenienced himself. Accordingly, he decided at once, that Mr. Morgan
should be called in, and so he was. Emma was in too profound a state of
stupor to notice him, or to be aware of what was passing beside her bed.
She did wake a little at the sound of voices, but she could not guess whose
they were; they seemed to her even a great way off—though, in reality,
close to her; he might hold her hand now, she could not withdraw it; nay,
when he put back the dark hair from her brow, and laid his hand on her
temples to count the throbbing of the pulse there—she made no resistance
now—she was unconscious of his touch. He was not alarmed about her, though
he saw she was really ill—too ill for him to flatter his vanity with the
idea that it was affected for the sake of seeing him; but he felt sure she
would recover, and greatly consoled Elizabeth by his lively hopes on this
subject. Nevertheless, he came to see her twice that evening, and early
again the next morning. On neither visit did he find her sufficiently
conscious to recognise him—but she gradually began to amend—and on waking
from a prolonged slumber on the afternoon of the third day, she was
sufficiently restored to the use of her faculties, to enquire of Elizabeth,
whether any one had been attending her during the intervening time. Her
sister, without circumlocution, told her how often Mr. Morgan had seen her,
and added, that he was to come again that evening. Emma appeared
excessively discomposed, and asked her if she could not prevent his coming;
persisting that she did not want to see any doctor, and that, if she were
only left alone, she should soon be well.

Miss Watson, who considered this merely as a fancy belonging to her state
of disease, tried to avoid giving her a direct answer, and when she found
this would not satisfy her, she endeavoured to persuade Emma of the
unreasonable nature of her request, and ended by saying she would see what
could be done for her. Of course Mr. Morgan came at the time appointed, end
she was obliged to bear it, though the very sight of him threw her into
such a state of agitation that his feeling her pulse was perfectly useless
and only served to mislead him. He had, however, too much penetration not
to discover quickly that his presence caused the feverish symptoms which at
first alarmed him; he would gladly have persuaded himself that they
indicated partiality, but not even his vanity could so far mislead him. The
averted eye, the constrained voice, the cold composed look which wore the
expression of her real feelings, told him a very different tale. He felt
that he had lost ground in her good opinion, though he could not exactly
tell why or how, and still less did he know how to recover it. His visit
was short, and his conversation confined entirely to professional subjects,
and he took his leave of her with a bow which was intended to express a
profound mixture of admiration and respect towards her, mingled with
regret, self-reproach, humility and penitence on his part. If any bow could
have conveyed so much meaning, it would certainly have been his, and it did
undoubtedly express the utmost that a bow could do. Emma drew a long breath
when he was gone, and whispered,

"I wish he would never come again."

Elizabeth tried seriously to convince her that she was exceedingly unjust,
and pressed her to name any fault she could find with Mr. Morgan, of her
own knowledge, not speaking merely from hear-say. Emma's nerves were not in
a state to bear argument, and instead of answering she began to cry, and
went off in a fit of hysterics which Elizabeth had great difficulty in
soothing away.

The next morning Emma requested Elizabeth to procure her a visit from Mr.
Bridge; she could not rest longer without an interview, and she now felt
strong enough to make her wishes known. She would not allow any reference
to be made to Jane, but sent a request, in her own name, that he would call
on her, and when this request was complied with, as it speedily was, she
sent Elizabeth out of the room that she might have an unreserved
conversation with her old friend.

Her first question to him was whether he had as yet done anything towards
procuring her removal from Croydon. He believed that she must recover her
health before anything could be done with that view. But she so earnestly
assured him that she should regain strength with twice the rapidity if he
would only let her know what he proposed to do, that he told her to set her
mind at ease, as he had already arranged a plan for her comfort. He had a
sister, a single lady, residing about fourteen miles from Croydon, and if
she liked to go and pass a few weeks with her, she would be sure of
retirement and tranquillity with every comfort that could be desired.

Emma was delighted with the idea; she was certain she should like Miss
Bridge, and that nothing could be more agreeable than residing in the
country quite retired and with only one pleasant companion. There she
should continue, she trusted, until Miss Osborne renewed her solicitations
for her society, and even after that visit was paid she might return there.
She pictured to herself how she would engage in a thousand useful and
agreeable occupations, and how she would love the charming old lady on whom
she would attend with unremitting zeal. She declared that she felt herself
increasing every moment in strength by the contemplation of such a
residence, and she trusted that she should soon be out of sight and sound
of Mr. Morgan and all the inquisitorial residents of Croydon—how soon
should she be able to go?

This Mr. Bridge told her depended entirely on the state of her health; as
soon as she could be moved with safety he would take her in his own
carriage half of the way, where his sister would meet her and convey her
the other half.

"Oh, let it be to-morrow!" cried she; "I am sure I shall be well enough—my
strength is greater than you think."

"Well well, we will ask the doctor," replied he.

"Do not ask Mr. Morgan anything about it," said Emma flushing again deeply.
"I do not want to have anything to do with him that I can help. I believe
it was one thing that made me ill, because they would have him to visit
me."

"Come, be reasonable," said he smiling; "if you talk in that way I shall
think you light-headed. Now I must leave you; I will see you again
to-morrow morning, and if I find you well enough, will send word to my
sister at once and settle your plans."

He took leave, and was quitting the room when he met Elizabeth returning,
and Emma anxious that her sister should immediately participate in her
pleasant prospects, begged him if he could spare a few minutes more to stop
and explain their plans. Miss Watson of course was very much pleased at
hearing what he had to tell, and immediately saw all the advantages to Emma
which such a removal would procure, except the <i>one</i> principal one,
which was the secret source of her sister's eagerness to put it in
execution. But she had never heard a syllable of the reports which had been
so industriously circulated relative to Emma and Mr. Morgan, and was very
far from imagining he could in any way, either as an object of love or of
hatred, influence her feelings or proceedings. She admitted that it was in
every way desirable that Emma should have a peaceful and comfortable home,
and the only thing she stipulated for was, that she should return to
Croydon as soon as she herself could offer her an equally comfortable abode
in her own house. This point Emma did not feel disposed to dispute, though
she secretly entered a protest against returning to Croydon for a residence
if she could in any way avoid it.

She proved herself right in her anticipations that the relief to her mind
would be of essential service to her body; she was so very much better the
next morning as to be able to leave her bed-room, and sit up some time in
Janetta's nursery, and here she was, with her little niece standing beside
her, and no one else in the room, when Mr. Morgan was suddenly ushered in.

She received him with a calm self-possession which astonished herself, and,
at the same time, a degree of frigid composure which seemed to imply that
the past, both of good and evil, was swept from her mind, that she had to
begin again in her acquaintance with him, and meant only to recognise him
in future as the doctor, and not the friend. It was in vain that he sat
beside her, and in his most winning tones tried to establish confidence
between them; she was perfectly calm and composed, but impenetrably grave,
yielding to neither tenderness nor gaiety, and he was just rising to go
when she made her first suggestive observation, by telling him that she was
so much better she should be able to take a drive to-morrow. He assented,
of course, if the weather was favorable, and added, that as her sister had
no carriage he hoped he might be allowed to take her out in his. With
sincere pleasure at being able to decline it, Emma thanked him, assuring
him it was quite unnecessary, as Mr. Bridge had promised her his. He looked
disappointed; he could not bear that she should have any friends but
himself: what would he have felt, had he known the real object of the drive
in question.

His departure, which Emma had thought most unnecessarily delayed, left her
at liberty to think about Mr. Bridge's promised visit; she had long to
wait, he came delighted to see her better, and quite willing to acknowledge
that she might be removed the next day. The necessary arrangements he
undertook to make; he could send his sister word that she might expect
them, and he determined to drive over the whole way himself, and spend one
night at her house. He likewise agreed to go and inform her own brother and
his wife of what was about to take place, and thereby save Emma all
excitement, if the information should happen to be ill received.

Accordingly, in persuance of this plan, he paid Mrs. Watson a visit before
leaving the house, and in answer to his gentle tap at the door, received an
invitation to enter, which brought him into an extremely untidy and heated
parlour. Jane was sitting over the fire with her feet on the fender, her
gown turned up over her knees, and her petticoat emitting a strong smell of
scorching, which almost overpowered him. She was reading a work of some
kind, which she hid behind her when she saw her visitor, whilst she tried
to arrange her hair and cap in a rather less slatternly way. Margaret was
busy trimming a hat with white satin ribbons, and judging from the shreds
of white materials of divers kinds lying beside her, had been deeply
engrossed in the dress-making or millinery line. After sitting a few
minutes, Mr. Bridge enquired if he could see Mr. Watson, and though his
wife was quite certain it was impossible, it so happened that Robert
entered at that very time.

"I am so glad to see you," said Mr. Bridge on shaking hands with him, "I
wanted to get your leave to carry off your youngest sister."

"What, Emma?" said Robert, "why she's ill I understand."

"She is better to-day," replied he, "but she wants change of air and scene,
and I want to get it for her."

"Why, what new fancy of hers is this?" exclaimed Mrs. Watson, "that girl's
head is always full of some strange vagary or another; it's only the other
day she would not walk out, and now she's wanting to go away, and she
keeping her bed and pretending to be ill."

"Where do you want to take her to?" enquired Robert, unheeding his wife's
speech.

"Why, my sister wishes for a companion, and I think they would suit each
other very well; and it really appears to me that she feels the confinement
and application necessary in her present mode of life too much for her."

"My dear Mr. Bridge," cried Mrs. Watson in a fawning tone, "don't you,
please, believe that she is a prisoner, or acting under compulsion; I am
sure you would have too much regard for me to go and set such a story
about—only think what my feelings would be were such a story circulated
about my dear husband's sister."

"I did not mean to say anything to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Watson,"
replied the clergyman coolly, "but you cannot deny that your sister-in-law
has been ill, and that at present she is incapable of continuing her labors
as governess to your little girl: I do not exaggerate in that statement."

"Oh dear no—but then she never had any great labors to go through; nothing
I am sure but what any one might accomplish."

"I am of opinion she has exerted herself too much in every way; and as my
sister's house will be very quiet, and they are persuaded they shall suit
each other, I really think the best thing she can do will be to go there."

"I don't see that at all," replied Jane rather snappishly, "I cannot spare
her; I want her to take charge of Janetta; what am I to do without her?"

"I understood her services in that way were very trifling," interposed Mr.
Bridge.

"Just her teaching may be," said she retracting a little, "but then she is
accustomed to take care of her all day long, and I cannot spare her from
that."

"Not unless you find a substitute," said he.

"But I cannot do that, I do not like to leave her entirely to servants, and
unless I mind the child myself what can I do; and I suppose no one would
expect <i>me</i> to become a slave to my little girl, and shut myself up in
a nursery."

"Then why exact it of her?" suggested Mr. Bridge.

"Because whilst she is living at my husband's expense, I think it only fair
that I should profit from her cares in that way; and I consider it always a
charity to give young people something to do."

"That may be very true whilst she is here perhaps; but it seems to me a
little unreasonable, begging your pardon for saying so, to keep her against
her will, and then make her work to cover the expense of staying."

"I am sure I don't know why you should find fault: <i>I</i> have not
<i>time</i> to teach my child myself, if I had the health for such an
exertion."

"You never seem to have either time or inclination to do anything, Jane:"
said the husband, "look at this room—was there ever such an untidy pigsty
for a lady to live in; why cannot you take a little trouble and make it
look decent."

"You had better arrange it after your own fashion," said she scornfully,
"if you do not like mine."

"As to this plan of yours, Mr. Bridge," continued Robert, "I think it a
capital one; and the sooner you can take her away the better—when do you
mean to go?"

Mrs. Watson was silenced altogether, and Mr. Bridge proceeded to explain
the plan of their proceedings as proposed by himself. Robert highly
approved of it all, and gave his full consent and approbation to Mr. Bridge
with the more zest, because it appeared to annoy his wife. After this it
was of course vain for her to make objections; he was completely master of
his own house, and Jane knew, from sad experience, that she might produce
as much effect by talking to the tables and chairs as to him, when in one
of his stubborn fits.

All she could do, therefore, was to be as cross as possible for the rest of
the day to those around her, in consequence of which she was left to a
<lang="fr"><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang> with Margaret, as Elizabeth was upstairs
making preparations for Emma's departure, and Robert went out to spend the
evening with some bachelor friends.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch04
CHAPTER IV.
.sp 2
Punctually the next day, Mr. Bridge drove to the door, and at the same
moment Mr. Morgan entered the house. Emma was in the parlour quite ready
for her journey, and her eye sparkled with pleasure as she told him that
she should not trouble him to call on her again, for she was leaving
Croydon for a long time. He looked aghast.—

"Going away," was his exclamation, as he cast an enquiring eye at the trunk
which Mr. Bridge's man was preparing to place on the carriage. "This is
quite unexpected—may I ask where you are going?"

"It is Mr. Bridge who is taking me away," replied Emma, "and really I can
hardly answer as to <i>where</i> we are going. I am wishing to try a change
of air, as I do not find Croydon agree with me."

"This is Mr. Bridge's doing then," said he, his face turning pale with an
emotion which she did not understand. He felt convinced that his plans had
been seen through and counteracted, and entertained, in consequence,
anything but a feeling of gratitude towards the agent of his
disappointment. At this moment the clergyman entered, and claimed Emma's
company, and after an affectionate farewell from Miss Watson, and a formal
bow from the doctor, she was hurried away. The other two ladies were out
walking, as Jane was determined not to countenance Emma's departure by her
presence on the occasion. Emma felt so very much relieved as she lost sight
of Croydon, and entered on a country quite new to her, that she fancied she
was deriving fresh health and strength from every breath she inhaled. She
was, however too weak to bear much conversation, and was content to lie
back in peace and silence in a corner of the carriage, quietly reposing on
the cushions with which she had been carefully propped, and enjoying the
luxury of seeing the varying landscape pass before her eyes, without making
any exertion. Mr. Bridge was reading; and in this way the fourteen miles
were pleasantly and quickly passed, and in about two hours from leaving
Croydon, they stopped at the door of Miss Bridge's residence.

It was a small, old-fashioned house, with a thick screen of shrubs
surrounding it, and a few picturesque old Scotch firs standing on the
little grass plat which divided the front from the road. The walls were
covered with creeping shrubs, and it was evident that the owner loved
flowers, for early as it was in the year, the little porch was crowded with
showy plants, and odoriferous with the scent of the hyacinth, narcissus and
other sweet bulbs. The old lady came out to receive them, and the warmth of
her welcome, with the kindness of her manner, quite won Emma's heart at
once. She saw that her guest was fatigued, and would not allow her to exert
herself in any way; but leading her upstairs, made her rest on the bed, and
left her promising to return in a short time. The air of comfort which now
surrounded Emma, was truly grateful to her feelings; the airy and
well-furnished bed-room, the snowy curtains and drapery round the bed, the
comfortable furniture, all seemed to bespeak an attention to her wants, to
which she had long been a stranger; and as she lay there thinking over all
that was past, and wondering what was to come next, a deep feeling of
gratitude stole over her heart for finding herself at last in so peaceful
and apparently comfortable a home.

Faithful to her promise, Miss Bridge returned speedily, bringing with her
some refreshment, of which she insisted on Emma's partaking; and then
desiring her to remain quiet for a couple of hours at least, she returned
to her brother, and spent the interval in learning every particular that he
could detail relative to her interesting young visitor.

When Emma woke from a refreshing slumber of several hours duration, the
first object which met her eyes was the countenance of Miss Bridge bending
over her. There was such a look of benevolent interest in that
good-tempered face, as would have sufficed to redeem a very plain set of
features from the charge of insipidity. But Miss Bridge was very far from
plain, and it was evident she must have been eminently handsome. She was
extremely thin, and her high features, and dark complexion made her look,
perhaps, rather older than she really was, but her eyes which were dark
hazel were still bright and lively. Her dress was that of an old woman, the
colours grave, and the materials rich, and though not exactly in the
reigning fashion of the day, yet sufficiently like it to prevent any
appearance of singularity, whilst it was perfectly becoming her age and
station. Emma felt sure that she should like her exceedingly, and quite
longed to be strong enough to converse with her. She was found so much
better as to be permitted to leave her room, and lie for a time on the sofa
in the drawing-room, though Miss Bridge still proscribed conversation, and
recommended quiet and rest.

Everything that she saw gave her an idea of the comfort of her new home;
the well-filled book-shelves especially delighted her; she had enjoyed so
little time for reading lately that the sight of such a collection of books
was a most welcome prospect, and she anticipated with satisfaction the time
when she should be able to exert herself again, and commence the
acquisition of the Italian language; as she was extremely anxious to
increase her information and accomplishments to the utmost.

The next day the old clergyman took his leave, and telling Emma not to fret
about her friends at Croydon, and hoping when he came over next month, he
should find her with rosy cheeks and smiles to welcome him, he went off
quite satisfied that he had secured a comfortable home for his young
friend, and a desirable companion for his old sister.

Nothing could be more peaceful and pleasant to a contented mind than the
course of life in which Emma now engaged. She speedily recovered her
strength, and was able by early rising to enjoy several hours alone in the
morning, which she devoted to study; by this means she was always at
liberty to give her whole attention to Miss Bridge so soon as they met in
the drawing-room. Their fore-noons were employed in reading and needlework,
unless when Miss Bridge was writing letters or settling her household
matters. Walking out, or working in the garden occupied the afternoon, and
in both these occupations, as soon as Emma was strong enough, she took
great delight. The garden was cultivated with uncommon care; Miss Bridge
having quite a passion for floriculture, and Emma thought nothing could
exceed the beauty of her tulips, anemones and hyacinths, as they gradually
unfolded their blossoms. She became extremely interested in the pursuit,
and Miss Bridge more than once had to interfere to prevent her over tiring
herself by her zealous labours.

The country round their residence was extremely pretty; tracts of old
forest land with the huge old trees, survivors of many centuries, formed an
agreeable contrast to the agricultural districts interspersed in places;
and the steep sides of some of the chalky hills were clothed with hanging
beech woods equally picturesque with the green forest glades beneath. To
wander over this scenery, botanising amongst the lanes and hedgerows, or
visiting the various cottages in the neighbourhood, formed a delightful
variety to their labours in the garden. Emma found that next to the
clergyman, Miss Bridge was looked up to as the guardian and friend of the
poor.

Every wounded limb, or distressing domestic affliction was detailed to her.
Her advice was sought equally when the pig died, the baby was born, or the
husband was sick. Her medicine-chest was in frequent requisition, but her
kitchen and dairy still more so. For one dose of rhubarb which she
dispensed, she gave away at least two dinners, and those well acquainted
with the poor may judge whether by so doing she was not likely to prevent
as much illness as she cured; for by far the greater part of the diseases
amongst the labouring classes arise from scanty food and too thin clothing.
Of course she was the idol, the oracle of all the villagers, and the more
so because there was no squire nor squire's family in the parish to
diminish her importance or dim the lustre of her position. In fact she was
the sister of the last squire, and since his death, as his eldest son
resided on another property, the manor-house had stood empty and deserted.
It quite grieved Emma to see it, for the house with its gable-ends and
old-fashioned porch was very picturesque; but they derived one advantage
from the desolate condition in which it was left, as they had the
uncontrolled range of the gardens and pleasure-grounds, which were very
extensive. The little church stood within these grounds, and by its
situation somewhat reminded her of Osborne Castle. But how different was
the Rector. He was an old, formal bachelor, living with an unmarried
sister, extremely nervous and shy, and more remarkable for his total
disregard to punctuality than any other point. This was peculiarly evident
on the Sunday, when the whole congregation were always assembled at least a
quarter of an hour before his appearance amongst them. If the day was fine,
they did not enter the church but remained strolling up and down the
pasture in which it stood, until the minister appeared and led the way into
the sacred building. The congregation, which was almost entirely composed
of the rural population, presented a very different aspect from that at
Croydon; there were few smart bonnets, and the gayest articles of apparel
in the church were the scarlet cloaks of the women. The dark and
old-fashioned building itself had no ornaments but the hatchments belonging
to the Bridge family, and one or two ugly and cumbrous monuments upon the
walls, which seemed intended to record that certain individuals had been
born and died, though what they did when living was now totally forgotten.

When the service was concluded, the clergyman quitted the pulpit and walked
out before all his congregation, who stood up respectfully to let him pass,
and then Miss Bridge and Emma, who had their seat in the squire's pew,
followed before any one else presumed to stir from their places: there was
then a friendly greeting between the Rector and his principal parishioners,
after which they took their quiet way homewards, to partake of their early
dinner, and return to the afternoon service.

Such was the tenor of Emma's life, whilst she remained with Miss Bridge—the
only incident that varied the scene, was a drive over to Croydon one day,
in order to attend Margaret's wedding. Emma had recovered her strength so
rapidly, that she was perfectly equal to the exertion, and Margaret had
sent a pressing invitation not only to her, but to Miss Bridge likewise. It
was, therefore, settled that they should go and spend the night at the
vicarage, as Robert Watson's house was quite full—with the addition of some
cousins of his wife, who were paying a visit. In consequence of this
arrangement, she did not see her future brother-in-law that day; but
Elizabeth spent the afternoon with them. She saw, with sincere pleasure,
how much Emma was improved in looks—she was plumper and fresher—more
blooming and bewitching than ever; and so thought Mr. Morgan too—for he
likewise, called to see her—and was quite startled with the alteration in
her appearance.

"I need not ask you <i>how</i> you are," said he, fixing on her eyes which
spoke his admiration as plainly as if he had put it into words; "you are
looking <i>so</i> well."

Emma was forced to turn away, for the expression of his face was too openly
admiring to be pleasant.

Elizabeth had a long chat with her in private: there was so much to learn
about her new way of life, and so much to tell in return, that it seemed as
if four and twenty hours instead of two, might have been talked away with
ease. There was much to discuss about Margaret's prospects; Elizabeth was
very little satisfied with Tom Musgrove, and only wondered that her sister
appeared so well pleased as she did. He was careless and cold—almost to
insolence—and had, evidently, tried to annoy her in every way he could;
flirting with every girl who came in his way, and only shewing that he was
not careless to her feelings, by his repeated attempts to wound them. To
all this she seemed perfectly indifferent—whether from vanity, she really
did <i>not</i> see, or from wilful blindness she <i>would</i> not perceive
his meaning, Elizabeth could not tell; but she always continued to preserve
a most satisfied air; and when slighted by Tom, sought peace and
contentment in the contemplation of her wedding presents and bridal finery;
constantly talking as if she enjoyed the unlimited affection of the most
amiable and agreeable man in the world.

"And who do you think appeared amongst us last week?" continued Elizabeth,
"actually Lord Osborne! Ah! you color and look pleased—and well you may—for
I have no doubt Croydon would never have seen his countenance, if he had
not thought you still living here!"

"Lord Osborne!" said Emma astonished, "what brought his lordship here—do
you know?"

"The ostensible reason, was to bring a present to Margaret from his
sister—a very pretty necklace as a wedding present; but the real reason, I
have not the smallest doubt was, to see you—and had he not supposed you
were still here, the parcel might have come by the coach, for any trouble
he would have given himself about it."

"It was very good-natured of Miss Osborne, to remember Margaret in that
way," said Emma, "how pleased she must have been."

"Yes, I think she was—it seemed even to put Tom in a better humour with her
and every thing—it gave her a sort of consequence."

"What did Lord Osborne say?" enquired Emma, hoping to hear something
relative to Mr. Howard.

"Oh! we had a long talk together, and he enquired particularly about you,
and where and how you were; and he said he hoped very soon to see you. He
talked about expecting you to visit his sister; in short, he seemed to have
a great deal to say for himself—and really for <i>him</i>, was quite
agreeable. To be sure, I do not think him quite so pleasant as George
Millar, but every body need not have my taste of course."

"Well, I should like to have seen him—did he say nothing about our friends,
Mrs. Willis and her brother—how are they?"

"He said, what I was sorry to hear, that Mr. Howard appeared ill and out of
spirits. I wonder what can be the matter with him—do you think he can be in
love?"

"I am not in his confidence," said Emma, coloring deeply.

"You will see him, of course," said Elizabeth, "if you go to Osborne
Castle—be sure and let me know what you think of him, then; do ascertain if
he is in love."

"You had better make observations for yourself, Elizabeth," replied her
sister, "how can I judge of a sentiment with which I am unacquainted; wait
till you visit Margaret, and you will be able to form your own opinions."

"I do not think I shall ever visit Margaret," replied Elizabeth; "so if I
do not see Mr. Howard under any other circumstances, our chance of meeting
is but small."

The wedding-day was as bright and sunshiny as any bride could desire.
Emma's thoughts wandered from Margaret and her companions to the bridal
party in London, who she imagined would be engaged in the same ceremony
about the same hour. She knew Mr. Howard was to officiate for her friend,
and she tried to picture the scene to herself; then she imagined another
group, where Mr. Howard himself should perform the part of bridegroom; and
wondered what her own feelings would be if she were the witness of such a
spectacle.

She was ashamed of herself when she recalled her mind from this vision, and
she tried to think of something more appropriate to the occasion. She
joined in the prayers for her sister's happiness, but her heart trembled as
she thought of her prospects; however, it was no use foreboding evil—she
tried to hope for the best.

Margaret was not satisfied with her two sisters as bridesmaids, but both
she and Tom had insisted on having four more from amongst her intimate
friends. One of these was the younger Miss Morgan, and as a compliment to
her, her brother was invited to be of the party to church. He stood by
Emma; but she was unconscious of it, until, when the ceremony was
concluded, and there was a general congratulation, and kissing going on,
she felt her hand clasped by some one, and on her turning round, he
whispered in her ear,—"When shall you stand in your sister's place?"

Before she had time to answer, or even to understand exactly what he had
said, her new-made brother came up and claimed the right of kissing her—the
double right in fact, both as bridegroom and brother—and when she had
submitted to the infliction, she again heard it whispered into her ear:

"<i>That</i> is the only part which I envy Mr. Musgrove."

Emma moved away without looking round again, and took her station by the
side of her friend, Miss Bridge, where she felt convinced that Mr. Morgan
would not dare to intrude on her. There was something in the change of
manner which he had lately assumed to her, most particularly offensive and
grating to her feelings.

Another thing she could not avoid remarking was, that some of the young
ladies affected to shun her, shrinking away when she approached, and
abruptly changing the conversation, as if some mystery were going on
between them. This was more particularly evident during the party which
succeeded the wedding; when she found herself rather a conspicuous person
two or three times, being left alone by those she approached—and on more
than one occasion, seeing a group suddenly disperse on her drawing near;
she did not comprehend the reason of this, but she felt it particularly
disagreeable; and it induced her as soon as she noticed it, to keep close
to Miss Bridge, in order to avoid the feeling of solitude in a crowd which
was so distressing to her.

The meeting after the wedding was as dull as such affairs usually are, and
right glad was Emma when the time for retiring came, and she was able to
return to the peaceful vicarage. The next day she again left Croydon, and
once more found repose and tranquillity beneath Miss Bridge's hospitable
roof.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch05
CHAPTER V.
.sp 2

Much as Emma's thoughts had been dwelling on her acquaintance in London,
she little guessed the scene that had really been passing, or the prominent
figure which Mr. Howard had made on the occasion.

When the ceremony was performed, the breakfast over, and the new married
couple had left the house, Lady Osborne retired to her dressing-room, and
thither she sent for Mr. Howard. Without the slightest suspicion as to the
real object of her wishes, he obeyed the summons, and found her ladyship
alone.

She requested him to be seated, and then looked exceedingly embarrassed,
and not a little silly; but after some attempts at conversation, which
ended in total failures, she suddenly observed:

"The marriage of my daughter makes a great difference to me, Mr. Howard."

"Of course it must," replied he, rather wondering what would come next.

"I fear I shall find myself very uncomfortable if I continue in the same
style of life I have done before; without Miss Osborne I shall be quite
lost."

Mr. Howard could not help thinking that he should have supposed few mothers
would have felt the change so little. They had never been companions or
appeared of any consequence to each other. However he felt it his duty to
make some cheering observation, and therefore ventured to suggest that her
ladyship should not give way to such desponding thoughts: she might,
perhaps, find it less painful than she anticipated.

"You are very kind to try to cheer me in my melancholy situation, but, Mr.
Howard, I have always found you so, and I am deeply indebted to you for the
many hours of comfort you have at different times procured for me. You have
always been my friend."

He did not at all know what to say to this speech, and was therefore
silent.

"Do you consider," continued she, "that gratitude is a good foundation for
happiness in the married state?"

"It is, no doubt, a good foundation for affection," replied he, "but unless
the superstructure is raised, I do not think the foundation will be of much
use. It is not sufficient of itself."

"You distress me by your opinion, I had hoped that to secure gratitude was
the certain way to produce love."

"I apprehend that your ladyship will find it much more easy to deserve
gratitude than to <i>secure</i> it; it is an intractable virtue, and favors
which are supposed to have this return as their object, are apt to fail
entirely in their purpose."

"I am very sorry you say so, Mr. Howard; I wish I could secure love from
the objects of my affection. I fear the case is exactly the reverse."

The gentleman was silent, and a pause ensued between them, which the lady
broke.

"What do you think of my daughter's marriage?"

"I think," replied he, "it has every promise of securing them mutual
happiness—I hope this as sincerely as I wish it. Sir William is an
excellent young man."

"The marriage is not so high a one as what <i>my</i> daughter might have
aspired to—she has given up all dreams of ambition—do you not see that?"

"Of course Miss Osborne might have married the equal or the superior to her
brother in rank," said Mr. Howard, "but she has acted far more wisely, in
my opinion, in preferring worth and affection, though not accompanying so
splendid an alliance as possibly her friends have expected for her. Sir
William has wealth to satisfy a less reasonable woman than Lady Gordon, and
if his rank is sufficiently elevated to content her, she can have no more
to desire."

"Do not imagine, Mr. Howard, from what I said that I was regretting the
difference in rank; on the contrary, I believe most fully that as she was
attached to Sir William, Miss Osborne could do nothing better than marry
him. Far be it from me to wish any one to sacrifice affection to ambition.
Had there been even more difference in their rank, had the descent been
decidedly greater—had he been of really plebeian origin, I should not have
objected when her affections were fixed."

"I cannot imagine that there was any possibility of such an event; Miss
Osborne would never have fixed her affections on an unsuitable object, as
any one decidedly beneath her would have been."

"Do you then consider it unsuitable, where love directs, to step out of
one's own sphere to follow its dictates?"

"I am decidedly averse to unequal marriages—even when the husband is the
superior, if the inequality is very great I am inclined to think it does
not tend to promote happiness: but when their positions are reversed, and
the man, instead of elevating his wife, drags her down to a level beneath
that where she had previously moved, it can hardly fail to produce some
degree of domestic discomfort."

"Alas, I am grieved that your opinion should be so contrary to my favorite
theories; I can imagine nothing more delightful than for a woman to
sacrifice station and rank, to forego an elevated position, and to lay down
her wealth at the feet of some man distinguished only by his wit and worth;
to have the proud happiness of securing thus his eternal gratitude."

"I think a man must be very selfish and self-confident, who could venture
to ask such a sacrifice from any woman. I could not."

"But I am supposing that the sacrifice is voluntary, proposed, planned, and
arranged entirely by herself—women have been capable of this—what should
you say to it?"

"I cannot tell what I should say, for I cannot imagine myself in such a
situation. Your ladyship takes pleasure in arranging little romances, but
such circumstances are unlikely to occur in real life."

"And why? what do you suppose is the reason why, in this prosaic world, we
are governed only by titles—empty sounds, not to be compared to the
sterling merits of virtue and learning? Mr. Howard, I prefer a man of
sense, learning, and modesty to all the coxcombs who ever wore a coronet or
paraded a title."

"Your ladyship is quite right," replied he, beginning to get a little
uncomfortable at the looks of his companion, and rather anxious to put a
stop to the conference.

"And if that man were too modest to be sensible of the preference, if he
could not venture, on his own account, to break through the barriers which
difference of station had placed between us, should he be shocked if,
despising etiquette, and throwing aside the restraints of pride and
reserve, I were to venture to express those feelings in all their native
warmth and openness?"

He was silent, and Lady Osborne continued for some moments in profound
thought likewise, looking down at the carpet and playing with her rings: at
length she raised her head, and said,

"I think you understand my meaning, Mr. Howard. Of the nature of my
feelings I am sure you must have been long aware. Do you not see to what
this conversation tends?"

He appeared excessively embarrassed, and could not, for some minutes,
arrange his ideas sufficiently to know what to say. At length he stammered
out—

"Your ladyship does me too much honour, if I rightly understand your
meaning—but perhaps—I should be sorry to misinterpret it—and really you
must excuse me—perhaps I had better withdraw."

"No, Mr. Howard, do not go with a half explanation which can only lead to
mistakes. Tell me what you really suppose I meant; why should you hesitate
to express—"

"Seriously," replied he, trying to smile,

"I for a moment imagined that your ladyship meant to apply to me what you
had just been saying, and I feared you were going to tell me of some friend
who would make the sacrifices you so eloquently described. Sacrifices which
I felt would be far beyond my deserts."

"And supposing I did say so—supposing there were a woman of rank and
wealth, and influence, who would devote them all to you—what would you
say?"

"I would say, that though excessively obliged to her, my love was not to be
the purchase of either wealth or influence."

"I know you are entitled to hold worldly advantages as cheap as any one;
but remember, my dear friend, all the worth of such a sacrifice—think of
the warmth of an affection which could trample on ceremony and brave
opinion. And think on the consequences which might accrue to you from this.
Even you may well pause, before preferring mediocrity to opulence, and
obscurity to rank and eminence.

"These advantages would not greatly weigh with me were they attainable—but
you forget my profession forbids ambition, and removes the means of
advancement."

—"No, you forget the gradations which exist in that career—do you treat as
nothing the certainty of promotion—of rising to be a dignitary of the
church—a dean—a bishop, perhaps—becoming at once a member of the Upper
House? Has ambition no charms—no hold upon your mind?"

"My ambition would never prompt me to wish to rise through my wife—I could
not submit to that."

"Hard-hearted, cruel man!—and has love, ardent love, no charms for you?—it
is true I cannot offer you the first bloom of youth, but have I no traces
of former beauty—no charm which can influence you or soften your heart—has
not the uncontrollable though melancholy love which actuates me—has that no
power over your affections?"

She paused, and Mr. Howard hesitated a moment how to answer, then firmly
but respectfully replied,

"If I understand your ladyship aright, and I think I cannot now
misunderstand, you pay me the highest compliment, but one which is quite
undeserved by me. Highly as I feel honoured, however, I cannot change my
feelings, or alter the sentiments which I have already expressed. My mind
was made known to you, before yours was to me, and to vary now from what I
then said might well cause you to doubt my sincerity, and could give no
satisfaction to your ladyship."

He stopped abruptly; he wanted to say something indicative of gratitude and
respect; but the disgust which he felt at her proceedings, prevented the
words coming naturally. She, the mother of a married daughter and a grown
up son, to be making proposals to a man so much her junior in age, and in
every way unsuited for her—really, he could not command the expressions
which, perhaps, politeness and a sense of the compliment paid him required.
He rose and appeared about to leave her, but she rose likewise, and said
with a look which betrayed indignation struggling with other feelings:

"No, do not leave me thus—reflect before you thus madly throw away the
advantages I offer you—consider the enmity you provoke—calculate the depth
of my wrath and the extent of my power. Refuse me, and there is no effort
to injure you which I will not practise to revenge myself—you shall
bitterly rue this day, if you affront me thus!"

"I cannot vary from my answer; your ladyship may excite my gratitude by
your kindness but neither my love nor my fears are to be raised by promises
or menaces. On this subject I must be, apparently, ungrateful; but when the
temporary delusion which now influences you has passed away, you will,
doubtless, rejoice that I am firm to-day. I must leave you."

"Leave me, then; and let me never see that insidious face again, ungrateful
monster; to throw my benefits from you—to reject my advances. Is my
condescension to be thus rewarded? But I debase myself by talking to
you—leave me—begone!—and take only my enmity with you as your portion."

The lady seemed struggling with vehement emotions, which almost choked her;
and knowing she was occasionally attacked with dangerous fits, Mr. Howard
hesitated about leaving her alone. By a gesture of her hand, however, she
repulsed his offer to approach her; he therefore, slowly withdrew, and his
mind was relieved of anxiety for her by seeing her maid enter the room
before he had descended the stairs. He then hurried away, and tried, by
walking very quickly through the most retired paths in Kensington Gardens,
to soothe his feelings and tranquillize his mind.

Had there been no Emma Watson in the world, or had she been, as he feared
she would soon be, married to Lord Osborne, he must still have refused the
proposal which had just been made to him. It never could have presented
itself as a temptation to his mind. But under present circumstances, with a
heart full of her memory, all the more precious, the more dwelt on, because
he feared she would never be more to him, it was more than impossible, it
was entirely repulsive. If he must love her in vain, as he told himself he
should, that was no reason he should marry another; and if she were to
become Lady Osborne as he feared, her mother-in-law would be the last
person he would be tempted to accept. Step-father to <i>her</i> husband—oh,
impossible! rather would he remove a thousand miles than voluntarily bring
himself into contact with that charming girl in that relationship. If he
could not have her, he would remain single for her and for his sister's
sake, and his nephew should hold the place of son to him. These were his
resolutions, and a further determination to avoid all intercourse at
present with the dowager was the only other idea which could find any
resting place in his troubled brain. He returned the next day to his
Vicarage, and there, with his sister, his garden and his parochial duties,
he sought alike to forget the pleasures and the pains of the past.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch06
CHAPTER VI.
.sp 2

A month of tranquillity and peace of mind, passed in the society of Miss
Bridge, was sufficient to restore Emma Watson to all her former health and
more than her former beauty. When Lady Gordon wrote to remind her of the
promised visit, she was almost sorry to go. Yet her heart would flutter a
little at the notion of again visiting Osborne Castle—of being again in the
vicinity of Mr. Howard, of seeing, hearing, meeting him again. It was very
foolish to care so much about it—extremely so when he had so completely
shown his own indifference, and yet she could not help feeling a good deal
at the idea of meeting.

She called it curiosity to see how he was looking, when she admitted that
thoughts of him had anything to do with it; but more often she persisted
that it was affection for Lady Gordon, or a wish to see her old
neighbourhood, or to visit Osborne Castle in the summer. In short, she
found a hundred surprisingly good reasons why she should wish to go to
Osborne Castle, any one of which would have been sufficient had it only
been true, but as they were mostly imaginary, she never felt quite deceived
about them in her own mind. This was provoking, as she would have liked,
had she been able, to convince herself that she no longer took any interest
in Mr. Howard. She had, however, a right to remember his sister with
regard, and she readily owned to herself that she should be extremely glad
to renew her acquaintance with Mrs. Willis. She hoped to see Margaret
again, and judge of the comparative happiness of her married life. Yet she
looked back with regret to the four past weeks and reckoned them as some of
the happiest she had ever known. Elizabeth had spent part of the time with
her, and she had enjoyed herself so very much.

The more she had known of Miss Bridge, the better she had liked her, and
the parting was accompanied with mutual regrets and hopes of meeting again.

It was June when she returned to Osborne Castle—June with its deep blue
skies—its sunny days—its delicious twilight; June with its garlands of
roses scenting the air, and its odoriferous hay-fields. The weather was
such as any lover of nature must revel in—delicious summer weather—fit for
strolling in the shade or sitting under trees, making believe to read,
whilst you were really watching the birds flitting among the bushes, or the
bees humming in the flowers—weather for enjoying life in perfect
listlessness and idleness—when scarcely any occupation could be followed up
beyond arranging a <i>bouquet</i> or reading a novel. So thought and so
declared the young bride when her husband pressed her to engage in any
serious pursuit; she enjoyed the pleasure of teasing him by her refusals
perhaps rather more than she ought to have done, but she never teased him
very far now; she knew what he would bear, and ventured not to go beyond
it.

"I am glad Emma Watson is coming today," said she, as she threw herself on
a seat in the flower-garden; "you will have something else to look at then
besides me, and I shall quite enjoy the change."

"Are you sure of that, Rosa?" said he doubtfully.

"Why you have not the impertinence to suppose that I value your incessant
attentions," said she; "can you not imagine how tired I am of being the
sole object of your love. Emma Watson shall listen to the grave books you
so much love, shall talk of history or painting with you, shall sit as your
model, and leave me in my beloved indolence."

"May I enquire if you suppose you are teasing or pleasing me by this
arrangement, Rosa—is it to satisfy me or yourself?"

"Oh, don't ask troublesome questions; I hate investigations as to meanings
and motives—all I want is to be left alone, and not asked to ride or walk
when I had rather lie on a sofa in quiet."

"Shall I leave you now then, my dear little wife?" enquired he smilingly,
and offering to go as he spoke. "I have a letter to write now, and you can
stay here in solitude."

He returned to the Castle, she remained musing where he left her, and thus
it happened that when Emma was announced, she found the young baronet alone
in their morning sitting-room. He laid down his pen and advanced to meet
her with great cordiality, desiring a message to be sent to summon his
lady.

After expressing the pleasure it gave him to see her again, he observed:

"Who would have thought, Miss Watson, when we last met, that I should be
receiving you in this castle; did you prognosticate such an event?"

"Not precisely," replied Emma, "so far as concerned myself; but as relating
to Miss Osborne—I mean Lady Gordon—any one must have foreseen it."

"I assure you, when such things are foreseen, Miss Watson, it most
frequently happens that they never come to pass. I have repeatedly seen
instances of this kind." He spoke with an arch smile, and a faint idea
passed through her mind that she was in his thoughts at the moment; an idea
which might, perhaps, have embarrassed her more had it not been swallowed
up—annihilated entirely by a more powerful sensation, as the door opened
and Lady Gordon entered with Mr. Howard.

It was fortunate that the enquiries of the former—her expressions of
pleasure, and her caresses, were an excuse for Emma's not immediately
turning to the gentleman—had they been obliged to speak at once, it is
probable their dialogue would have been peculiar—interesting but
unconnected—as the man said of Johnson's dictionary. As it was, they both
had time to collect their thoughts—and when they did turn, were able to go
through their interview with tolerable calmness; but Emma had the
advantage—as ladies frequently have where circumstances require a ready
tact and presence of mind. Indeed, they did not start on fair ground—since
she had only one set of sensations to contend with and conceal—he had
more—for, besides the emotion which the sight of her occasioned him, he had
the double evil of being convinced it was contrary to the requisitions of
honour, to feel any extraordinary pleasure in her company. Had not Lord
Osborne made him his confidant relative to his attachment, or had Howard
boldly owned to his lordship at the time, that he entertained similar
views, all would have been right, and he might openly have expressed the
interest which he now was compelled carefully to smother. His address was
cold and formal—the very contrast to his feelings—and extremely ill done
likewise; Emma, chilled by the reception so different to what she had
ventured to expect, began to fear her own manners had been too openly
indicative of pleasure at the sight of him; and determined to correct this
error she almost immediately followed Lady Gordon, who had sauntered
towards the conservatory.

"Come here," said the young hostess, linking her arm in Emma's, "let us
leave the gentlemen to discuss the parish politics together. Mr. Howard
came on business, and Sir William dearly loves meddling with it. Now, you
must tell me all the news of Croydon. Have you no scandal to enliven
me?—with whom has the lawyer quarrelled? or to whom has the apothecary been
making love."

Emma colored and laughed a little. Lady Gordon smilingly watched her.

"To you, I suppose, by your blushes, Miss Watson; well, that gives me a
higher idea of <i>his</i> taste, than I have been accustomed to form of
country-town doctors. How many lovers have you to boast of? Beginning with
Lord Osborne, and ending with this nameless son of Esculapius?—tell me all.

"Indeed, I have no such honors to boast," replied Emma, "no one has sought
me, and probably no one ever will:" this was followed by a little sigh.

"Nay, do not be so desponding—a little chill is nothing," cried Lady
Gordon, "but I am not going to pry into your secrets. This conservatory has
given us enough of trouble in that way already. By the way, you will, of
course, like to go over and call on your sister, Mrs. Musgrove—when will it
suit you?"

"To-morrow, if you please," replied Emma, gratefully; Lady Gordon promised
that the means of conveyance should be at her service, and they proceeded
to discuss other topics.

She insisted on detaining Mr. Howard to spend the afternoon and to dine
with them—pleading, as a reason, the absence of his sister, who was away on
a visit; and when this point was carried and settled, she led them out into
the flower garden again, and loitered away the rest of the intervening
time, amidst the perfume of summer flowers, and the flickering lights and
shadows of the alcoves, and their gay creeping plants. It was the day and
place for love making; who could resist the fascinating influence of sweet
scents, sunshine, murmuring fountains and soft summer airs? Not Mr. Howard,
certainly! Gradually his frozen manner melted away—his purposes of reserve
were forgotten, and he became once more the Mr. Howard of Emma's first
acquaintance, pleasant and gay—sensible and agreeable.

Lady Gordon left them several times together, whilst she occupied herself
with her flowers or her tame pheasants; and each successive time of her
absence, there was less check and constraint in his manner; and when, at
last, she totally disappeared, and they were left without other witnesses
in that delightful spot, than the silent trees, or the trickling waters,
his reserve had disappeared altogether, and she could converse with him as
in former times.

"Have you enjoyed your visit at Croydon, Miss Watson," enquired he,
presently.

She looked surprised at the question.

"Enjoyed it," she repeated—then, after a momentary hesitation added, "I
wonder you can apply such a term to circumstances connected with so much
that is—that must be most painful."

He was exceedingly vexed with himself for the question, and attempted to
make some excuse for the inadvertence.

"It is unnecessary." she replied, with a something almost of bitterness in
her tone, "I had no right to expect that the memory of our misfortune would
remain, when we ourselves were removed from sight. <i>I</i> ought rather to
apologise for answering your question so uncivilly."

"No, no, indeed," cried he eagerly, "I cannot admit that—but indeed, Miss
Watson, you do me injustice, and the same to all your former friends in
that last speech. We cannot cease to regret the misfortune—the Providential
dispensation, which in removing your excellent father from among us, robbed
us likewise of you and your sisters."

"My dear father," said Emma involuntarily, her eyes filling with tears—she
turned away her head.

"It was of course a terrible wound to you," said he softly, and stepping up
quite close to her, "but not one which you need despair of time's healing;
<i>your</i> good sense, <i>your</i> principles must assist you to view the
occurrence in its true light. It must not sadden your whole life, or rob
you of all pleasure."

"True—but there are other sorrows connected with it—" she stopped abruptly,
then went on again, "however I have no right to complain. I have still
<i>some</i> friends left—my loss of fortune has not entailed the loss of
<i>all</i> those whom I reckoned amongst my friends; though an event of
that kind is a good touch-stone for new and untried friendships."

"Can you imagine," cried he eagerly, "that such a circumstance can make the
shadow of a difference to any one worth knowing. It is, I own, too, too
common—but surely <i>you</i> have not met with such instances."

She shook her head and looked half reproachfully at him: in her own heart,
she had felt inclined to charge him with this feeling.

"I should have thought," continued he warmly, "you would have said—at least
you would have found it like the words of the old song, that—
.sp 1
.nf
     "Friends in all the old you meet,
      And brothers in the young."
.nf-
.sp 1
"I believe it is not usual," replied she trying to speak playfully, "to
attach much value to an old song—we may consider that as a poetical
fiction."

He looked very earnestly at her and said:

"You fancy friends have deserted you, owing to a change in your
prospects—do not—allow me to advise you—do not give way to such
feelings—they will not make you happy."

"They do not make me <i>un</i>happy, I assure you," said she with spirit;
"the value I place on such fluctuating friendships is low indeed."

"In one single instance, perhaps, it may be so—but you had better not dwell
on such ideas; they will create eventually a habit of mind which must tend
to produce secret irritation and uneasiness. The allowing yourself to think
it—much more expressing that thought <i>can</i> do you no good, and each
repetition deepens the impression!"

He spoke so gently, with such a low, earnest tone, she could not resist or
for a moment longer indulge her half-formed suspicions relative to him and
his sister. Whether he had guessed her feelings she could not tell; his
eyes were fixed on her with too much of interest to allow her to attempt
reading the whole of their meaning. She never liked him so well as when
thus, and with justice, reproving her.

"I dare say you are right," said she meekly, "I will try to repress such
feelings—indeed I am ashamed I ever gave them utterance—and here too, where
I have been so very kindly welcomed!"

"And I am to imagine then," continued he, "that Croydon offers few
attractions to you—a country town is not usually agreeable except to those
who love gossip, of which I do not suspect you; but you must have found
some compensations."

"It was a great pleasure to look forward to Elizabeth being so comfortably
settled," replied Emma, "I like my future brother very much, and am pleased
with his family. I have no doubt of <i>her</i> happiness—and the style of
life will not be irksome to her—but I love the country, and country
pursuits, and was right glad to exchange the noisy streets of Croydon for
the delightful groves of Burton—its meadows and green-lanes."

"You have not then been the whole time at Croydon?"

She explained—he had certainly been in a state of complete darkness as to
her movements lately; and she really felt a momentary mortification that he
should have been contented to remain in such profound ignorance. Yet she
also rejoiced that he had never heard anything relative to the course of
events which had occasioned her so much pain at Croydon, and driven her
from the place. He knew nothing of Mr. Morgan.

How much longer they would have been content to loiter in that pleasant
flower-garden cannot now be known, but they were only induced to leave it
by the sound of the gong, which summoned them to the Castle to prepare for
dinner. The hour which they had thus enjoyed had been one of the
pleasantest to Emma which she could recollect, and the witchery of it to
Howard himself would have been quite unrivalled, had his conscience been
easy on reflection, with regard to Lord Osborne's plans and hopes. He
tormented himself with the idea that it was unjust to his friend to take
advantage of his absence; yet a flattering hope dwelt in his heart, that
<i>she</i> had shown no reluctance to the interview; nay, if his wishes did
not deceive and mislead him, there was a glance in her averted eye, and a
rich mantling of colour over her cheek once or twice, which spoke anything
but aversion.

And if so—if he really had been so fortunate as to inspire her with a
partiality so delightful, was he not privileged—more than privileged—bound
in honour to her to prove himself deserving of such feelings, and capable
of appreciating them. This conviction gave him a degree of confidence and
animation quite different from the manners he had exhibited when they had
previously met at Osborne Castle, and Emma found him as pleasant as in the
earlier stage of their acquaintance.

"Are you still partial to early walks, Miss Watson," enquired Sir William
in the course of the evening, "or is it only in frosty winter mornings that
you indulge in such a recreation."

"Ah, I had a very pleasant ramble that morning," said Emma, "at least till
the rain came and spoilt it all."

"A very mortifying way of concluding," said Sir William, laughing, "for I
came with the rain. I wish you had not put in that reservation."

"I am not so ungrateful as to include you and the rain in the same
condemnation," replied she, "you were of great assistance in my
distresses."

"But if you wish to indulge in the same amusement now, you will have
abundance of time, as Lady Gordon is by no means so precipitate in her
habits of rising and performing her morning toilette, as to compel her
guests to abridge their walks before breakfast. Perhaps as a compliment to
you, and by making very great speed she may contrive to complete her
labours in that way by ten or eleven o'clock."

"Well, I do not pretend to deny it," said Lady Gordon, "I am excessively
indolent, and dearly love the pleasure of doing nothing. But Sir William is
always anxious to make me out much worse than I am."

"But you have not answered my question as to your intentions for to-morrow,
Miss Watson, and I have a great wish to know whether you are proposing an
excursion; because I think it would be much more agreeable if we can
contrive to walk together, and if I know at what time you intend to start,
I will take care to be in the way."

"Is he serious, Lady Gordon?" enquired Emma.

"It is a most uncommon event if he is so, I assure you," replied the young
wife, "and, indeed, I would not take upon myself to assert such a thing of
him at any time—"

"Do not believe all the scandal my lady there will say of me," returned Sir
William, "but just say at once that you will walk to-morrow morning, and
that you will be particularly happy if I and Mr. Howard will join you."

Emma blushed deeply, and hardly knew what to answer, but Lady Gordon saved
her the trouble of replying, by exclaiming at the presumption and
self-conceit of her husband, declaring that he had completely reversed the
proper order of things, and that he deserved a decided negative from Emma,
for having expected her to profess such extraordinary satisfaction at his
company.

Emma made believe to consider the proposal entirely as a joke, but somehow,
without knowing exactly how, it was settled that the proposed excursion
should take place, and that Mr. Howard was to meet them at a particular
spot, from whence they were to ascend the hill behind the Castle to enjoy
the prospect bathed in a morning's sunshine. Lady Gordon privately gave her
husband many injunctions not to interfere with the lovers, and whilst
keeping near enough to take away all appearance of impropriety, to be sure
and give them plenty of time for quiet intercourse. In return for her
consideration, he only laughed at her, and accused her of a great
inclination to intrigue, assuring her she had much better leave such
affairs to take their chance.

The walk, however, took place as was planned, and was exceedingly enjoyed
by all three, though Mr. Howard did not take that occasion of declaring his
passion: indeed he would have had some difficulty in finding an
opportunity, as Sir William did not follow Lady Gordon's suggestions of
leaving them together.

Mindful of her promise, Lady Gordon sent her guest over the next morning to
pay her first visit to Mrs. Tom Musgrove. It was with rather a feeling of
doubt and hesitation that Emma ventured to her sister's house; anxious as
she was to see her and judge for herself, and curious to observe the
manners which Tom Musgrove adopted as a married man, she could not help
some internal misgivings as to the result of her investigations.

She had never seen the house before, and though she had been previously
warned of the fact that it had no beauty to recommend it, she was not
exactly prepared for the bare, unsheltered situation, and the extreme
unsightliness of the building itself. Tom had always spent too much money
on his horses and their habitation, to have any to spare for beautifying
his house during the days of his bachelorship and he was far too angry at
the constraint put upon him in his marriage, to feel any inclination to
exert himself for the reception of his bride. She had therefore no
additions for her accommodation, no gay flower-garden, not even any new
furniture to boast of, and her glory must consist alone in the fact of her
new name, and her security from living and dying an old maid.

Most people would have thought that security dearly purchased, but if such
were Margaret's thoughts, she had not as yet given utterance to them.

Emma found her lying on a sofa, and in spite of her very gay dress, and an
extremely becoming cap, evidently out of spirits and cross, yet wanting to
excite her sister's envy of her situation.

"Well, Emma," said she, sharply, "I am glad you have come over to see me,
though I must say I think your friend, Lady Gordon, since she is such a
great friend of yours, might have paid me the compliment of calling with
you."

"She thought it would be pleasanter if we met first without her," said
Emma, cheerfully, "but she desired me to express the pleasure it would give
her to see you and Mr. Musgrove at Osborne Castle any day you would name!"

Somewhat mollified by this unexpected attention, Margaret smiled slightly,
then again relapsing into her usual pettish air, she observed,

"I think you might say something about the house and drawing-room—what do
you think of it?"

Emma was exceedingly puzzled what to answer, as it was difficult for her to
combine sincerity with anything agreeable; but after looking round for a
minute she was able to observe that the room was of a pretty shape, and had
a pleasant aspect.

"It wants new furnishing sadly," continued Margaret, pleased with her
sister's praise; "but Tom is so stingy of money, I am sure I do not know
when I am to do it. Would not pale blue damask satin curtains look lovely
here—with a gold fringe or something of the sort?"

"Rather expensive, I should suppose," replied Emma; "and perhaps something
plainer would be more in character with the rest of the house and
furniture."

"I don't see that at all," retorted Margaret; "do you suppose I do not know
how to furnish a house—of course I should have everything to correspond. I
have a little common sense, I believe, whatever some people may choose to
think of it. At home indeed I was always considered as nothing, but as a
married woman I am of some importance, I believe!"

"It was not your taste that I doubted," replied Emma, and then stopped,
afraid lest she should only make bad worse by anything she might venture to
say.

"I should like to know what you <i>did</i> doubt then," said Margaret
scornfully. "Perhaps you thought we could not afford it; but there I assure
you you are quite mistaken—Tom's is a very ample income, and he can as well
afford me luxuries as Sir William Gordon himself."

"I am very glad to hear it," replied Emma composedly.

Margaret thought a little, and then enquired how Elizabeth was going on.

Emma's account was very satisfactory, or at least would have been so to any
one really concerned in Miss Watson's welfare; but Margaret would probably
have felt better pleased had there been some drawback or disadvantage to
relate concerning her; being not altogether so well satisfied with her own
lot, as to make her quite equal to bearing the prosperity of her sister.

"And so she is really going to marry that man, in spite of his brewery;
well, I wish she had more pride—proper pride; I must say I think a
clergyman's daughter might have looked higher—and she should consider
<i>my</i> feelings a little. I should have been ashamed to marry any one
not a gentleman by birth and situation!"

"We have not all the same feelings," replied Emma willing to propitiate;
"and I do not wonder at her liking Mr. Millar, he is so excellent a man."

"You think so, I dare say," said Margaret scornfully; "but a girl like you
has seen far too little of the world to be any judge of what men are or
ought to be. There is nothing so deceptive as their manners in
company—<i>I</i>, who must be allowed to have more power of judging, and
indeed in every respect to be your superior, never saw anything remarkable
in Mr. Millar: a certain coarseness and grossness—a something which
irresistibly reminded one of a cask of double X, was much his most
distinguishing characteristic."

"I never observed it, and indeed Margaret I think you do him injustice,"
said Emma with spirit; "I am sure he has nothing coarse about him, either
in mind or person."

"I think it is very unbecoming in you to set up your opinion in opposition
to me. I have had far more experience, and my position as a matron places
me in a much more competent situation for judging of men and manners."

Emma did not again attempt to contradict her, and Margaret, pleased with
her supposed victory, enquired with some good nature and more vanity, if
her sister would like to see her jewel-box. Emma, aware that she wished to
exhibit it, good-naturedly expressed pleasure at the proposal, and was in
consequence immediately desired to ring the bell to summon her maid to
fetch it.

With much self-complacency, and a considerable wish to make her sister
envious, all the new trinkets were exhibited by the happy possessor, and
amongst many which owed all their value to being perfectly modern and just
in fashion, were some few ornaments which would have been valued anywhere
for their intrinsic worth, although antique in their setting, and differing
decidedly from the style of ornament then in vogue.

"Those belonged to Tom's mother," observed Margaret, rather contemptuously
pushing aside the trinkets in question; "I believe the stones are rather
good, and if they were only new set, I should like them very well, but they
are monstrous old things now, set as they have been."

Before Emma had time to reply or to express any opinion at all on the
subject of the trinkets, the door was violently thrown open, and with a
sound which indicated that he was luxuriating in very easy slippers, Tom
Musgrove entered the room.

"I say Margery, girl," he began in a loud voice, but stopped on seeing his
sister-in-law. "Hey, Emma Watson! why I did not know you were here! By
Jove! I am glad to see you."

He advanced towards her, and not satisfied with taking the hand which she
extended to him, he saluted her on the cheek with considerable warmth, and
detaining her hand, he stared her in the face with a look of admiration
which was quite offensive to her.

"Upon my word, Emma, you are looking more lovely than ever, blooming and
fresh. I need not ask <i>how</i> you are—those bright eyes and roses speak
volumes. I am glad to see you, indeed I am."

"Thank you," said Emma, turning away her head and struggling to release the
hand which he retained with a most decided grasp; "I am glad to see you and
Margaret looking so well."

"Oh! Margery there—yes, I dare say, she is well enough—but, as for me, I am
sure it must be something miraculous, if I am any thing remarkable in that
way"—he glanced at his wife and shrugged his shoulders with an air that
excited disgust, not pity, in Emma.

"And so you are come to enliven us, Emma,—that's monstrous good of you,
'pon my honor. I hope you are going to stay here some time."

"You are very kind," replied she, "but I am staying with Lady Gordon, and
only came over here for a short visit to Margaret."

"So there, you see," cried Mrs. Musgrove, "<i>my</i> relations are as much
noticed at the castle as you are; so you need not plume yourself so much on
that head, Tom!"

"I do not wonder that Sir William likes to have a pretty girl to stay with
him," replied Tom, again staring at Emma, who coloured highly with
indignation at his impertinence. "Ah! ha! how you blush," added he, coming
close to her and attempting to pinch her cheek, which she, however,
avoided. "Why, how monstrous coy you are," exclaimed he, "what! are you
afraid of me?—fie, fie—you are my sister, and should have no naughty ideas
in your head."

"I will trouble you, Tom, to leave my sister alone; I do not approve of
your taking personal liberties with her; be so good as to treat her with
the respect which is due to a relative of mine," exclaimed Margaret, half
rising from her sofa to speak with greater energy.

"Ha! ha! so you are jealous Margery," said Tom, throwing himself on a seat
beside Emma, and rolling about with laughter, "that's a good joke 'pon my
soul—a capital joke, indeed—to be sure, considering all things—it's natural
enough; but really, I cannot help laughing at it—indeed, I cannot, though I
beg your pardon, Emma, for doing so."

Emma looked most immoveably grave, and would not give him the smallest
encouragement in his hilarity, whilst Margaret muttered quite audibly:

"What a fool you do make of yourself, to be sure."

"So you are exhibiting your necklace box again," observed he,
sarcastically, as he caught a glimpse of the case beside her. "Upon my
honor, I do not believe there is another woman so vain of her trinkets
between this and Berwick—you are always shewing them to every body."

"Well, and what if I am? I suppose I may if I like—it does nobody any harm
that ever I heard of," retorted Margaret, quite angry. "I see no more
wonder in a woman's shewing her jewels, than in a man exhibiting his
horses, dogs, and guns. I have known instances of that peculiarity in some
of my acquaintances, quite as well deserving of ridicule, as my sister's
wishing to see my ornaments could be."

"I dare say, the horses and the dogs were much better worth looking at than
your trumpery;" replied he, "why, the only things in your assortment worth
any thing, are the topaz set which belonged to my mother; all the rest is
mere rubbish."

"What those frightful old things! upon my honor, Tom, I am ashamed of
wearing such monstrous, heavy, old-fashioned articles—but having once
belonged to your mother, of course they must be wonderfully precious."

Emma here interposed to deliver Lady Gordon's message, and to request them
to name a day for accepting it. A debate ensued as to the most convenient
day on which to fix, which presently branched off into a violent dispute as
to whether the invitation in question was intended as a compliment to Tom
or his wife; each maintaining the opinion, that the honour of the
invitation was all due to themselves.

At length, however, Emma contrived to persuade them to settle the point in
question; and two days from that time, was fixed on for the dinner visit,
and soon after this point was arranged, Emma took her leave.

Much as she was grieved by what she had witnessed, she could not be
surprised at it, when she considered the circumstances under which the
union had been formed. Tom was reckless and unkind; Margaret peevish and
fretful, without energy of character to make the best of her situation, or
strength of mind to bear with patience the evils in which she had involved
herself. No doubt, if Tom had loved her, she would have been fond of him,
and any sensation beyond her own selfish feelings, would have done her
good; but forced into the marriage against his will, love, or any thing
resembling it, was not to be expected from him; in consequence, her own
partiality could not survive his indifference; and there was a mutual
spirit of ill-will cultivated between them, which boded ill for their
future peace.

Emma reflected on all this as she drove home, from her very unsatisfactory
visit, and was only roused from these unpleasant considerations, by finding
the carriage stopped suddenly soon after entering the park. On looking up,
she perceived Sir William and Lady Gordon, who enquired if she would like a
stroll before dinner, instead of returning at once to the castle. She
assented with pleasure, and quitting the carriage, they took a pleasant
path through a plantation, the thick shade of which made walking agreeable
even in the afternoon of a June day.

"Suppose we go and invade Mr. Howard," said Lady Gordon, "this path leads
down to the vicarage—let us see what sort of a housekeeper he makes,
without his sister to manage for him!"

"Always running after Mr. Howard, Rosa," said Sir William. "Upon my word, I
shall be jealous soon: yesterday flirting in the flower-garden—to-day
visiting at the vicarage; if things go on in this way, I will take you away
from Osborne Castle very soon."

"Yes, <i>you</i> have reason to be jealous, have you not? when men leave
off pleasing their wives themselves, they always dislike that any one else
should do it for them"—replied Lady Gordon smiling saucily. "You know you
are always thwarting me yourself, and naturally wish to keep me from more
agreeable society, lest I should draw disadvantageous comparisons."

"But the comparisons are not fairly drawn under such circumstances,"
suggested Emma, "for Mr. Howard's way of treating Lady Gordon can be no
rule for his probable way of tyrannising over some future Mrs. Howard."

"Of course not," replied Sir William, "but I observe, Miss Watson, you take
it for granted that he <i>will</i> tyrannise over a wife when he has one;
is that your opinion of men in general, or only of Mr. Howard in
particular?"

"Of men in general, no doubt," interposed Lady Gordon: "Miss Watson has
lived too long in the world not already to have discovered the obvious
truth, that all men are tyrants when they have the opportunity, the only
difference being, that some are hypocrites likewise, and conceal their
disposition until their victim is in their power, whilst others, like
yourself William, make no secret of it at all."

"I am glad you acquit me of hypocrisy at least, Rosa; it has always been my
wish to be distinguished for sincerity and openness, I never indulged in
intrigues or meddled in manœuvres, or sought for stratagems to carry out my
wishes."

He accompanied this speech with a peculiar smile which made his lady colour
slightly, as she well knew to what he alluded; she did not reply, and they
walked on some time in silence.

At length Emma observed that it was a remarkably pretty walk which they
were pursuing. Lady Gordon told her that they were indebted for the idea
and plan of it to Mr. Howard; he had superintended the execution of some
other improvements which Lady Osborne had effected, but this one had
originated entirely with him. It was the pleasantest road from the vicarage
to the village, and was so well made and drained as to be almost always dry
although so much sheltered. The idea that he had planned it, did not at all
diminish the interest with which Emma regarded the road they were
discussing; and her eyes sought the glimpses of distant landscape seen
between the trees, with pleasure materially heightened by the recollection
that it was to his taste she was indebted for the gratification.

This sort of secret satisfaction was brought suddenly to a close, by
finding herself quite unexpectedly at a little wicket gate opening upon his
garden. She had not been aware the house was so near; but the nature, not
the source of her pleasure, was changed; it still was connected with him,
and the beauty of his garden quite enchanted her. When she had previously
seen it in the winter, she had felt certain it must be charming, but now it
proved to surpass every expectation she had formed; and she was internally
convinced that a love of gardening, and a taste for the beauties of nature,
were sure signs of an amiable and domestic disposition in a man, which
promised fair for the happiness of those connected with him.

They found him hard at work constructing some new trellis work for the
luxuriant creepers which adorned his entrance; his coat off, and his arms
partly bare for the greater convenience of his labours.

"We have taken you by storm, to-day," said Lady Gordon, smilingly holding
out her hand to him, "I like to see your zeal for your house."

"Really," said he, holding up his hand, "these fingers of mine are not at
all fit to touch a lady's glove; when we assume the occupation of
carpenters, we ought to expect to be treated accordingly."

"And when we intrude on you at such irregular hours, we ought to be
thankful for any welcome we can get," replied Lady Gordon.

"Indeed, I take it most kind and friendly of you to come," answered he, his
eyes directed with unequivocal satisfaction towards Emma. "My garden is
better worth seeing <i>now</i>, than when you were last here," added he,
approaching her.

"It is lovely," replied Emma, honestly speaking her mind, "what beautiful
roses. I do not think I ever saw such a display of blossoms."

"I am glad <i>you</i> admire it," said he, in a low voice, "though, after
the conservatories and flower gardens of the castle, I am afraid it must
look rather poor."

"I would not make unjust comparisons," replied Emma, "but I think you need
not dread it if I were inclined to do so. It is not grandeur or extent
which always carries the greatest charm."

"And would you apply that sentiment to <i>more</i> than a garden?" asked
he, very earnestly, fixing on her eyes which unmistakeably declared his
anxiety to hear her answer.

He was not, however, destined to be so speedily gratified as he had hoped;
for, quite unconscious that he was interrupting any peculiarly interesting
conversation, Sir William turned round to enquire the name of some new
shrub that struck his eye at the moment.

Recollecting himself after replying to the baronet's question, he invited
them to enter the house to rest; but this Lady Gordon declined, declaring
that she preferred a swelling bank of turf, under a tree, to any sofa that
ever was constructed. The ladies therefore sat down here, and begging to be
excused for one minute, Mr. Howard disappeared, going, as Sir William
guessed, to wash his hands and put on a coat, that he might look smart and
fit for company. Lady Gordon laughed at the idea of a clergyman making
himself smart, or of Mr. Howard treating her as company; but Sir William
was proved to be partly right, since it was evident on his return that he
had been employing part of his absence in the way that had been suggested;
but to dress himself had not been his sole object, for he re-appeared with
a basket of magnificent strawberries in his hand, which on a warm afternoon
in summer had a peculiarly inviting appearance.

Lady Gordon accepted them eagerly, declaring that she knew his strawberries
were always far better than any the Castle gardens ever produced. As to
Emma, she was certain she never tasted any so excellent in her life, nor
was she ever before pressed to eat with so winning a smile or so persuasive
a tone of voice.

"I wonder you take so much pains to beautify this place, when you are
almost certain of being soon removed from it," said Lady Gordon.

"The occupation is in itself a pleasure," replied he, "which more than
repays me for the exertion, and after your brother's liberality in making
the house and garden as comfortable as possible, it would be very bad if I
could not do my share in keeping it so, even if I am not to remain as
possessor; but I by no means anticipate a change with the certainty which
you seem to do."

"I have no doubt in the least that the moment Carsdeane is vacant, my
brother will offer you the living, and as the rector is very old and infirm
it seems hardly possible that it can be long first."

Mr. Howard was silent for a few minutes, and when he spoke, it was on
another subject; but not with the gaiety with which he had before
conversed; in fact, he was secretly meditating on the extreme desirableness
of quitting his present vicarage, if ever Lady Osborne came to reside again
in the neighbourhood. Nothing could be much more unpleasant than a meeting
between them, and he longed to learn from her daughter whether there was
any chance of such a catastrophe; but as yet he had not found courage to
enquire, fearing her penetration might have led her to guess the past
events, or her mother's indiscretion might have made her acquainted with
them.

"Mr. Howard," said Lady Gordon soon afterwards, "you are under an
engagement to Miss Watson, to give her another lecture on the paintings in
the Castle gallery."

"I remember hoping for that pleasure," said he; "but I could hardly have
flattered myself that Miss Watson would remember it for such a length of
time."

"Indeed I do though," replied Emma; "I have a very good memory for promises
which are likely to afford me pleasure, and if I did not fear encroaching
too much on your time and patience, should certainly claim that one."

"And I assure you I have no wish to shrink from my promise; but any time
you will name I will be at your service," said he with a look of lively
pleasure, "excepting to-morrow, when I am particularly engaged."

"There is no desperate hurry, I dare say," interposed Sir William; "you can
postpone your engagement without material inconvenience, I should think,
for a day or two, after waiting nearly six months."

"Oh yes, Miss Watson is come to pay us a long visit," added Lady Gordon;
"so you may easily settle on the day and hour at some future meeting."

"Any time will do for me," said Emma quietly.

"And are you really going out for the whole day to-morrow?" enquired Lady
Gordon.

He assented.

"Then we will come down and rifle his strawberry-beds—shall we not Miss
Watson?" continued she.

"I protest that will be most unfair," exclaimed he; "since I give you
willingly all I have, and only request, in return, the pleasure of your
society."

"That is so pretty a speech I can do no less than say in reply, that we
shall be most happy whenever Mr. Howard will indulge us with the honour of
his company: come whenever you can—the day after to-morrow Mr. and Mrs.
Musgrove dine with us, will you meet them?"

He accepted with pleasure, though perhaps he would have preferred their
absence to their company.

After loitering away a couple of hours on his lawn, Lady Gordon rose to
take her leave, and even then she pressed him so earnestly to accompany
them up the hill, to assist Miss Watson, who she was certain was fatigued
by her long walk, that he could not have refused had it been an unpleasant
task she was imposing on him, instead of the thing which he liked best in
the world, and was really wishing to do.

The encouragement which he received from Lady Osborne herself was so
obvious, that had his suit depended only on her, he would have felt neither
fear nor hesitation as to the result; but as the wishes and tastes of
another person were to be consulted, and there seemed far more doubt as to
the direction which those took, he still debated whether or not he should
venture to put his influence to the proof, and rest all his hopes on a
single effort.

He accompanied them home, but Emma denied that she was tired, and would not
accept the assistance of his arm, because she misinterpreted the hesitation
with which it was offered, fancying it was done unwillingly, and solely in
compliance with her friend's directions. This discouraged him; he did not
recover from the disappointment, and in consequence would not enter the
Castle, but persisted in returning to spend a solitary evening at the
vicarage. There Emma's smile and Emma's voice perpetually recurred to his
fancy, and he occupied himself, whilst finishing the work which they had
interrupted, in recalling every word which she had said, and the exact look
which had accompanied each speech.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch07
CHAPTER VII.
.sp 2

The next morning at breakfast, one letter amongst many which Lady Gordon
received, appeared to excite considerable surprise, and some other
sensation nearly allied to discontent. She read it over, and then threw it
down before her husband, with an exclamation:

"Only see there!"

"Why, what is it that clouds your brow so, Rosa?" replied he, looking at
the letter without touching it, or interrupting himself in the process of
dissecting a cold fowl.

"Just look at that letter;" said she, "have you no curiosity?" she added,
seeing he did not take it up.

"Oh yes, a great deal of curiosity—but no time to spare, and I know that if
I wait a little, you will tell me all without the trouble of looking at
it."

"Provoking man," said Lady Gordon, "I declare I will not tell you a word,
as a punishment for such incorrigible laziness and impertinence."

"I see by the address it is from your brother, my love," replied the
husband, glancing again at the letter, "what does he say to provoke you,
and put you so out of temper?"

"I will not tell you a word. I assure you."

"Is he going to be married?"

"Look in the letter and you will have no occasion to ask me."

"Miss Watson, suppose you were to take it, and oblige me by reading it out;
you have done your breakfast, and I am still busy with mine."

"No, indeed, I quite agree with Lady Gordon in thinking it very indolent
not to read it for yourself, and shall certainly not countenance it at
all."

"I see you are in a conspiracy against me, and that is very unfair when
there are two ladies to one man," replied he laughing.

"I am just going to make you even as to numbers at least," returned Emma,
"for I am about to leave the room."

She did so, and Sir William immediately taking up the letter, read it
through quietly and returned it to his wife.

"Well," said she, "what do you think of that?"

"First, that it is rather extraordinary your brother's proposal of a visit
should cause you such annoyance; and secondly, that you should think it
necessary to make this visit a secret."

"You are always more struck with my feelings than anything else: I believe
if the Castle were to tumble on us, you would be only occupied in observing
how I bore it."

"That is only because you are the most interesting object in the world to
me: surely you would not quarrel with me for that, Rosa?"

She looked evidently gratified, yet still pretended to pout a little, then
enquired:

"But why would you not look at the letter when I asked you?"

"Because <i>I</i> always feel myself <lang="fr"><i>de trop</i></lang> when
<i>I</i> form the third, where the other two have letters for mutual
inspection: if you wish me to read your letters, and do not choose to make
Miss Watson acquainted with their contents, pray wait another time till she
is out of the room. You see you have driven her away now."

"I certainly wished to talk to you about this, I am so annoyed at Osborne's
coming now!"

"And I cannot imagine why!"

"Because I believe it to be only for the sake of Emma Watson, that he has
so suddenly resolved to come down here."

"And you I suppose, Rosa, wish it to be for your own sake instead?"

"Nonsense; how can you suppose anything of the sort?"

"Then what am I to understand is the cause of your discontent, Rosa?"
enquired her husband, looking rather surprised.

"I do not wish him to care for Emma in that sort of way at all. She is a
very nice girl, and I should like to have her for a friend always, but I do
not desire her for a sister; she is not Osborne's equal, and I should
regret the connection."

"So should I, I confess, not for your brother's sake, but hers. He could
hardly do a better thing for himself; she is his superior in everything but
worldly position, and were there the least chance of his persuading her to
accept him, I should think him a very lucky fellow. But I do not think
there is; and therefore you need not be alarmed for him, nor I for her."

"And why should you be concerned for her at such a prospect—it would be a
very good marriage for her," said Lady Gordon.

"I do not think unequal connexions desirable at all—and were she
<i>your</i> brother's wife, she would be too far removed from the man who
is to be her eldest sister's husband. If I understand rightly, the other is
to marry a wealthy brewer at Croydon—a very good match for her, but not a
desirable connection for Osborne; Emma would either grow ashamed of her own
family and their station, or she would be pained by being obliged to
neglect them in some degree. But she will never accept Osborne!"

"I cannot wish the temptation thrown in her way—I should be by no means
sure of the result," said Lady Gordon.

"You cannot prevent it however," replied Sir William, "if Osborne has any
such thoughts in his head—he is his own master, and cannot be kept away
from her. The mischief is of your own doing too—for you had her here in the
winter—and, if I recollect rightly, encouraged the acquaintance."

"That was entirely for Mr. Howard's sake," said she, "It never occurred to
me that Osborne would notice her."

"I cannot see why you should have intermeddled between them at all," was
his reply. "Mr. Howard would have gone on very well alone."

Lady Gordon did not choose to mention her principal motive, so she only
replied—

"Well, it is too late for such reflections now to be of any use, so tell me
what I had better do, and I will try and obey you."

"Do nothing at all then, love; depend upon it, any opposition will only
make your brother more decidedly bent on his own way, which you have no
means of preventing him from following. Let him come, and trust to the
evident partiality of your friend, Howard, as the safeguard of your
brother."

Lady Gordon had speedily the opportunity of exercising the forbearance
which her husband advised; as, punctual to his promise, her brother arrived
that afternoon. The two young ladies were sitting together when he walked
into the room; and she bore, with as much composure as she could, the
evident warmth and eagerness with which he paid his compliments to Emma. He
seated himself by her side, and after looking intently at her for a minute
in the way for which he had been formerly remarkable, exclaimed with great
energy:

"Upon my honour, Miss Watson, for all it's so very long since we met, you
are looking uncommonly well and blooming!"

Emma felt excessively tempted to ask him whether he had expected she would
have pined at his absence, or grown old in the last six months. She did
not, however, because she thought he would not understand her, as he had
never appeared at all ready to comprehend a jest.

"Croydon must have agreed famously with you," he continued, "I was there
once, and had a great inclination to ride over and pay you a visit at
Burton; but not knowing the people you were with I felt awkward, and did
not like to do it; it is such a horrid thing going entirely amongst
strangers."

"I am much honoured by your lordship thinking of me at all; but I should
say you were quite right in not coming there; we should have been
overpowered by the sudden apparition of a man of your rank."

"I dare say <i>you</i> created a great sensation in Croydon, did you not?"

"Not that I am aware of, my lord; I never wished to be conspicuous, and I
trust, I did not do any thing whilst there, to excite observation amongst
my acquaintance."

"You must have done one thing, which you could not help, at any time,"
replied he, in a very low voice, as if ashamed of himself. "You must have
looked pretty; they must all have noticed that."

Emma met Lady Gordon's eyes fixed on her at this moment with an expression
which it was impossible to misunderstand; it spoke so plainly of anxiety
and mistrust. It did no good, however, for it only made her uncomfortable,
and was totally unnoticed by him. He never was an adept at understanding
looks—and, at this moment, all his senses were engrossed by his attention
to Emma.

Not knowing precisely what to say next, he began to admire her work, a
constant resource with young men who are anxious to talk, and rather barren
of subjects; but this did not endure very long, and when he could find
nothing more to say on this topic, he suddenly started a brilliant idea by
enquiring if the ladies did not intend to go out. Emma appealed to Lady
Gordon, who declared at first, she was too lazy to stir; but her brother
pressed his proposition so very warmly, alternately suggesting riding,
driving, or walking, that at last she yielded the point, and consented to
allow him to drive them out.

Then followed a long discussion as to the vehicle to be chosen, which
terminated in favour of an Irish car—a very favorite mode of conveyance of
Lady Gordon's, and one which was by no means disagreeable to him, as he
would be quite able to talk to Emma as much as he felt inclined.

The drive which they proposed to take was a very pretty one—through a
country partaking of the nature of a forest—and Emma was at first, highly
delighted with it. But an accident, which occurred when near the conclusion
of their expedition, materially diminished the pleasure of the whole party.
In stepping from the seat, in order to ascend a small eminence which
commanded a beautiful view, Emma placed her foot on a rolling pebble, which
giving way under her, twisted her ankle so severely as to incapacitate her
entirely from walking, and occasion her very considerable pain. The concern
of her friends on the occasion, was proportionate to their regard for her,
and quite in character with their different dispositions. Lady Gordon
expressed her sorrow in words—her brother confined his chiefly to looks.
They returned home immediately; and Emma was, with the assistance of Sir
William, who joined them at the castle porch, conveyed into the mansion and
carried up-stairs. It was very painful at first, and she told her friend
she could not join their party in the evening; but Lady Gordon expressed so
much regret at this, that Emma consented to make an effort, as there was no
necessity for ascending or descending stairs, their usual sitting room
being on the same floor with her apartments.

Accordingly she spent the evening on a couch near to which Lord Osborne
stationed himself, in order to enjoy a good view of her face. It was
evident that his love for her had not made him more lively, or more
talkative, and to judge from his manners that evening, he had not made much
progress in politeness. He allowed all the little offices of civility to be
performed by Sir William, never offering to hand her a cup of coffee, nor
seeing when it was empty, and requiring removal; never noticing when her
reel of silk dropped on the ground, or discovering if her embroidery frame
was raised at the proper angle. His total neglect of all this, together
with the little conversation he ever attempted to carry on, and the general
reserve of his manner, entirely prevented Emma from entertaining the idea,
that he was her serious admirer. Had she really supposed it, her manners
might have been different, but as it was, she felt as much at ease with
him, as with his brother-in-law, and treated him with equal frankness.

She never had thought him particularly agreeable, and it did not enter her
head that he would wish to make himself so, for otherwise, he would
probably have behaved very differently; at least so she concluded, when she
contrasted his manner with that of some others of her acquaintance.

The sprain of her ankle occasioned her great pain all the evening, as Sir
William guessed from the paleness of her cheeks, and the shade round her
mouth at times; but she did all she could to conceal it, and chatted with
him and Lady Gordon as long as they remained together.

But she never felt more relieved than when at his suggestion, the proposal
for retiring was made early, in order to relieve her, for she had borne as
much as she could in silence, and really felt once or twice on the point of
fainting.

Lady Gordon took the most judicious step she could, for she summoned to her
assistance the old house-keeper, who being peculiarly great in doctoring
sprains, and all such accidental maladies, soon produced some remedy for
the pain Emma was suffering. But it was evident it would be some days
before she would be able to walk at all, and she very much regretted this
deprivation, during the beautiful weather they were then enjoying.

In the forenoon of the following day, as she was reclining on a couch near
the open window, engaged in drawing a group of flowers for Lady Gordon's
portfolio, Mr. Howard entered the room. As her hostess happened to have
left the room a few minutes before, he found Emma, to his great
astonishment, <lang="fr"><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang> with Lord Osborne. He had
no idea that the young nobleman was then in the country, and not the least
expectation of meeting at that moment with one whom he could not avoid
considering as a dangerous rival. His quick eye did not fail to perceive
too, that some of the flowers in the vase before Emma were of precisely the
same kind as the sprig in Lord Osborne's coat, and he came to the not
unnatural conclusion, that they had been given to him by herself. He felt
quite disconcerted at the circumstance, and he always had an uncomfortable
sense of self-reproach, when he remembered that he had left his lordship in
ignorance of his own wishes, at the time that he received his confidence.
He now hesitated whether to enter the room or not, but Lord Osborne
advanced to meet him with considerable pleasure, and effectually prevented
his withdrawal. He was compelled to shake hands, when at the moment he felt
so very unamiably disposed towards his former pupil, that he was far more
inclined to turn his back upon him.

"Very glad indeed to see you, Mr. Howard," said the other, "I dare say you
are a little surprised to see <i>me</i> here; but I could not help coming.
You see we have got <i>her</i> back again, aren't you glad?" glancing at
the sofa where Emma was lying.

She too held out her hand to him, and her cheeks crimsoned at seeing him
again; but as she never suspected his jealousy, not supposing there was any
occasion for it, she felt rather hurt at the coldness of his address, and
the hurried way in which he greeted her.

Lord Osborne eyed them both, and though not in general gifted with much
penetration, his love seemed, at least on this occasion, to have made him
sharp-sighted, as the idea suddenly entered his mind that there was danger
to his suit in the visits of his former tutor. He sat down in silence,
determined to observe them closely, and not to disturb his powers of
judging, he resolved to keep a profound silence.

The consequence of these various feelings was a peculiarly awkward silence,
and Emma, angry with the lover she cared for, on account of his variable
manners which perpetually perplexed and disappointed her, was almost
determined not to open her lips to him.

At length he spoke.

"I called intending to enquire if you were disposed to fulfil the
engagement we talked of the other day Miss Watson, about the
picture-gallery; but perhaps I need not ask <i>now</i>—you probably are not
disposed for the exertion."

"It is indeed quite out of my power this morning," replied Emma; "and I
wish I could name a time when it would be possible to have the pleasure."

"It is only dependent on yourself—but if you have more agreeable
engagements, of course it is natural you should defer this one. Whenever
you wish it, will you let we know?"

"Do you suppose it to be a more agreeable engagement lying prisoner here?"
replied Emma smiling; "our tastes must differ more than I had fancied they
would if you do so."

"You did not use to be indolent, I know," replied he; "but no doubt it is
far more like modern fashionable manners to pass the day on a sofa than in
active pursuits."

"Now do not be satirical, Mr. Howard," said she in a lively tone; "I never
was, and I hope I never shall be converted into a fashionable fine lady,
and my lying on the sofa has nothing to do with indolence or inclination."

"Indeed!" he replied, with a provoking air of incredulity.

"Yes, indeed and indeed—I assure you it is a downright punishment to me,
only alleviated by the kindness of my friends in trying to amuse me."

Mr. Howard glanced at Lord Osborne, as if he attributed the friendship and
the amusement alike to him.

"No, you are wrong there—I dare say his lordship is afraid I should be
spoilt if I had too much indulgence, so he contents himself with
disarranging my flowers and contradicting my opinions: I really must
trouble you, my lord, for the bud you stole," she added turning to him; "I
cannot do without it."

"And I cannot possibly let you have it," replied he abruptly; "it's gone, I
shall not tell you where."

"Now is not that too provoking!" cried Emma; "with all his conservatories
and gardens at command, to envy me my single sprig which Sir William took
so much trouble in procuring me. I had a particular value for it on his
account, and having sketched it into this group: I must have it, or the
whole will be spoilt."

"Will you promise me the drawing, if I give it back to you?" asked he.

"No indeed—it is for your sister. Mr. Howard, will you not take my part? I
am exposed, without the power of resisting, to his depredations; he knows I
cannot move from this sofa."

"But do tell me what is the matter?" enquired Mr. Howard seriously; "have
you really met with an accident?"

"Only a sprain which incapacitates me from moving," she answered.

"I am exceedingly grieved to hear it," he said with looks of real concern.
"I had been thinking only of want of inclination, not want of power, when
you declined moving."

"You see in that instance then you misunderstood me, perhaps you do so in
others likewise," she replied; an equivocal speech which threw Howard into
a fit of abstraction for several minutes whilst pondering on her meaning.
Recovering himself he began to enquire the particulars of the accident,
which she detailed to him, ending her account with desiring him to deduce
some moral from the history.

"Perhaps you would not like the moral I should draw," he replied with a
smile; "it might not be flattering or agreeable."

"I dare say, it would not be flattering, Mr. Howard; I should not expect it
from you—suppose we all make a moral to the tale, and see if we can think
alike. Come, my lord, let us have yours."

"Give me time to think then," said he—for, in spite of his resolution in
favor of silence, he could not help yielding to her smiles.

"Five minutes by the watch on the chimney-piece, and in good time—here come
Sir William and Lady Gordon to give their opinion of our sentiments."

"I am quite ready to give mine at once," returned Sir William, who heard
only the last speech, as he entered through the window from the terrace:

"I have no doubt that yours, Miss Watson, are very severe—Osborne's
romantic—and Howard's common place. Will that do?"

"Not at all—you shall be no judge in the matter, since you make up your
mind before you hear the cause," cried Emma, "Lady Gordon shall be umpire,
and if you like to produce a moral, do so."

"What is it all about?" enquired Lady Gordon, "I must understand before I
decide."

"Not the least necessary, my dear Rosa," said her husband, "and quite out
of character; women always decide first—and understanding, if it comes at
all, is quite a secondary consideration with them."

"A pretty speech to make," exclaimed Emma, "when he himself just now
answered without understanding at all."

"I knew you would be severe," replied Sir William to Emma, "but I was, I
assure you, only trying to bring down my conduct to the level of my
companions."

"Shall we not turn him out of the room?" cried his wife, "he is intolerable
to-day!"

"Oh no! take no notice of him," said Emma, with spirit, "I do not mind a
word he says!"

"You—all of you talk so much," exclaimed Lord Osborne, "that it is
impossible for me to settle my thoughts—but I think I have made my moral
now—shall I say it?"

"By all means, my lord," said Emma.

"We are all grave attention," observed Sir William.

"Well, I think ladies should take great care not to make false
steps—because, if they do, they will not be able to stand by themselves
afterwards."

"Bravo, Osborne!" cried his sister, "but rather severe on my friend."

"And you, Mr. Howard," she continued, "will you favour us with your
opinion?"

"Mine is, that Miss Watson should, in future, avoid any great haste in
climbing to eminent situations, lest she be the loser in the attempt."

Emma colored slightly at the earnest glance which accompanied the low,
emphatic tone of his speech, but laughed it off by observing:

"Yes, my nature is so ambitious, I need that counsel."

"And now, Miss Watson," cried Lord Osborne, eagerly; "it's your turn."

"Well, the moral I draw is, when I am in a comfortable position again, to
take care and not lose it in searching for some imaginary advantage—the
moral of 'The substance and the shadow.'"

"And mine," exclaimed Sir William, "you must hear mine—it is, that a young
lady's strength of limb is probably less than her strength of will; and I
have always observed it to be easier for her to twist her ankle, than to
give up her own way."

"And mine," exclaimed Lady Gordon, "My dear Miss Watson, my moral is, that
you should never invite men to comment on your conduct, for they are sure
to draw false conclusions and make ill-natured remarks."

"It is the more hard, as your brother was the origin of my misfortune,"
observed Emma, "but for his persuasion, I should have sat still."

"Just like the precious sex, my dear friend," replied Lady Gordon, "lead
you into a scrape, and then be the first to blame you for being there."

"All married women talk in that way," observed Sir William, "they make a
point of abusing men on all occasions; I never could quite make out the
reason."

"It is the very natural result of experience, my love," said his wife.

"I sometimes think it is to prevent other women marrying," continued he,
"lest their offices, as chaperones, should be uncalled for; and sometimes,
I think it is merely to contradict themselves—which all women are so fond
of doing—for having paid a man the compliment of marrying him, it becomes
necessary to thwart him afterwards, lest he be too proud."

"Miss Watson, have you air enough here," said Lord Osborne, coming up to
her sofa; "do let me push you out on the terrace—it would be so pleasant
now the sun is off."

Lady Gordon seconded the proposal, and called on Mr. Howard to assist her
brother. He did so; and then, distressed to find that the young lord of the
castle took his station closer than ever to her side, he tore himself away
from the whole party and went to shut himself up at home till the evening.

Emma felt quite provoked at the pertinacity with which Lord Osborne kept at
her elbow; she had hoped that he would have found it tedious to remain all
day tranquil—but his patience was more enduring than she had given him
credit for. He even seemed to improve in spirits and began talking more
than before.

"Nice fellow, that Howard—is not he?" was his first observation, when the
gentleman in question quitted them.

"Yes, very," replied Emma, not knowing precisely what else to say, and
wondering what would come next.

"He has a prodigious deal to say for himself, which makes him a favorite,"
continued the animated peer, "I wish I could talk so, don't you?"

"I do not think he talked much to-day," replied Emma, "if he did, I did not
hear it at least."

"Perhaps you do not care to have men such very great talkers—do you? I
never heard your opinion about that."

"I really believe I have none, my lord," answered Emma, "I never made up
mind as to how much a man or woman should talk to make themselves
agreeable—some men I know, talk too much."

"Meaning me, Miss Watson?" cried Sir William.

"The too much, must depend on the quality likewise—if they happen to be
very silly or very dull, a few sentences are enough to tire one," added
Emma, "whereas a lively, clever man, may talk for an hour without being
wearisome."

"That is a comforting speech," exclaimed Sir William, "Osborne, we will
take out our watches next time we begin a conversation with Miss Watson.
Lively, clever men—the description just suits us—<i>we</i> may talk
precisely sixty minutes."

Lord Osborne looked grave, as he suspected his brother-in-law was laughing
at him, and Emma was silent, being unwilling to annoy him.—It had been
settled that the Musgroves were to come over early in the afternoon, that
they might spend some time with their sister; and in spite of his usual
predilection for late hours and unpunctuality, Tom was rendered too proud
and happy by the invitation to feel at all disposed to delay the honor.
Soon after luncheon they arrived; Margaret adorned in all her wedding
finery, delighted at such an opportunity of showing it off. Her new bonnet
and pelisse were decidedly more fashionable, according to the Lady's
Magazine, than anything Lady Gordon herself could produce; and she was not
a little surprised, as well as half-affronted, at the simplicity of dress
which her hostess had adopted.

On discovering the circumstance that Emma was confined to the sofa, she
would not rest till she had heard the whole history of the accident, and
then she uttered this sisterly observation:

"Good gracious! how excessively awkward and careless of you, Emma; how
could you be so stupid? well I am glad it is not me, as of all things I
hate a sprain—to go waddling about like an old goose—it's too absurd
really."

"I don't see anything absurd in it," said Lord Osborne sturdily, "it's very
unfortunate and very vexatious to us, and I dare say very painful to her,
but there's nothing absurd in it."

"I did not mean absurd precisely," retracted Margaret, who would never
dream of contradicting a peer of the realm, "I only meant it was very
ridiculous."

Lord Osborne did not condescend to answer any more, but rose and walked
whistling away.

Meantime, Tom was trying to be excessively gallant and agreeable to Lady
Gordon, who, never particularly prepossessed in his favor, seemed now
unusually cold and ungracious. In fact she could not quite forgive the
danger she had been in of being called into court, and naturally looking on
him as the cause, she felt a considerable degree of repugnance towards him.

His obsequiousness and flatteries did him no service; she would not be
accessible to any compliments of his, and to the most elaborate praises,
returned him the coldest answers.

"Where is your charming friend Miss Carr now?" enquired he at length, "I
should rejoice to meet her again, though my position is altered since I
last had that felicity. I hope she has not forgotten me!"

"I cannot possibly answer for that, but I have no idea that your change of
position will at all affect her; but she will soon remember you if she does
not at first."

"She was a delightful girl," observed he again, "so truly lady-like and
lively; a combination one does not often meet with."

"She has high spirits," replied Lady Gordon.

"High spirits are charming things—so captivating."

"I think them very apt to be tiresome," observed she.

"High spirits united to good sense and abilities, form a very charming
character," observed Sir William, "but unbalanced by these, they are apt to
be overpowering. However, I should acquit Miss Carr of them altogether; she
tried to be lively with all her might, but it was rather heavy work."

"I heard she was in this neighbourhood," returned Tom, "is that true?"

"I believe so," said Lady Gordon, "and I rather expect her here soon."

"Who is that you are talking of, Tom?" cried his wife in a sharp voice,
"who is this charming woman?"

"Nobody you know," replied he carelessly.

"My friend Miss Carr," said Lady Gordon, shocked at the rudeness of the
gentleman's reply, "perhaps you remember seeing her with me formerly."

"Oh dear yes, I remember her very well. Tom used to admire her very much,
he often talked about her beautiful complexion," was Margaret's answer,
"<i>Fanny Carr</i> he used to speak of a great deal, he thought she admired
him!"

Tom bit his lips, and looked anything but gratified at his wife's
observation, who exceedingly enjoyed his vexation, and triumphed in having
so amply revenged herself for his rude reply.

"It is very provoking of you to be laid up lame there," she continued
presently to Emma, "I should like to see the grounds of the Castle; I am
always so unfortunate on such occasions: nobody meets with so many
disappointments as me."

"No doubt Emma did it to provoke you," observed Tom with a sneer.

"I shall be very happy to show you over the grounds myself," interrupted
Lady Gordon, convinced that anything would be better than the altercation
going on between the husband and wife, which must be equally disagreeable
to Emma as herself.

Margaret accepted the proposition very joyfully, and the two ladies left
the room together, as Sir William saw no necessity for accompanying them.

"I suppose you enjoy yourself famously here, Emma," observed Tom, coming
close up to her sofa.

"Yes, when I have not a sprained ankle," replied she.

"And even when you have, your spirits are so good, you seem to enjoy
yourself still," observed Lord Osborne, who had returned from the terrace
when Margaret left the room.

"But it makes her of consequence, and all young ladies like that," answered
her brother-in-law. "I am sure Margaret is always affecting to be ill for
no other purpose, and reproaching me because I do not believe it."

"I do not think your wife at all like her sister," observed Lord Osborne,
coolly.

"I wish to heaven she were in any respect," cried Tom, "but I had no such
good luck. However, I suppose I must bear my yoke."

Nobody answered, and after a little while Mr. Musgrove continued,

"One comfort of being married is, that I can flirt now without danger with
any girl I choose, there is no risk now of being compelled to marry any
more."

"You consider that a privilege of married men," said Sir William,
enquiringly.

"Certainly, for on my honour, they need some compensation; I recommend you
to marry, my lord, as indeed the privilege is a great comfort!"

"When I marry I shall leave off flirting," said Lord Osborne, decidedly,
"out of compliment to my wife."

"Tantamount to an assertion you will never marry, Osborne," said Sir
William, "for I never knew you flirt yet."

"How does your stable go on, my lord?" enquired Tom, "I should like to see
it."

"You are welcome to go and see it if you please, so long as you don't drag
me there; I am not inclined for an excursion to the stables at present."

Tom whistled and walked away, Lord Osborne drew nearer to Emma, and said,

"I hope you don't like him—do you?"

"He is my brother-in-law," replied Emma, "you forget that."

"I think <i>he</i> does," retorted Lord Osborne, "but one is not obliged to
like one's brother-in-law, I suppose."

"I hope you mean nothing personal or disrespectful by that observation,"
exclaimed Sir William.

"No, on my honour, I forgot about you, Gordon," said he, "but I should
think it quite enough if the husband likes his wife without its being at
all necessary that the mother and sisters, and brother-in-law, should all
like her too."

"Not necessary, certainly, but altogether desirable, and certainly
conducive to domestic felicity."

"If my sister does not like my wife she must keep at a distance from her,"
said Lord Osborne, positively, "and then her feelings will be of no
consequence—Don't you agree with me, Miss Watson?"

"Not exactly, my lord; I should not in practice, certainly—I do not think I
would marry into a family where I was altogether unwelcome!"

"I am sorry for it," said Lord Osborne, very softly, and then looking
remarkably conscious and awkward, he walked away.

"His theories sound more unprincipled than his practice would be, I
suspect," observed Sir William, looking after him, and glancing at Emma, "I
doubt whether he would really bear a quarrel with his sister with such
indifference."

"I dare say not," said Emma, without at all suspecting she had any share in
his feelings, or interest in his proceedings. "Young men often assert far
more than they would like to realise, and I do not think worse of him than
of many of his neighbours. I dare say he likes his own way—"

"He is very determined in following out his own opinions, I assure you," he
replied, "but what I meant was, that though from impulse he <i>might</i>
act in opposition to the wishes of his family, he would certainly repent
it, as every body does sooner or later."

"Very likely, so for his sake I hope he will not try!" replied Emma, very
unconcernedly.

"Shall I go on reading to you, Miss Watson," enquired Sir William, "or is
there anything you want."

Emma replied that she should prefer reading to herself, and Sir William,
having supplied her with the volumes she desired, left her in solitude.

Thus she remained until she was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Howard,
who looked something between pleased and frightened at finding her alone.
She told him where the others were gone, so far as she knew herself, but he
seemed perfectly satisfied to take her assertions on trust, evincing no
desire at all to follow them. He said it was very warm out of doors, that
her room was exceedingly comfortable, and that he hoped she would make no
objection to his remaining in her company.

She, as may easily be supposed, had no wish to oppose him, and a long and
amicable conversation followed relative to the books she had been reading.
They agreed in admiring the authors in question, and then in praising Sir
William Gordon, who had recommended them. Mr. Howard declared him to be, in
his opinion, a very superior young man, calculated to raise the character
and improve the mind of his wife; he had the power, and the will, to guide
her right, and it was probable that their domestic happiness would continue
and increase.

Emma earnestly hoped it would; there was a great deal to love and value in
Lady Gordon, and hers was a character which would certainly, with judicious
management, be greatly improved.

"I like her," said Mr. Howard, "for her freedom from pride of birth; and
considering what lessons she received from her mother that shows very great
independence of character."

"Her friendship for me is one proof of that," observed Emma, "she has been
invariably kind to me, and I have no claim to equality with her."

"Not in rank or fortune," replied he, "but allow me to say, in habits,
tastes, and education, you are completely her equal, and she feels it so;
her admiration and regard for you are so perfectly natural, that I can
allow her no credit for that part of her conduct."

"I think I shall give you no credit, Mr. Howard, if you indulge in such a
very complimentary strain," replied Emma smiling; "though I suppose you
think something due to me to make up for your severe reflections on my
ambitious projects."

"Your ambitious projects!" repeated he surprised.

"Yes; no later than this morning you warned me not to climb too high, lest
I should fall irretrievably; you see I remember your lessons, though you
may affect a short memory on the occasion."

"I wish I could consider it as a proof that you are not offended at my
boldness," said he drawing his chair closer to her; "I really wished
afterwards to apologise for my words, I feared you would think me so
impertinent. You were not angry?"

"Not the least in the world—why should I be?" was her answer, gaily
smiling. "Indeed I did not believe you were serious; you may laugh at my
vanity, but I did not feel guilty of ambition."

"And if you were, <i>I</i> had no right, no title, no claim to correct
you," said he looking very earnestly at her.

"The right of a friend and well-wisher, Mr. Howard," replied she looking
down with a heightened colour—she never could meet his eyes when they had
that peculiar expression in them. "I trust I may consider <i>you</i> in
that light at least."

"You have not a sincerer well-wisher in the world," he replied with
emphasis, and then stopped abruptly.

To break the pause which appeared to her to be awkward, she observed,

"You did not tell me where your sister is, Mr. Howard—or else I have
forgotten: where is it?"

"In North Wales, not far from Denbigh. I am going shortly to fetch her
home."

"I think you are always going somewhere; ever since I knew you, you have
been perpetually offering to go away. Do you ever put it in practice."

"Sometimes—you will find I shall in this instance. I must go to fetch
Clara, the only question is when?"

"And does that depend on Mrs. Willis' wishes, or your caprice."

"A little on both, if you mean by caprice the power of absenting myself
from the duties of my station," replied he.

"I wish I had met Mrs. Willis," said Emma; "pray make haste and fetch her,
for if I leave the country without our meeting now, it is impossible to say
when, if ever, I shall see her again."

"Are you going quite away then?" enquired he with concern. "I thought your
home was at Croydon."

"It is impossible to say where my home may be—not Croydon certainly—perhaps
I may <i>never</i> have another. I must in future be content to dwell
amongst strangers, and dare not talk of home. I am wishing for a situation
as governess."

A slight shade of melancholy replaced the usually gay expression of her
countenance as she said this, but she did not raise her eyes to read the
many conflicting feelings which were depicted in his countenance as he
listened to her low and feeble voice. He could not command words to express
his sentiments, or indeed feel at all sure us to what he ought to express
at the moment; and she added, after a short pause,

"I have one prospect of a home, though an uncertain one at present; my
brother—I mean my youngest brother—urges me to go and live with him the
moment he can obtain a living for us both in his profession. But it must be
quite uncertain when that will be."

He was still silent, hesitating whether or not he should at that moment
offer her one other home more settled and more permanent. He hesitated, and
the opportunity was lost. Footsteps were heard approaching; the high,
shrill voice of Margaret sounded in the conservatory. In a low and hurried
tone he spoke, clasping her hand in his;

"Dearest Miss Watson, I feel for you! If I had only time I would prove it!"

There <i>was</i> no time for more, but with a gentle pressure which made
the blood thrill from her hands up to her heart, he rose and quitted her
abruptly, escaping just quickly enough through one window to avoid being
seen, as Lady Gordon and Mrs. Musgrove entered at another.

Emma remained in a state of feeling which she would have found it
exceedingly difficult to describe, such was the confusion in her mind at
the moment. Her most prominent idea was, however, disappointment that he
had said so little. She really believed he loved her—at least that he
intended her to suppose it; but why not speak more plainly, or why speak at
all? It would be so very hard to meet him after what had passed, in the
same way as formerly; and yet, how could she avoid it? There seemed no
possibility, however, of his doing anything but explaining himself the very
first opportunity—surely he could not hesitate longer, and all would then
be right.

But with these contradictory notions in her mind, and the agitation to
which they gave rise evident in her face, it was impossible for her manners
to be sufficiently composed, not to attract her friend's notice. Lady
Gordon thought she was in pain, and accused her of having been attempting
to move; which she attributed to the fact of Sir William having gone out
and left her alone; Emma defended both Sir William and herself as well as
she could, forcing herself to speak cheerfully, and denying all accession
of pain or efforts at improper exertion.

Margaret, throwing herself on an easy chair, declared that she was
perfectly exhausted by the heat and the fatigue of their walk, and she
quite wondered how Lady Gordon could bear so much exertion.

"But I really believe that I am more delicate and sooner tired than any
woman in the world. I have never been accustomed to hard work."

Lady Gordon did not trouble herself to assert that neither had she, but
quietly observed that she was sorry Mrs. Musgrove had tired herself.

"Do you see much of your brother, Lady Gordon?" enquired Margaret.

"Yes, when he is with me," she answered.

"I hope he is pleasanter than mine, then," observed Margaret, "or else it
must be a prodigious bore."

"I dare say, they are not alike," said Lady Gordon, who was existing in a
state of incessant surprise at the conversation of Margaret.

"I <i>do</i> so wish my brothers had no profession—it would be so nice if
they had nothing to do—like gentlemen—Tom's being a complete gentleman is
very lucky, I should not have liked to have been a doctor's wife or an
attorney's. Should you, Lady Gordon?"

"Really, it was an event which I never took into contemplation," replied
she, "I know so few doctors, or attorneys either, that I cannot pretend to
judge."

"I wish somebody would marry Emma," continued her amiable sister. "I am
quite afraid she is doomed to be an old maid—one of a family must be they
say; and as Pen is married, and Elizabeth will soon be, it must be Emma's
fate. I am quite sorry for her."

"I am exceedingly obliged to you for your concern, Margaret," replied Emma,
laughing; "but I trust, even if such a catastrophe is to occur, I shall
bear it with philosophy. So pray, do not make yourself unhappy about my
future. I shall not."

"All young ladies talk in that way," observed Tom Musgrove, who entered the
room unperceived, whilst his wife was speaking. "No girl ever owns wishing
to be married, though we know very well that they are all longing for
husbands—and most are ready to take any means to secure one!"

"I am gratified that you include us <i>all</i> in the same condemnation,
Mr. Musgrove," said Lady Gordon, haughtily, "your very flattering opinion
of us, is equally creditable to your fancy and your feeling of propriety."

"Of course, I did not mean to include <i>you</i>," answered Tom, gallantly,
"I <i>could</i> not, for I never thought of you as a woman, but as an
angel."

Lady Gordon did not condescend to answer—she was not to be propitiated by
his flattery, and was more likely to be affronted at his presuming to offer
it at all.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch08
CHAPTER VIII.
.sp 2

Mr. Howard having, by this time, recovered sufficient composure to return
to the company, re-appeared from the conservatory, where he had been
calming his feelings amidst roses and heliotropes, and soon afterwards the
other two gentlemen joined the party. Mr. Howard, himself, did not venture
near Emma; but, after paying his compliments to Mrs. Musgrove, retreated to
a window and seemed to be occupied with a newspaper. Though the two ladies
subsequently retired to their toilet preparatory to dinner, there was no
further <lang="fr"><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang> between him and Emma, as the
other gentlemen continued in the room till dinner time.

Emma, of course, could not join in that meal; and did not, therefore, hear
the comments which Mr. Howard's absence of mind drew on him. Mrs. Musgrove
laughed outright—even Lady Gordon smiled, and Tom Musgrove openly accused
him of being decidedly in love. Sir William came to his rescue, and parried
the attacks of Tom for a time; but after the ladies withdrew, Tom commenced
again, and tormented him unmercifully on the subject—declaring that he had
long seen his attachment to Emma Watson—and without scruple, held out
himself as an example of the risk of indulging in little harmless
flirtations, by which one was unknowingly drawn into the meshes of hopeless
matrimony.

Mr. Howard was quite affronted; and answered indignantly, that whatever his
feelings towards Miss Emma Watson might be, he thought of her with far too
much respect, to allow her name to be used slightingly by any one, and that
he should, least of all, expect from her brother-in-law insinuations so
derogatory to her character.

Sir William again interfered, and requested the subject to be dropped; he
could not allow unfriendly feelings between his guests—and he had no doubt
but that Mr. Musgrove had been misunderstood, if he could be supposed to
speak unhandsomely of so amiable a young woman as Miss Watson, and one, who
was, at the very time, Lady Gordon's visitor.

"I defy any one to prove a word derogatory to Emma Watson," cried Lord
Osborne, his eyes flashing with most unusual animation; "In my house, and
as my sister's guest, her name must and shall be treated with respect."

"Upon my honor I did not mean any reflection upon her," exclaimed Tom,
quite taken by surprise by the spirit he had raised, "it is the last thing
I dreamt of to offend you, my lord."

"Very well," cried Sir William, "that is sufficient, let the subject drop."

And so it did for the present, but what passed had made a deep impression
on Lord Osborne, whose fears of Mr. Howard as a rival were all confirmed by
this discussion. He could not rest without some explanation on this
subject, and accordingly drew him into the garden after dinner, and there
whilst pacing up and down the terrace, told him he had something very
particular to say to him.

Howard's heart told him what was coming, and he resolved to summon his
courage and speak openly on this occasion.

"You know, Howard," said the young peer in a tone between remonstrance and
complaint, "I never made any secret to you of my wishes and hopes with
regard to Emma Watson—you have long known that nothing but circumstances
prevented my addressing her and asking her hand."

"I know it, my Lord," replied Howard.

"Well then, I must say I look upon it as neither kind nor honorable of you
to cut me out, or at least try to do so, for until <i>she</i> convinces me,
I will not believe you have quite succeeded. But you should not have used
me so, when I had been quite open with you."

His companion was embarrassed; for the total absence of self-confidence,
which formed a prominent part of his character, made it very hard for him
to publish his love whilst his prospects were uncertain.

"Tell me," continued Lord Osborne with some warmth, "do you not yourself
love Emma Watson? Have you not sought to supplant me?"

"I will not deny that I do love her,—but I trust the acknowledgement will
be safe with you—I own I love her—have loved her long—did love her well
when you told me your own views, my Lord, and in fact have loved her ever
since our first meeting in the assembly rooms."

"And why was I not told of this when I mentioned my plans to you—why allow
me to form false hopes, whilst you were undermining the ground on which I
stood?"

"You are unjust to me, my Lord, you speak as if I had tried to injure you,
or prejudice her against you. Had <i>I</i> not a right to love her—have I
not a right to win her if I can? Though I <i>am</i> but a poor parson and
you are a peer, surely <i>she</i> is the only one to decide whether my
addresses may not be acceptable to her. I have never attempted to thwart
your success, nor have I ever made Emma a declaration of my own attachment.
But I have as good a right to do so as yourself."

"I did not mean to call your rights in question at all, Mr. Howard; what I
quarrel with is, your want of openness in not letting me know that I had a
rival in you. Had you done so, I should have had no cause to complain."

"I own I was sorry afterwards that I did not speak openly, my lord, on that
occasion, but my uncertainty as to <i>her</i> feelings prevented me!"

"Then you are <i>now</i> convinced of success?" observed Lord Osborne
gloomily.

"By no means; you have forced a confession from me, which under other
circumstances I would not have made; but I am very far indeed from
confidence on the subject. She has never heard me declare my feelings."

"I am glad of it—well then I really think, Howard, the best thing you can
do is to take yourself off for a few days, and leave the field clear for
me. Now do, there's a good fellow, and I shall be eternally obliged to
you."

"You ask a great deal," replied Howard gravely.

"Not so very much, because, you see, if I am accepted it proves that you
would be refused, and just saves you the trouble altogether; and if I am
refused I will let you know, and you can come in directly and follow up
your chase. Do you agree to it?"

"I must have a little time to think of that proposal, my lord," replied
Howard, hesitating and unwilling to assent.

"Till to-morrow morning, I cannot give you longer, let me know what you
settle on to-morrow, and I shall arrange my plans. Do you know my mother
talks of coming down here?"

"I had not heard of it; when does her ladyship think of doing so?"

"Very soon; I think the good old soul has taken it into that precious head
of hers to suspect what I am about, and in her horror of a misalliance, she
is coming down in hopes of stopping me altogether. By Jove it would be a
good joke to get it all settled before her appearance."

"Do you think Emma Watson will consent to be your wife, if she supposes,
her ladyship, your mother, objects?"

"That's the worst of it—I am afraid she may have some scruples, but I mean
to try my luck at all events. There's another thing too, to be considered,
Fanny Carr is coming here—that eternal talker, Fanny Carr, and it would
save me an immense deal of trouble with her if I could give myself out as
an engaged man. She would not talk half so much."

"You really think that would make a difference," said Mr. Howard, trying to
smile, but not very successfully.

"I have no doubt of it at all, and the blessing of being freed in some
degree from the trouble of answering her is more than I could tell. That
girl would talk the hind leg off a horse in no time."

Howard deliberated. He felt perfectly convinced that Emma never would marry
from ambition or mercenary motives, but he was not quite sure what degree
of influence the young peer might have over her heart. The idea of meeting
Lady Osborne again was excessively disagreeable, and as he was really under
the necessity of going to fetch his sister home, he thought perhaps he
might as well go at once, and allow Lord Osborne a fair field. Then if the
event were consonant to his own wishes he might return with a safe
conscience. But the question arose, what would Emma herself think of it; in
what light would she consider his quitting her thus suddenly, after the
betrayal of feeling which he that very afternoon had made? Would she not
think him the most capricious, the most changeable of mortals—might she not
be justly affronted with him, indignant at his vacillation—might she not
suspect him of trifling with her feelings—might she not think herself
extremely ill-used—could he bear to forfeit the esteem which she had
sometimes shown for him. No, Lord Osborne asked too much, he thought only
of himself, and expected to rule Howard now, in an affair of consequence
like this, in the same way as he had formerly done, when the question
solely regarded what part of the river they should fish, or which copse
they should go through with their guns. It was impossible, he could not,
and he ought not to yield, and he determined that he would not. These
thoughts occupying his mind, he was exceedingly silent during the whole
evening, hardly venturing to trust his voice beyond a monosyllable, and
never raising his eyes except by stealth to that part of the room where
Emma sat.

The evening passed very much as might be expected amongst such a
party—Margaret talked a great deal, and her husband took every opportunity
of contradicting her assertions, and turning her opinions into ridicule.
Lady Gordon gave up all attempts at keeping the peace as perfectly
hopeless, and Sir William sat by Emma and entertained her with his
conversation, whilst his brother-in-law was quite as silent as his rival.
At length, to the great relief of the whole party, the Musgroves' carriage
was announced, and they took their leave, and Emma, ashamed, agitated,
fatigued, and worried, left the party immediately afterwards, for the
silence and peace of her own apartments.

She was ashamed and mortified that the Gordons should have seen the want of
concord, and the absence of courtesy between her sister and her husband—it
was much worse than she had expected. Tom seemed to think no civility even
was due, and Margaret set no bounds to her peevishness; but all this
anxiety was merged in her considerations as to Mr. Howard's conduct and
feelings. She could not comprehend him, and she understood herself only too
well.

His last words to her might in themselves mean nothing, but there was a
tone and a look which accompanied them which gave them a deep, and, to her,
most important meaning. Her hand still seemed to feel the thrilling
pressure of his fingers, and she could hardly believe that after this he
could longer leave her in doubt as to his wishes.

Whether it was the agitation of mind which these reflections occasioned, or
solely owing to the pain which for two days she had been suffering, she
could hardly tell, but the next morning she found herself so feverish and
unwell as to be quite unable to leave her room. She felt this the more
because she thus, as she fancied, lost the interview with Mr. Howard which
she had been promising herself, and until she found all chance of it gone,
she had not known how very much she was depending on it.

In the meantime a scene which she little dreamt of was enacted at the
vicarage. Early in the morning, Lord Osborne, impatient for the decision
which he fully expected would be in his favour, hurried to secure an
interview with Mr. Howard. Great was his surprise when he met with a firm
refusal from this gentleman to accede to his proposal. He would not absent
himself from Emma at this time; he would not forego the chances of success
in his suit; no voluntary act on his part should cause her to doubt his
sincerity, or suppose him indifferent to her. Lord Osborne was thwarted in
a way which he little expected, and he had so seldom met with opposition
before, that he knew not how to brook it on this occasion. He was quite
silent, but with gloomy look, and long strides, he paced up and down the
little drawing-room, uncertain what to do or say next, or how to express
his indignation.

Circumstances, however, befriended him in an unexpected way; whilst he was
giving way to his irritation by heavy steps and bent brows, and his host
was heartily wishing the unpleasant interview terminated, the post arrived,
and a letter was brought to Mr. Howard which speedily engrossed all his
attention. It was from his sister, and written in great distress—her little
boy was dangerously ill, and she urged her brother to come to her, as from
a variety of circumstances she stood in need of his protection and advice.
She was in lodgings, and the mistress of the house, a hard-hearted and
parsimonious woman, took advantage of the difficulties in which she was
placed, and not only imposed on her in every possible way, but refused her
the assistance of which she stood in need in the present extremity.

Deeply grieved at this detail of the sufferings undergone by the sister on
whom he doted, he felt not a moment's hesitation as to his determination.
To fly to comfort and defend her must be his first wish, and let the
consequences be what they might, all must give way before such an appeal.

With emotion scarcely to be repressed, he turned to Lord Osborne and said,

"Providence, my lord, has decided against me, and your request must now be
acceded to as an imperative duty on my part. My sister requires my
presence, and if I can arrange my affairs to-day I shall leave by the night
mail for Wales."

Lord Osborne's irrepressible pleasure was a certain proof how deeply he had
taken this affair to heart, and how little he cared for the feelings of
others, except as they thwarted or fell in with his own. He greatly
commended Howard for determining to go immediately, and would have been
quite as ready to commend Mrs. Willis for wanting him. He was zealous in
obviating any possible difficulty about the performance of the Sunday duty,
and only demurred to the absolute necessity which Howard alleged of going
up to the Castle to see and take leave of the ladies.

But here his arguments were met with entire unconcern; Mr. Howard was
determined himself to explain the reason of his conduct, and not trust that
office to another. Perhaps he flattered himself that his friend Lady Gordon
would considerately allow him an interview with Emma untroubled by
witnesses, when he might have an opportunity of setting his own wishes in a
clearer light than he had hitherto had courage to do. But if he nourished
such ideas, they were of course doomed to an entire disappointment, for on
arriving at the well known sitting-room, he learnt, with infinite concern,
that Emma was completely invalided.

"Quite unwell, and unfit for any exertion," Lady Gordon pronounced her to
be, and with so much fever about her that if the evening did not find her
better, medical advice must certainly be sent for. Sorrowfully, therefore,
he was compelled to take his leave, only cheered by the assurance that Lady
Gordon sympathised much in his anxieties, and that Emma would certainly do
the same whenever she could be allowed to learn them.

The certainty that she would learn the real reason that hurried him away
was his greatest consolation, and in that case she must forgive, and would
probably pity him. He went—and Lord Osborne, relieved from the immediate
dread of such a rival, instantaneously resolved to defer his own
declaration until some indefinite and distant period, there being not the
least occasion to hurry, since any day previous to Howard's return would be
early enough for him.

Emma's indisposition lasted several days, and was probably rather increased
than otherwise by the information which her attendant gave her, that Mr.
Howard was gone to Wales, for no one knew how long. She had no one to whom
she could communicate her feelings, and the disappointment was all the more
deeply felt from being dwelt on in secret. Lady Gordon possibly guessed her
sensations, but was too considerate to show it if she did, except perhaps
by an increased kindness of manner. She saw no one else of course except
the apothecary, who was by no means an entertaining man, and would bear no
comparison with her former acquaintance, Mr. Morgan. It was quite true what
Lord Osborne had mentioned, that his mother had talked of coming down to
the Castle; she, however, changed her mind and remained at Richmond
instead; but Miss Carr arrived on a visit, during the time of Emma's
retirement in her own room, and she once more commenced a series of attacks
upon the young peer's affections, which though extremely detrimental to his
peace of mind, did not at all produce the effect which she intended. Miss
Carr began strongly to suspect that some unseen obstacle must neutralize
her efforts, and form a bar to her progress. She could not believe he would
be so impenetrable to her charms if there were no other affection to shield
his heart. She asked questions, considered, watched, and came to the
conclusion that Emma Watson, whose presence she had learnt with surprise,
was the individual who cast a malignant spell around her intended victim,
which enabled him to elude her best devices.

She never for a moment imagined that Emma herself could be insensible or
regardless of his admiration; what was a prize of such value to Miss Carr,
must be a still greater object to Miss Watson, and doubtless she was
internally triumphing in her superior attraction and success. No doubt,
indeed, but this sprained ankle was a part of her plan; all devised to make
herself of importance, and excite his sympathy. Something must be done to
counteract such deep-laid schemes, and that immediately too, or all
exertion would be too late; but yet it must be cautiously entered on, or
she might only hurt her own cause.

Fortunately for her plans, she was possessed of a very unexpected means of
assailing Emma. She had been staying at Lady Fanny Allston's, her ladyship
being her cousin, at the time when the negotiation was carried on for the
situation of governess, and had learnt the exact reason why it had been so
abruptly terminated. The scandal which had thrown a shade over Emma's name
at Croydon, would, on reaching her ears have been passed as a thing
deserving neither attention nor memory, but for the incipient jealousy
which even then she felt against her rival.

This had fixed it in her memory; and now she was determined to bring it
forward in such a way as to make it tell with best advantage in her own
favor. She made no comment when she heard that Emma was in the house; and
bore, without remark and apparent philosophy, the regrets of the whole
party at her absence—only secretly resolving to watch Lord Osborne well on
her re-appearance, and ascertain the state of his feelings from his looks
and actions.

The return of Emma Watson to their usual party was hailed with great
satisfaction by the family. She looked a shade paler than usual, but
otherwise, well and animated—for she had, on her convalescence, learnt from
her friend the exact reason of Mr. Howard's absence; and satisfied that it
was inevitable, and no desertion of her from choice or caprice, she felt
only uneasy for Mrs. Willis, not on her own account.

Sir William and his wife spoke their pleasure aloud; Lord Osborne only
looked his in public, but he seated himself next her at breakfast, and was
extremely attentive in supplying her plate with what he thought best.

Miss Carr being late, missed the rencounter—and by the same means,
forfeited the seat at breakfast, which she had always, hitherto,
appropriated to herself. This vexed her; and when, on entering the room,
she saw Emma, she did not speak, but went coolly round the table and seated
herself precisely opposite.

"Fanny," said Lady Gordon, "I believe you are acquainted with my
<i>friend</i>, Miss Watson—you met her here before."

Fanny bowed haughtily, which was the only answer she would, at first,
condescend to return; but after a moment's consideration, she said with
something like a sneer:

"Though it is some time since we met, Miss Watson, you will be surprised to
learn I have heard a great deal about you in the last three months."

Emma did look rather surprised, more, perhaps, at the tone in which this
was said, than by the fact; she did not know what she had done to give rise
to such a look of scorn or contempt. The next words enlightened her.

"Lady Fanny Allston is my relative—perhaps you did not know that, and I was
there last April."

Emma felt a little confused at the many recollections which were connected
with that name—visions of Mr. Morgan and country-town gossip—unpleasant
sensations and unkind relations, flitted across her mind—but she looked up
after a moment, and conscious that she had been clear of blame in that
transaction, and not quite believing all Mr. Morgan had said on the
subject, she replied:

"Then, there was much probability at one time, of our meeting. I suppose
you know what passed between her ladyship and me?"

"Indeed I do," replied Miss Carr, fixing her large, blue eyes on her with a
malicious look; "and all about a certain Mr. Morgan too—what a pleasant man
he can be. I do not wonder at his misleading girls in that way. Ah! you
need not blush so—upon my word, I think <i>you</i> were almost excusable in
your situation. I dare say, I might have been tempted to do the same."

Lord Osborne's eyes were turned from his plate of broiled ham to Emma's
face, with an earnest expression, which Miss Carr did not fail to notice.
There was awakened jealousy, and surprise, and something of displeasure in
his countenance as he looked at her—but who was the object of the
displeasure, she was not quite certain; she almost thought it was herself.

Lady Gordon looked up likewise.

"Why, my dear Fanny," said she, "I fancy you have got hold of some
country-town gossip; I wonder you are not ashamed to repeat it."

"I certainly should disdain country-town gossip," repeated she, "what I was
alluding to, was an event which nearly concerned Lady Fanny, and which no
doubt, Miss Watson perfectly comprehends."

"I beg your pardon," said Emma, "but indeed, I do no such thing. If you
allude to the fact of my employing Mr. Morgan as a means of communicating
with your relative, I have no idea any one could blame me for such a
proceeding, it seems so natural and straightforward."

"I was not thinking of your employing Mr. Morgan as a <i>negotiator</i>,"
replied Miss Carr with emphasis, "it was very <i>friendly</i> of him, no
doubt, to interest himself in your concerns; single men are often
<i>friendly</i> to young ladies."

"And so are married men too, I trust," cried Sir William, "at least I am;
and, therefore, I recommend you young ladies, both of you, to postpone your
unintelligible discussion on unknown topics, until such time as having no
witnesses, you may be able to converse in plain English, without figure of
speech, or oratorical hieroglyphics.

Emma looked gratefully at Sir William for his interference; he was always
ready to stand her friend. Lord Osborne continued to look thoughtfully and
uneasily at her, between the intervals of replenishing his mouth, or whilst
stirring his coffee, but Emma felt not the slightest concern about his
feeling jealousy or any other emotion; he was extremely welcome to fancy
that she was desperately in love with Mr. Morgan or any other man in
Croydon—especially, as in that case, he would probably make some relaxation
in his devotion to her.

As her ankle was not yet sufficiently strong for walking, Lady Gordon
proposed her taking a drive after luncheon in the pony phaeton, and until
that time, prescribed perfect rest on the sofa. This Emma acquiesced in the
more readily, as the post had brought her some peculiarly pleasant letters.
One was from Elizabeth, detailing many interesting particulars relative to
the preparations for her marriage, and some amusing anecdotes from the
Croydon circle, the other was still more calculated to please and excite
her. It was from Sam, and contained the agreeable information that a very
good situation had presented itself. It was to Penelope that he was
indebted for the offer. Since her marriage, she had been anxious to
persuade her husband to give up his practice, or at least to take a partner
in his business, and now she had the satisfaction of making an offer to Sam
on such very advantageous terms, that he could not hesitate a moment about
accepting them. He was to remove to Chichester next month, and though at
first he was to live in his brother-in-law's house, if the scheme answered,
he was subsequently to have a house of his own, and then he looked forward
with delight to the idea that Emma could come and reside with him. The
prospect of this gave her courage and strength to support all the
disagreeable innuendoes which Miss Carr might throw out, and even to bear
with Lord Osborne's presence and Mr. Howard's absence. Settled at
Chichester, it was not likely that the former of these gentlemen would
follow her for the purpose of looking at her, or that the latter, if he
wished to see her again, would have any difficulty in tracing her steps.
How happy she should be in her brother's little <i>ménage</i>, even if she
were never to see anything more of those whom she had known whilst at
Winston or Osborne Castle. She could fancy it all to herself, and in her
joyous answer, she drew a lively picture of the pleasure she intended they
should have together.

Tired of the anxieties attending an attachment which had not progressed
very happily, she felt as if it would be delightful to settle for life with
her brother, and forswear all other and deeper affection. If she could only
make sure that he would never marry, it would be all perfect; so she wrote
to him, and her letter made Sam smile with pleasure when he read it, and
proved the best restorative after a toilsome day in the heat of the summer,
during a particularly unhealthy season.

"William, as I am going to drive with Emma, you must really ride out with
Fanny Carr," said Lady Gordon to her husband, before luncheon that morning.
"She will expect something of the sort."

"Why can you not take her with you, my love?" enquired he.

"She is so very cross to-day, I do not know what is the matter with her,"
replied the lady, "and really I cannot undertake her, or we shall certainly
quarrel."

"And so she is to be put off upon me, is she Rosa? I am much obliged
truly."

"Oh yes, because you are so good tempered, you will be certain to bear with
her petulance, so do not refuse me," said the young wife with a look of
entreaty, which her husband could not resist.

"Very well, I am resigned, pray let Miss Carr know the felicity that awaits
her; but I hope you will ask your brother to accompany us."

"I am sure neither Fanny nor I should make any objection to that; but I do
not think you will easily persuade him; he is shyer of her than ever, and
seems quite to detest her."

"I do not wonder at it, any man would dislike a girl who made such a
desperate attack on him; I am sure I should for one; I always liked you
because you were so capricious and cross; sometimes unkind, and always
careless towards me."

"You loved me purely out of contradiction I have no doubt, and to hear your
account, we must both have been particularly amiable characters; but so
long as you ride to-day with Fanny Carr, I shall be satisfied."

"And shall I obtain from her all the particulars about which she was
indulging in such edifying hints at breakfast—shall I enquire into the
particulars relative to Lady Fanny and Mr. Morgan?"

"I dare say they would not repay the trouble," replied Lady Gordon, "Fanny
rather likes to say ill-natured things; I do not attach much credit to her
stories in general."

"Upon my word, Rosa, considering she is your very particular friend, I
think you speak very freely of her; I wonder whether you discuss my
character with equal candour and openness."

"Yours—of course, why should you doubt it—but I think if there is anything
to explain, Emma will probably explain it herself—she is so particularly
open and straight-forward."

"She is so, indeed; one of the most amiable young women I know; don't be
jealous, Rosa, but I like her very much."

Lady Gordon did not seem much troubled by jealousy, and so the affair was
settled.

Miss Carr was very well pleased when she learnt what arrangement had been
made, and only required to make her perfectly happy to be secure of Lord
Osborne's company, as she had a most charming new riding hat, with a lovely
plume, which she was certain would make her look bewitching, and place her
beyond competition with Emma. Instead, however, of offering to accompany
her, his lordship began quarrelling with his sister about the arrangement
she had projected. Why was not Miss Watson to ride?—he was certain it would
be much better for her than being cooped up in a pony phaeton, where she
would have no room for her feet. In the saddle, as it was the right ankle
which had been sprained, she would have so much freedom, and he was certain
she would enjoy it extremely. Emma, however, protested against this
arrangement; another day she would be glad to try a ride, but not this
morning; she was too weak, quite unequal to such an exertion. Lord Osborne
submitted, but said not a word of himself accompanying Miss Carr; who,
therefore, considered it a settled thing. Accordingly, her new hat was
arranged in the most becoming style—her long ringlets drawn out to float on
her shoulders, and her dainty figure set off to the utmost by her tight
fitting riding habit. But all in vain; Sir William was the only cavalier
who appeared to wait on her, and he being a married man, was no good at
all. She was very sulky, and Sir William had no other pleasure in his ride,
than such as he could derive for himself from air and exercise on a
beautiful day.

Emma and Lady Gordon fared much better; the fresh air, after confinement to
one room, was delicious to the former; and, as her pleasure kept her nearly
silent, her companion was not troubled to make herself agreeable either.
They drove along, engrossed each by her own thoughts; Emma's wandering down
along each sunny glade or green alley in the forest, revelling in the
glorious pictures which presented themselves of ancient trees, and groups
of deer, sunshine and flickering shadows, deep pools sleeping under
precipitous banks tufted with fern and ivy, and crowned with feathery copse
wood.

The scenery of Comus seemed exemplified, and she almost expected to see
some mysterious forms gliding under the shadows of the forest trees. Lady
Gordon's feelings were much more mundane, and more immediately connected
with the interests of life. She was reflecting on the visibly growing
attachment of her brother, and wondering what would be the result of it. At
length she spoke.

"What shall I give you for your thoughts, Miss Watson? I am anxious, I own,
to know the subject of them."

"I am thinking," said she, "what a lovely wood this would be to rehearse
Comus in; on such an afternoon as this—would it not be effective?"

"What a good idea!" cried Lady Gordon, all animation at the proposal; "I
should like it of all things! Suppose we try?"

"With your present company?" enquired Emma.

"Yes; we should have quite enough—should we not? You shall be the lady, and
Fanny, Sabrina; I, the Spirit—Sir William, Comus, and Osborne—let me see,
we should want one other man. I suppose Mr. Howard would take a part?"

"Mr. Howard? oh, no! I should think not. I am sure he would not like it!"

"Well, well; any one could do the brother's part. I think it would be
exquisite. I am quite delighted with the idea."

"Did you ever act, Lady Gordon?" enquired Emma.

"Never at all; but I am sure it must be delightful. I wonder whether Sir
William would make any objection?"

"There would be some difficulties in the way," observed Emma.

"So much the better; difficulties to overcome give one spirits. Here we
would have our theatre,"—stopping the carriage and looking round. "A
marquee or something of the sort, and seats raised in a semi-circle—it
would be quite delightful, such a <i>fête champêtre</i>. I am certain we
could manage it; and the novelty of the thing would give it great
<lang=f><i>éclat</i></lang>."

"But, Lady Gordon, if you talk in that way you will frighten me; I am
certain I could not act before an audience—I never tried any thing of the
sort, except in the most quiet way; amongst cousins and intimate friends,
with nobody to look on, but my uncle and aunt, and one or two old people,
whom we were not afraid of. We did it only for own amusement, without
thinking of being looked at or producing an effect; acting for the
entertainment of a circle of people, must be such a very different thing
from acting for one's pleasure."

"Very different, indeed; and I should think much more agreeable; what would
be the good of fine acting, if there was nobody to see it, and none on whom
it could produce any effect."

"But acting in itself, is so very amusing, like dancing—one does not dance
to be looked at, but for one's satisfaction; and it was the same with me in
the only acting I ever attempted. I forgot every thing but my part."

"I dare say, you acted very well," said Lady Gordon.

"I liked it exceedingly," replied Emma.

"I cannot give up my plan, however;" continued Lady Gordon, "you have put
it into my head, but you will not find it easy to put it out again."

Just, at this moment, a turn of the road they were pursuing, brought Lord
Osborne immediately before them, leisurely sauntering along on his horse.

He quickened his pace of course, on perceiving the carriage, and was beside
them immediately; with a look of pleasure which was not lost upon his
sister, who was always watching his address to Emma.

"So, I have had the good luck to meet you at last," exclaimed he, "I was
dreadfully afraid I should come upon the other couple, instead of you,
Rosa; and Fanny Carr looked so cross because I would not ride with her. I
do not think I shall face her again for a month. I wish girls would learn
to govern their tempers; they cannot always expect all the men to be
scampering at their heels, just when they want it."

"You used her extremely ill, I must say, in running away from her as you
have done, and riding alone after all. I wonder you are not ashamed of it,"
said his sister reproachfully.

"I did not run away from her; I waited till she was gone, and did not make
up my mind until then, whether I would ride or walk," was his reply.

His sister then began, in the warmth of her present feelings, trying to
interest him in the plan they had been talking of when he joined them. He
did not know what Comus was, and as to acting out in a wood, he was certain
it would be much more convenient, agreeable, and altogether safer to have
the play in the house. He had no objection to acting at all, if he could do
it, but he did not think he could—however, he would try.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch09
CHAPTER IX.
.sp 2

Emma was not present when Lady Gordon made known her wishes on the subject
of acting to her husband; but in the dusk of the evening, as she was
sitting in the conservatory, she became aware, by a conversation she had
with Sir William Gordon, that the request had been made. He came to her,
and placing himself on a low stool at her feet, he began by telling her, in
an under tone,

"I wish you had not put that idea into Rosa's head, Miss Watson, about
acting: I don't like it at all."

"I am exceedingly sorry then," replied Emma; "but no doubt Lady Gordon will
readily give it up if you wish it."

"I hate to contradict her," said the husband; "ever since she has taken to
doing as I wish when I ask, I cannot bear to thwart her at all."

"You seem to regret her complaisance, Sir William; would you prefer having
to reproach and quarrel with her?"

"I feel much more inclined to reproach and quarrel with you, Miss Watson. I
begin to think you are a dangerous companion for my wife. Who would have
expected such a wild scheme from you?"

"Really I hardly know what to say to your reproaches, because perhaps you
may think I am trying to throw the blame from myself; but my idea and Lady
Gordon's plans were so totally different, that they hardly seem as if they
had the same origin. It was quite a vague notion on my part, suggested by
the beauty of the forest scenery, and certainly neither comprehending
company nor marquees, publicity nor expense."

"You do not suppose, my dear Miss Watson, that I meant seriously to blame
you!" said Sir William half rising at her tone. "Rosa explained to me all
about it in reality. But now she has set her heart upon the thing, I do not
know what to do. She will never see any difficulties in the way of her
wishes, and her enthusiasm is the most difficult thing in the world to
resist. If she put herself in a passion about it, I should mind opposing
her a great deal less. What do you recommend, Miss Watson?"

"Don't ask me," said Emma; "I should probably advise something wild and
unheard of—such as either letting her have her own way, or putting a
decided negative on the whole affair at once."

"I believe I must do that. It is so very unreasonable a plan; in this
country picnics and <lang="fr"><i>fête-champêtres</i></lang> for ladies and
gentlemen are almost quite certain to end in rain, spoilt bonnets, wet
feet, and bad colds; besides, I do not approve of her acting, or yours, or
any lady's, and shall certainly not countenance it with my assistance. But
Rosa did wish it so very much, I am sure I shall not have the courage to
refuse her."

"You do injustice to your own strength of mind and firmness of purpose, Sir
William," said Emma laughingly; "you can be as positive and decided as any
one, when you please, though you take so much credit to yourself for your
amiable softness."

"And you recommend me to enforce my authority?"

"And you expect me to give an opinion between man and wife—one which would
make you both my enemies; I am not quite so wild as that!"

"Did you see Osborne out riding to-day? I presume he went off with you, as
he would not come with us."

"He overtook us," said Emma, "and rode a little way with us; what a pretty
horse he rides."

"He wants you to mount that—shall you have courage or strength to-morrow?"

Emma rather demurred.

"It is very gentle, you need not be afraid, I know it well; but you need
not do it if you do not like. Have you been used to horse exercise?"

"A year or two ago I rode a great deal; but I have not made up my mind
about accepting his offer yet, even if he makes it."

"Have you not?" said Sir William quickly; "you had better, for it will
certainly come, and it will be most convenient to know your own mind on the
subject."

"Then I shall take the night to think of of it, and be ready by the
morning; give me your advice, Sir William—which do you recommend, aye or
no?"

"The affirmative, certainly; it will give me great pleasure to see you
added to our party, and to enjoy so much of your society."

"How long have you been studying such extremely complimentary speeches?"
laughed Emma; "but however, I cannot wait here for you to explain to me, as
really it is time to return to the drawing-room."

"Let me assist you," exclaimed Sir William placing her hand under his arm;
"you are hardly yet strong enough to walk quite alone, I am sure."

"I must say, Rosa," said Miss Carr, to her friend the next day, "that I
think you are the most complaisant of wives—much more than I should be."

"I am glad you approve of me, Fanny. What particular good quality has
excited your admiration to-day?"

"The calmness with which you look on and witness the flirtation of your
husband with that pretty Emma Watson. I wonder you like it," said Miss
Carr, balancing her eye-glass on her chain between her two hands as she
spoke.

"You give me more credit than I deserve a great deal, Fanny; I see nothing
of the sort, and, therefore, my complaisance and calmness are not tried."

"Why surely with half an eye any one may see how much they are together—you
cannot deny it."

"No, or that you are likewise a great deal with him," said Lady Gordon,
calmly.

"Or how much she talks to him," persisted Fanny.

"Not more than you do, I think," retorted her friend.

"Were you aware of the long interview they had last night in the dark in
the conservatory? She was sitting in the corner, and he almost leaning on
her lap."

"I am glad you put in the <i>almost</i>, it makes an important difference,
Fanny."

"Do you know what they were talking of, Rosa?"

"No, do you?"

"A great deal of it was complaints of you, he was saying he could not
manage you, and she was giving him advice on the subject. Then they said a
great deal more about another subject, which I shall just tell you. You are
of course aware that she intends to marry your brother."

"No, indeed, I am no such thing."

"Well, she does, I assure you, I heard them coolly canvassing the subject,
he was recommending her to make up her mind as Osborne would certainly make
her an offer, and he said it would be inconvenient to be in doubt when the
proposal was made."

"I am sure you must have very much misunderstood, Fanny, for I cannot
believe Sir William, or Miss Watson either, were discussing any such
subject. Nor can I at all comprehend how you came to learn all that you
detail to me—were they talking before you?"

"No, not exactly—they were in the conservatory, and so was I, but very
likely they did not see me."

"I wonder you remained there then as a listener to their conversation,"
said Lady Gordon, with an air of cool disdain.

"How could I suppose that your husband and your friend had any secrets to
discuss, I am sure such an idea never entered my head; and you take it so
coolly, I really quite admire you, Rosa."

"I do not see anything to agitate myself about, Fanny, unless you could
persuade me to distrust my husband, a thing which I should conclude can be
no more in your wish than it is in your power."

"I would not say anything if I did not know that Emma Watson to be a
dangerous flirt, one who is artful and unscrupulous, and who made herself
so conspicuous at Croydon that she was obliged to leave the place."

"How can you talk in that way, Fanny, I am positively ashamed of you,"
exclaimed Lady Gordon, quite indignantly.

"I assure you, upon my word, I am saying nothing but the most positive
truth," asseverated Miss Carr, "I dare say she never told you anything
about it, but I heard it all when I was at Lady Allston's, and can tell you
the whole history about it."

"I really have no wish to hear country-town gossip," replied Lady Gordon.

Whilst she was speaking Lord Osborne entered the room, and hearing her last
words, exclaimed,

"Ah, pray let us have it, Miss Carr: it would be a pity to defraud a young
lady of an opportunity of repeating a bit of scandal."

"I think it only fair to tell you, Rosa," continued Miss Carr, "fair to
you, and equally so to your friend, if it gives her the opportunity of
explaining away the evil surmises set afloat about her."

"Oh, it's about Emma Watson you are gossiping," observed Lord Osborne
turning away; and taking up a newspaper, he threw himself into a chair, and
concealing his face behind the folio pages, he added, "Pray go on, and do
not mind me."

"Well," said Miss Carr, "you know I dare say Miss Emma was left without a
farthing of her own, and quite dependent on her brother, who is a shabby
attorney at Croydon: this did not suit her—the wife was cross and mean,
like most attorneys' wives I suppose, and Emma is what is called very
high-spirited; and as they could not agree it was settled that Emma should
go as governess some where. Lady Fanny was just parting with hers, and who
should be recommended to her but my old acquaintance Emma Watson; I
remembered the name directly; was it not odd?"

"Yes, rather," replied Lady Gordon, "because I know you seldom remember
what does not concern you. I cannot comprehend how all this history became
fixed in your mind, for really it seems of so little interest to any but
Emma's friends. I knew much of it before."

"It amused me so much, to think of the girl whom I remembered flirting at
Osborne Castle, making her appearance in a new character. But who do you
think recommended her; my cousin's doctor, Mr. Morgan!"

Here Lord Osborne's newspaper rustled very much as he changed the position
of his elbows, and Fanny looked round. His face was still invisible, so she
had nothing to do but continue her narrative.

"Now you must know my cousin is in delicate health, nervous and excitable,
and of course, like all such ladies, takes the English substitute for a
<lang=it><i>cavalier-servante</i></lang>, namely a doctor. <i>Her</i>
doctor, this Mr. Morgan, is reckoned a very clever man, and so I think he
must be, for all ladies he attends, old and young, are, from half in love,
to the greatest extreme of the tender passion. I believe his character is
not quite <lang="fr"><i>sans tache et sans reproche</i></lang>, which
decidedly renders him a more interesting object; and his manners are so
exceedingly devoted and tender, that really I felt inclined to fall ill,
that I might be attended by him. He proposed Emma Watson as governess,
recommended her highly, and carried on the negotiation very successfully,
when somehow or other, my cousin took alarm about the extraordinary
interest of his manner, and having discovered that Emma was reckoned
handsome, began to think it would not do. However, as she is very kind and
candid, she would not condemn her without some enquiry; she has some
inferior acquaintance in the town—I used to wonder why she kept them
up—some old young ladies, great gossips; but I have found out now the use
of them: when she wants a cook, or a nurse, or a governess, or a tiresome
piece of work done, or a charitable collection made in her name, she turns
over all the trouble to these Miss Jenkins or some such name, (one cannot
recollect their plebeian denominations,) and they are only too proud and
happy to fuss about for dear Lady Fanny, who in return invites them
sometimes to tea, and asks her governess to meet them. Well, these amiable
and obliging virgins were quite scandalized that the dear Lady Fanny should
have been so nearly led into a grievous scrape by hiring the said Emma
Watson, who besides sundry other offences, had been guilty of carrying on a
very discreditable acquaintance with this very Mr. Morgan. Clandestine
meetings, and private conversations in dark rooms, long walks in solitary
lanes, and all that sort of thing. Now he is certainly not a man to be
trusted in any other capacity than a doctor—nobody has a word to say
against him in that particular—but certainly not the man to be safe in a
<lang="fr"><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang> with a girl he admired—at least so far
as her character was concerned; and Lady Fanny, quite scandalized, settled
the matter at once by an instant rupture of the negotiation. I dare say,"
added the narrator laughing, "she did not want a rival so near her own
person."

"And that is your narrative, is it?" said Lady Gordon; "it seems to me to
reflect much more discredit on your cousin than on my friend."

"Upon my word, Rosa, you are rather free in your remarks on my relatives,"
exclaimed Fanny very indignantly.

"I beg your pardon; <i>I</i> have not complained of what you have been
saying of my friend and guest."

"But what is there remarkable in Lady Fanny's proceedings to strike you
with wonder? I think it was quite natural; setting aside any jealousy of
Emma, she was surely right not to bring into her house, as governess to her
daughter, a girl who had anything like a slur on her character."

"Excuse my saying that if Lady Fanny did not object to employing the man in
question as a physician, she had no right to take umbrage if another
permitted him as a companion."

"But I understood there was something quite improper in the way in which
she commenced and carried on the acquaintance—quite clandestine and against
her sister's known opinion. In fact, the whole affair was so shocking that
no one would speak to Emma at Croydon, and she was obliged to leave the
town in disgrace. In short, her reputation there was completely
<lang="fr"><i>mise en pièce</i></lang>."

"I am perfectly persuaded," replied Lady Gordon, "that you have been
exceedingly deceived in this affair. As to believing Emma Watson guilty of
anything deserving censure, I cannot until it is proved."

"I should have thought my authority good enough," said Miss Carr.

"You speak only on hear-say evidence, Fanny: you heard from Lady Fanny what
was told her by certain professed gossips, who must either have been acting
as spies themselves, or have been the collectors and bearers of the
slanders of other individuals. No, there is no authority for your
assertions—no testimony which would stand in a court of justice."

"You are determined neither to see nor understand, Rosa, or you could not
talk in that, way," retorted Fanny quite angrily.

"We shall never agree, so we had better not discuss the subject further,"
replied Lady Gordon, "suppose we go to luncheon."

The riding party had again been under discussion, and it was decided that
they should all five take an excursion on horse-back, Emma being to mount
the quiet and gentle animal so strongly recommended by Sir William Gordon.

Just as they were starting, their party was joined by another young man, a
neighbour, who was coming to pay a morning visit, and whom Lady Gordon
invited to accompany them. Whether for the sake of a fresh object, or in
hopes of pique by contrast, or from some other cause unknown, Miss Carr
fastened on him as a victim, and wherever the width of the road required a
division, they two kept side by side. This was a peculiarly agreeable
arrangement to the others, as allowing of two conversations deeply
interesting to some of the parties at least. Lady Gordon wanted to have a
private conference with her husband, on the subject which Miss Carr had
been discussing, and she took this opportunity of belonging to a party of
six to commence it. She told him everything straight-forward, from the
accusation of a flirtation with him, down to the asserted loss of
character. Sir William heard her gravely, and with fixed attention, without
interrupting her eloquent narrative by a remark or a question. She
concluded her story before he opened his lips, and then turning full
towards her, he enquired:

"Well, and have you determined to turn her out of the house?"

"I really feel much inclined to do so, I assure you, the attempt to make
dissension between us is so unpardonable."

"You should first be quite convinced that the attempt has been made," said
Sir William very coolly.

"My dear William, what else can you call her accusation that Emma flirted
with you? She could not make me jealous, but it was most ill-natured of her
to say so; for were the scandal to come to Emma's ears, it would of course
make her very uncomfortable."

"I beg your pardon, Rosa," replied her husband with a smile, "we were
speaking of different individuals; you, I presume, understood my question
as applying to Miss Carr, whilst I really referred to Miss Watson, and I
own your answer rather surprised me."

"So it well might. Could you suppose me capable of resenting to Emma
what Fanny might say. I thought you would have known me better. I shall
take no notice of all the Croydon scandal, except by being kinder to
poor Emma, and as to yourself, I must beg you will do so too. Talk to
her, walk with her as much as you like, I am not afraid for either of
you."

Sir William's eyes expressed far more than his brief answer seemed to
convey, she could read their language, and therefore—"Thank you, I hope we
shall neither of us abuse your confidence!"—was quite satisfactory to her.

In the meantime Lord Osborne was compelling Emma to undergo a catechism,
the purpose of which she could not comprehend. He began by enquiring where
she had been staying previous to her visit to his sister, made himself
quite master of the connection of Miss Bridge with Croydon, and ascertained
that Mr. Bridge was a friend of hers. He then informed himself whether she
had any relatives still in the town, learnt with evident satisfaction that
her eldest sister, whom he remembered, was still there, and also that her
brother was settled in the place. Emma even told him that her sister was
speedily to be married to a very respectable brewer in the town, quite
heedless whether such a piece of information was likely to invalidate her
claims on his regard. He seemed exceedingly well pleased with the result of
his investigation, but no explanation followed as to the object of all his
enquiries. As she thought one was certainly her due, she at length took the
step of asking to what all these questions tended, if she might make so
bold as to demand it.

He hesitated a good deal, and then said flatly he should not tell her, so
it was no use her asking him; at least now, though she would very likely
know it by and bye; he then added in a confidential tone, that he was going
to leave home for a short time; but that he hoped in a few days to return
to her with pleasure. She could not compliment him by pretending to be
sorry at his departure, as she really cared very little about it; but she
enquired, by way of making some kind of answer, whether his sister was
acquainted with his plans. He told her she was not yet, but that he
intended to tell her the first opportunity, as he had not yet had time to
tell her, his project had been so suddenly formed; it originated solely in
some news he had heard that morning.

Emma was too indifferent about him, to feel any curiosity as to the reason
of his journey or its object—for she little suspected that it nearly
concerned herself; the fact being that, in consequence of the scandal that
Fanny Carr had repeated in the morning, he had resolved to go over to
Croydon and exert himself to trace and confute, what he was certain were
only base calumnies, and when he had succeeded in triumphantly proving her
innocence, he meant to lay at her feet his title and his fortune. He was
perfectly delighted at the prospect of proving his devotion to her by this
piece of knight-errantry,—which, he flattered himself, would render him
quite irresistible in her eyes; indeed, he had serious thoughts, if the
original fabricator of these lies was a man, of challenging him—a step
which he firmly believed would not fail to secure the heart of any woman,
for whom the duel was fought.

His ideas on this subject were rather derived from the old-fashioned
novels, where the hero invariably fights at least three duels, to clear the
character of his lady-love.

Very soon after imparting this information to Emma, there came a division
in the party; Lady Gordon having persuaded her husband to change places
with her brother for several reasons. One of the motives that actuated her,
was a wish to converse with Lord Osborne on the reports relative to Emma,
and learn what he thought of Miss Carr's stories. But she rather wished
likewise to separate him from Emma—with whom she thought he had been
enjoying too long a <lang="fr"><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang>; and she was,
moreover, determined to prove the entire absence of all jealousy as a wife,
notwithstanding the insinuations of her friend.

Emma was always pleased with Sir William's company and conversation, and
enjoyed this part of her ride much more than the first. She had the
pleasant conviction in her mind that Sir William liked her; a feeling which
made their intercourse very agreeable—and, as to the scandal which Miss
Carr had tried to insinuate on that subject—she was so perfectly ignorant
of it, that it never occurred to her that an exception to their being
together could possibly be taken.

All Lady Gordon's eloquence and persuasive powers—seconded by the strongest
curiosity, failed to draw from her brother an acknowledgement of his
purpose in leaving home, or a definite opinion as to his belief, or
otherwise, in Miss Carr's stories. On this subject, indeed, he was
particularly impracticable, only exclaiming—

"Pshaw! don't ask me, Rosa, about any thing she says—you know I never
listen to her."

One thing which greatly excited her curiosity, was the manner of her
brother's journey; she had questioned him as to how he intended to travel,
and he only told her to guess. In vain she attempted to do so. His
carriages were all enumerated in vain—his horses, his servants, were not to
accompany him; she concluded that he must be going on foot, and the object
of his journey became more mysterious than ever.

He piqued himself on his discretion, and was delighted to torment her,
until she was obliged to own herself fairly puzzled, and then he told her
to console her—"Time would show."

In fact Lord Osborne left the Castle the next morning in a gig, with a
single attendant, who only accompanied him a couple of miles, and then
returned home, leaving his lordship and his portmanteau at a small
road-side public house. Further than this, nothing was to be extracted by
the most adroit questioning of Lady Gordon's woman, who well knew how
curious her mistress was on the subject. But although his expedition was a
secret to his relatives and friends, it is none to the reader, and we
shall, therefore, without ceremony leave him at the public-house in
question, until the stage-coach through Croydon passed, and picking him up
transported him the rest of the journey.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch10
CHAPTER X.
.sp 2

The party left at the Castle, was too ill-suited to be particularly
agreeable, and Sir William now and then privately complained to his wife of
the dead weight which Miss Carr was in society where there were no young
men present. She had so little conversation besides scandal, and so little
occupation of any kind, that Sir William was extremely weary of her. She
sometimes played a little on the harp, but she never did that with
perseverance, or anything else at all. Her father had never allowed her to
learn any species of needle-work, which in some shape or other forms the
universal occupation and resource of women, because, he said, there were so
many unfortunates who were compelled to earn their bread in that way, that
it was unfair to take it out of their hands. With no taste for anything but
the lightest species of literature, a novel was her only quiet resource,
and in the country it was difficult in those days to procure a sufficient
supply of new novels. Lady Gordon could only listen patiently to her
husband's complaints; she did not know when Fanny and her foibles would
remove; nor could she at all foretell when Lord Osborne and her spirits
would return, though pretty well aware that they would re-appear together.

The only resource she could suggest was arranging a small party for a dance
or some such amusement, as she had never said another word about the
acting, which at one time had so occupied her mind. This would give her
friend something to think of and amuse herself with, as she might arrange a
new dress for the occasion; nay, if Lady Gordon could only unite a daylight
and an evening party in one, she might have the happiness of preparing two
dresses at least.

The prospect of such a pleasure revived Miss Carr, and she awoke to a full
sense of the responsibilities of life, when so important a thing as a
<i>fête</i> was in progress. Of what nature should it be, was the question,
and one which occasioned as much amusement as could be hoped from the
actual party. They had a great many different plans in their heads; fancy
dresses—historical characters—costumes from the old family portraits in the
picture-gallery, were all discussed with much warmth and animation. But
every one of these proposals had so many objections attached to it. The
difficulty of getting other individuals to enter into their views, and the
impossibility of those unaccustomed to such scenes entering into them at
all, were all suggested as impediments by Sir William, who had no fancy for
any of their plans, and it ended in a much more simple arrangement. A
collation in a <lang="fr"><i>marquée</i></lang>, in some romantic part of the
park, bands of music stationed in favorable situations, to entertain them
whilst eating; and the beauties of the glen, the echo, and the waterfall
within a distance favorable for a walk, to amuse them afterwards. Then
there might be the return to the Castle in the evening, and a dance
afterwards, which would finish the day's pleasure, and afford a proper
proportion of fatigue to all.

To settle on a picturesque costume for this occasion, became now the
pre-eminent object of Fanny Carr's thoughts. Emma herself was under no
uneasiness on that point, as Lady Gordon had taken the occasion to present
her with a suitable and elegant dress, on the plea of making some
compensation for the awkwardness of her brother on the occasion of the last
ball at Osborne Castle.

Lord Osborne's return was delayed from day to day, by his finding more
difficulty in his undertaking than he had expected; but as the course of
his pursuit led him to London, he wrote from thence to his sister and gave
her reason to expect to see him again before the <lang="fr"><i>fête</i></lang> day arrived.
This was a relief to Miss Carr's mind, for although desirous of universal
admiration, she was peculiarly anxious for his special attention and
regard.

Fortunately for her she was gratified; as she was sitting in Lady Gordon's
dressing-room the day preceding that for universal happiness, busily
engaged in twining a delicate wreath to deck her hair on the festive night,
Lord Osborne marched into the room, and suddenly laid down before her a
packet of papers, which he was carrying in his hand. She gave a great jump
and a little scream, exclaimed at his abrupt entrance, and enquired
playfully if he meant to frighten her out of her senses. He replied
quietly:

"Not in the least, but he knew there was no danger of that, as her nerves
were sufficiently strong to bear a much greater shock."

But what in the world were those papers he had placed before her? what was
she to do with them?

He told her to read them and they would gratify her exceedingly.

"What on earth are they?" said she, unfolding the
packet—"'Testimonials—Miss Emma Watson—Rev. John Bridge—Barbara Bridge—Lucy
Jenkins—Eliza Lamb—'good heavens! what is the meaning of all this, my
lord—are you trying to make a fool of me?"

"No, Miss Carr, I am only trying to prevent your making a fool of
yourself," answered he with perfect self-possession.

"I really am excessively obliged to you. I did not know I was in danger of
such a catastrophe, or that I was likely to be indebted in that respect to
your lordship's deep intellect, and brilliant genius. Pray may I ask the
meaning of all this, for really at present my folly is too profound to
allow me to reach the pinnacle of comprehension."

"You remember, Miss Carr," said Lord Osborne gravely, "those slanderous
tales against Miss Watson, which you were pleased to repeat the day before
I left this place."

"Yes, I remember saying something which indeed I am certain could be proved
to a fraction. If you think I repeat things without a foundation, you are
very much mistaken indeed. I assure you I am excessively careful of what I
say, and never dream of giving circulation to unfounded reports, or—"

"I am excessively glad to hear it—I hope you never will—I listened to you
then without speaking, I must beg you will do so now to me. Feeling
perfectly sure, as I did, that your tale was untrue; I have been to
Croydon—and, without troubling you with a long detail of the trouble I have
taken, I shall just make a short story of it at once, by saying that the
result is, that Emma Watson's character is perfectly clear."

"I am sure then, my lord, that Emma Watson herself must be excessively
obliged to you; but really, excuse me for asking what is all this to me!"

"It's no use your attempting to deny it, Miss Carr, it convicts you at once
of the very unpleasant and disagreeable fault of repeating slanderous
reports. I hope it will serve as a warning to you to prevent such
wickedness again."

"Upon my word, my lord, your Quixotism surpasses all ordinary bounds—do
tell me what you will do next? Riding about the country one day to
exculpate a girl who can be nothing to you, beyond a common acquaintance,
and then sitting down to preach lectures to me, without fee or reward for
it; I do not know how sufficiently to honour such exemplary greatness of
mind."

"You are welcome to your wit and your eloquence, Miss Carr; I have neither
wish nor pretension to equal you in the flow of words; but you cannot, even
if you take the most round about form of expression possible, deny that you
have been quite wrong in the whole affair."

"I am amazingly flattered by the extremely complimentary turn which your
conversation takes, Lord Osborne. You seem to have benefitted by the
superior style of society with which you must have associated at Croydon;
really, your sister will hardly know you again. May I venture to enquire
whether you have confided to the fair Emma—the heroic devotion and the
extraordinary exertions to which she has inspired you?"

Lord Osborne, who was looking over the packet of papers which Miss Carr had
tossed contemptuously back on the table, neither answered nor looked up;
and the sudden entrance of Lady Gordon, prevented any further acrimony on
the part of the young lady—who, as soon as she recovered her temper, became
very sorry that she had spoken as she did, whilst under the influence of
vexation and shame.

Lady Gordon appeared very glad to see her brother; though she declared she
had always felt certain that he would return in time for her
<lang="fr"><i>fête</i></lang>—she always had such good luck at her
<lang="fr"><i>fête</i></lang>. Her astonishment was extreme when she learnt
the end and object of his journey; and she certainly felt, besides
astonishment, a considerable portion of secret annoyance, that he should
have been sufficiently under the influence of partiality for Emma, to be
roused to such an exertion. She, who knew him well, was aware how very
strong must have been the feeling of interest which could incite him to
undertake and carry through a task repulsive to all his former habits and
tastes. It marked a very decided love indeed; and Rosa lamented the
existence of such a partiality, even whilst rejoicing that its results were
so favorable to the reputation of her friend. But, on the whole, she was
growing more reasonable than formerly—like all women who love their
husbands, she was adopting her husband's opinions, and beginning to think
that Emma would be no disgrace to the peerage, were she ever to become a
member of it; but that her brother's chance of winning her being small, his
affection would not be conducive to his happiness. The astonishing degree
of warmth he had manifested on the present occasion, shewed the state of
his mind; but as for Emma herself, if she had read her feelings rightly,
they were in favor of another object. Lord Osborne detailed to his sister
the whole history of his exertions. He had gone to Croydon quite
incognito—had established himself very quietly at the principal inn, and
after bespeaking a dinner, walked down to call on the Vicar. To him he had
detailed his object, and asked his advice, giving, as a reason for the
interference of an unconnected individual like himself, the peculiar
intimacy which existed between his sister and the young lady in question.
Mr. Bridge had entered most kindly and warmly into his views, had pointed
out the course he thought best, and made Robert Watson and his wife own
that Emma had remonstrated against being exposed to meeting Mr. Morgan out
walking, and that she had made no secret of the occurrence. It was not
without great difficulty and adroit arguments that he had brought Jane to
acknowledge the truth on this subject; only by representations of the
necessity of clearing her own character, which she could do, by admitting,
as Mr. Bridge knew was the case, that she had yielded to her sister's
persuasions, and in consequence of them had abstained from sending Emma out
with her little girl.

Having thus cleared Emma from the imputation of there being anything
clandestine or intentional in her meetings with the doctor, a fact which
the eldest Miss Watson could also corroborate, his next step was to see
Lady Fanny Allston and learn from her who had been her authority for the
slander to which she had yielded. Her ladyship was in town, but Lord
Osborne, not to be baffled by such a circumstance, set off after her, and
without waste of time presented himself in her drawing-room in London.

On his first application her ladyship denied all recollection of the
circumstance, there were so many young women who applied for the situation
of governess to Miss Allston, that she could not be expected to remember
any of them after the lapse of so long a time as three or four months. But
he was not to be so put off, and took so much trouble to remind her of the
circumstances, that she was at last forced to admit that she could recal
something about it. When in consequence he pressed for her authorities on
the occasion, she laughed excessively at his heroic exertions in a cause
which could not concern him in the least. What possible motive could he
have she observed, for interesting himself in a girl whose state and
circumstances were so obscure. A girl who was forced to go out as
governess, what could he know about her—what ought he to know about her—a
mere country-parson's daughter, without fortune or connections, it was
ridiculous of him to be tearing about the country to vindicate her from a
little country-gossip. His lordship must excuse her laughing at him for his
knight errantry, but what mattered it whether the said Emma Watson had
flirted with the doctor of Croydon or not, or who had said that she had, if
she had not.

It appeared as if Lord Osborne's character had been totally changed under
the influence of Emma's charms, or the excitement of his pursuit; indeed he
owned to his sister it was as animating as a fox-chase, and that he enjoyed
hunting up scandal-mongers excessively. Lady Fanny's ridicule, from which
formerly he might have shrunk, could not now move him from his object. He
answered her quietly, that the character of every individual was of value
to them, and the more so in proportion to the less of wealth or importance
they had. Her ladyship might, without scruple, forfeit her reputation for
integrity, honour and justice, if she chose, by refusing what he asked, and
thus robbing Miss Watson; and that the world, seeing she <i>was</i> Lady
Fanny still, might consider it no great matter; but the case was very
different with his sister's friend, who as Lady Fanny justly observed, had
neither friends, rank nor fortune to gloss over the calumny, or support her
through right and wrong, and who it was possible might depend on her
character for her subsistence. But seeing that she <i>was</i> his sister's
friend, and at this moment her guest, he was determined to see justice done
to her, both for her own and his sister's sake; he therefore called on Lady
Fanny, if she did not wish to be considered the fabricator of the false
report herself, to acknowledge who was the author of it—for false it
certainly was, as he had other means of proving.

After some attempts at prevarication, she at length owned that she had
learnt the circumstances from Miss Jenkins, and she even at last produced
and gave up to him the identical letter to herself which contained the
whole tale, with a variety of circumstances which it was evident to any
unprejudiced observer must have been entirely invention, as no one could
have been witness to them, by the writer's own showing.

Armed with this document, Lord Osborne had returned to Croydon and laid the
paper before Mr. Bridge. That gentleman, delighted at having reduced the
accusations to a form so easily combated, had agreed that they should go
together, and compel Miss Jenkins to retract her assertions.

They had called on her, and at first met only with impertinence and
prevarication. She did not know who Lord Osborne was, and would not allow
his right, or that of Mr. Bridge, to question her conduct. Supposing his
lordship to be only one of Emma's relations, and as such deserving no
particular consideration or courtesy, she did not scruple to behave with
the insolence and neglect with which underbred people consider themselves
entitled to treat their inferiors. Of course her confusion was extreme when
she found, to her astonishment, that it was a baron whom she had scornfully
answered, and whom she had scarcely condescended to ask to seat himself.

She fell, on this discovery, into a prodigious fit of agitation and
flutter, protested that she was perfectly ashamed of herself—quite shocked
his lordship should have been treated so—would not his lordship move nearer
the fire—would he not take a more comfortable chair. She hoped his lordship
would not refuse a glass of wine or a little cake; was he quite sure that
he did not sit in a draft—the corner of the sofa and a foot-stool would be
much better for him. Lord Osborne very positively, and rather abruptly,
declined all her attentions, declaring that he wished for nothing better
than his present situation, nor desired anything else from Miss Jenkins
than the fulfilment of the particular object of their visit—the declaration
what authority she had for her assertions regarding Emma Watson.

She now attempted to deny that she had ever said anything at all injurious
to Miss Emma Watson's character; it was quite impossible that she
should—she had the highest regard for the young lady in question, and must
have for any one whom she knew to be the intimate friend of Lady Gordon,
and about whom his lordship was so kind as to interest himself. She never
could have been guilty of any unjust reflections on such a person, and it
must be an entire mistake of Lady Fanny Allston's if she imagined anything
to the contrary.

With the greatest self-possession Lord Osborne listened to her assertions,
and then producing the letter and laying it before her, said he was
exceedingly concerned to be compelled to disprove the assertions of a lady,
but really her present words were so contrary to her former opinions as
recorded on that paper, that he must beg to revive her memory on the
subject. Would she be so kind as to look over the accusations which that
letter brought against Miss Watson, and let them know how much of it was
false, and what part, if any, was true; and how she became possessed of the
knowledge which she had there set down.

Miss Jenkins looked a little confused on seeing her own writing brought to
witness against her, but not nearly so much so, as she had done when she
found she had allowed a peer of the realm to seat himself so near the door.
However, she set herself to work resolutely to deny all she had written;
she could not imagine how she had ever made such assertions, she could
recollect nothing about it; it was most strange, most extraordinary, most
wonderful, most incomprehensible that she should have written such things,
she could not believe it possible: she even seemed to expect that they
would be so complaisant as to disbelieve it likewise. Miss Lamb had been
with her when she wrote the letter, it must have been on her authority that
she had made these extraordinary statements. In short she was perfectly
ready to contradict them entirely now, and to sign any statement which Lord
Osborne would please to suggest; such was her respect for Miss Emma Watson,
she was sure she could never speak of her in terms too high.

With great satisfaction, but unutterable contempt, Lord Osborne compelled
her to retract every particular which she had formerly stated, and after
agreeing that one copy of her present deposition should be sent to Lady
Fanny Allston, they decided to continue their investigation by a reference
to Miss Lamb, who was accused of being her fellow-conspirator on the past
occasion.

Miss Lamb was a very different person from Miss Jenkins; cold and repulsive
in her manners, and sparing of her words, she hardly deigned even to
justify herself. She did condescend, however, so far as to say, that she
had had nothing at all to do in the most distant degree with the affair in
question, either by word or deed; though on being cross-questioned she
admitted she had seen the letter which Miss Jenkins had sent to Lady Fanny;
she had indeed been sitting by whilst it was in the course of composition;
but she denied entirely having assisted her companion in any way, excepting
in spelling and grammar, points in which she sarcastically observed her
friend occasionally needed help. As to her requiring assistance or
suggestion beyond her own imagination, where anything ill-natured was in
question, that was quite unnecessary as everybody acquainted with Miss
Jenkins's taste for gossip must be aware. She had such a superfluity of
invention on all such matters as could be equalled by few ladies in
Croydon. She, Miss Lamb, knew she had watched Emma closely, and discovered
that Mr. Morgan had joined her occasionally when out walking, and this was
quite enough to form the foundation of any little scandalous romance which
she thought might look well, or be agreeable and amusing to Lady Fanny. For
her own part, she knew no harm at all of Emma Watson, and she hoped that
after this statement she should have no further trouble in the matter, as
she was going out, and did not wish to be detained.

Thus their interview terminated; and Lord Osborne perfectly satisfied with
his success so far, having shown the declarations of these two young ladies
to Mr. Watson, and his wife, once more repaired to London, to learn what
Lady Fanny thought of the paper he had sent her.

Her ladyship this time was ill-used and hysterical, sobbing over the
depravity of human nature, which had led Miss Jenkins wickedly to invent
such tales, and thereby greatly to deceive and incommode her ladyship;
preventing her obtaining a desirable governess to her great inconvenience,
and exposing her moreover to much trouble, anxiety, and other evils,
endangering her reputation for veracity, and threatening to place her in a
ridiculous position.

Lord Osborne could not help perceiving the absurdity and selfishness of her
lamentations, but he let her go on as she would, so long as she agreed to
sign an admission that she had been misled. He would not, however, make her
the promise which she requested from him, that he would use his influence
with this very charming young person to undertake the situation from which
she had previously been so scornfully repulsed; he gravely observed he did
not think it was any business of his, and that he could not interfere in
her private arrangements. Lady Fanny, smitten with a vehement desire to
become the patroness of the slandered Emma, determined, she said, to write
and renew her proposals. He made no objection, though perfectly determined
that proposals from himself, and of a different nature should if possible
precede hers.

This resolution of his own he did not detail to his sister, nor did he
communicate another circumstance which had occurred, namely that he had,
whilst in London, sought an interview with his mother, whom he found deeply
engrossed in a flirtation with a young colonel of the guards. He did not
like the young fellow's appearance at all, nor the air of being at home
which he assumed, but on his taking leave a still more unpleasant scene had
occurred. His mother had enquired if Howard were still at the Castle, and
on her son mentioning where he was, but adding that he hoped soon to remove
him to a better living, her ladyship had broken out into the most violent
opposition to this plan.

Lord Osborne had just learnt that the incumbent of another living, to which
he had the right of presentation, a very old man, was in a state of health,
which would in all probability speedily terminate in death, and he was
perfectly determined to give it, immediately it fell vacant, to his former
tutor. He felt that in every respect this would be a most desirable
circumstance, and had not the present incumbent so opportunely fallen sick,
he should certainly have attempted to negotiate some other exchange which
would have promised a speedy removal. Why Lady Osborne should so resolutely
set herself against it, he could not imagine; her feelings towards Howard
he could not understand, unless in case of a suspicion which occurred to
him proving correct, that the clergyman had refused the baron's widow. She
who used to be so friendly and favourable to him, now indulged in feelings
apparently of hatred and enmity. She evidently wished to injure him, wished
to hinder any improvement in his circumstances, wished to prejudice her son
against him. He thought his mother hardly in her senses on this subject, so
extremely bitter and unreasonable her sentiments appeared. Her indignation
passed all bounds when she found him perfectly unpersuadable on this point.
His object in wishing to remove Mr. Howard was quite as potent as hers in
wishing to torment him, and his obstinacy in following his own opinion at
least as great; there was therefore no chance of their coming to any
agreement, and they parted on very bad terms.

Now when his tale was done, he was ready to sit and listen to his sister's
plans and designs for to-morrow, ready to encourage her with hopes of a
fine day, and still more ready to anticipate much intercourse with Emma
Watson. He determined to seize some opportunity during the approaching fête
to make known his sentiments, and ask her hand. His courage felt quite
high: he had been so successful in this undertaking at Croydon that he
began to think he must have quite a winning way with women, and thoughts,
complimentary to himself, which had never before entered his brain, began
now to bud and grow, and rapidly increase within him.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch11
CHAPTER XI.
.sp 2

The morning opened in a way as promising to Lady Gordon's plans as could be
desired; bright and serene; a gentle air, not strong enough to wave the
flag upon the Castle turrets, rustled amongst the forest trees; a deep blue
sky, a cloudless sun, and the mist upon distant objects which accompanies
heat in this country, all promised everything most charming.

The whole party were in high spirits, and when, after their breakfast, the
ladies had put the finishing stroke to their toilettes, any unprejudiced
observer must have admitted that they all three looked very captivating in
their several ways.

Lady Gordon anxious to be on the appointed spot previous to the arrival of
any of the guests, soon started from the Castle, and the two young ladies
accompanied her.

The scene which had been chosen looked very lovely certainly, and the
marquees and trees in its vicinity, festooned with flowers, and ornamented
in many dainty devices, had a most tasteful air; but Emma could not help
thinking that the forest glade in its natural state would have been more
taste picturesque, and to her far more enchanting, than with the gay flags
and ornaments which now decked it. She thought of the ages which had passed
over those lordly trees; the generations of fair faces, which had perhaps
strolled beneath them; the histories of happy or of broken hearts, which,
could they but be known, would read so many a moral lesson to herself. They
looked so very old, those huge spreading trees, with their giant trunks and
wide extending branches; she quite felt respect for such stability and
strength. Their boughs had probably waved
.sp 1
.nf
     "O'er manhood's noble head,
      O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown."
.nf-
.sp 1
.ti 0
and now another generation was to meet beneath them, and how many gay,
thoughtless hearts, would they this day shade.

They had not been long enough there for Miss Carr to be very tired of
waiting, nor for Emma to be at all anxious for a change of scene, when the
company began to arrive, and she had other amusement and occupation. It was
a very large assembly, and every one came prepared to enjoy themselves,
convinced that what Lady Gordon did must be wittiest and most fashionable,
if not

.nf 
     "Wisest, discreetest, virtuousest, best."
.nf-

The band played, the sun shone, the green trees waved in the breeze, the
silks and muslins fluttered, fair checks reddened, bright eyes glanced,
sweet lips smiled, fairy forms flitted about, everything was elegant,
lively, agreeable—any thing but pastoral, not at all in the fashion of an
old French print of a Louis Quartorze fête champêtre. There were no mock
shepherdesses, with powdered heads and crooks in their hands; no badly
supported and out of character costumes; people came to act no part but
that of lively, and if they could be, lovely English ladies, in the most
fashionable gowns, meeting well-bred, well-dressed, well-intentioned
English gentlemen. There were smiles, and flattery, and flirtations, and a
little affectation, and some small share of folly; but on the whole, it was
an extremely elegant and well-satisfied party, and every one was ready to
tell every one else how excessively pleasant it was, and how much more they
preferred these delightful, unformal parties, to the more usual, but less
exciting, in-door assemblies.

To those who loved good eating and drinking, it could not fail of being an
agreeable re-union, for "the feast provided, combined," the newspapers said
on the occasion, "every delicacy of the season, which an out door repast
would admit of, in profusion, and the hospitable and liberal-minded hosts
were truly delighted to press on their nowise reluctant guests, the
choicest viands and the most refreshing products of the vineyards."

In reallity, there was a great deal of pleasure afforded on the occasion,
and if there were some dissatisfied minds, it may be concluded that they
were those, who under no circumstances were likely to be pleased.

Among the discontented was Margaret Musgrove, who came over with a friend,
in that friend's carriage, her husband driving the brother of this lady, as
he preferred anything to accompanying his wife. After their arrival, he
attached himself to this friend, and carried on with her a very tender
flirtation. Mrs. Harding Russell was a fine, dashing woman, who very much
enjoyed a flirtation with her friend's husband, and was delighted to make
herself conspicuous, and the wife uncomfortable. Margaret would not have
minded, had the brother been inclined to assist her in paying her husband
off—but this was not the case, he was a man's companion, not a woman's, and
never troubled himself to flirt at all. Margaret for some time formed a
very inharmonious third to the otherwise lively duet which was performing
between Tom and Mrs. Harding Russell, whose company made her perfectly
miserable; but at length she succeeded in securing as a companion one of
her former acquaintances, who though he had long ago ceased to care for
Margaret Watson, had no objection, <lang="fr"><i>faute de mieux</i></lang>,
to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Tom Musgrove.

When the greatest portion of the visitors was assembled, at a given signal,
the sides of the largest marquee were opened, and every one was invited to
the collation. Amidst the throng and pressure of this occasion, Emma found
herself within a a short distance of her brother-in-law and his friend, and
an unavoidable hearer of their conversation. Mr. Corbet was enquiring—

"What has come over Lord Osborne to make him such a different fellow from
what he used to be? Why when I was here before, he was a fine, dashing lad,
quite ready to join in any sort of sensible fun; and now he seems all taken
up with women and girls. I remember when he would have scorned to join in
such trumpery nonsense as this; but when I proposed just now that we should
slip away to have a cigar and a little brandy and water, hot and
comfortable, he told me he must attend to his sister's guests. Such a
precious notion, 'pon my soul, I could not help laughing to think of a
fellow like him turned into a lady's companion; a pretty thing indeed. If I
were a peer of the realm, catch me troubling my head about any sisters or
mother of mine."

"'Pon my honour, I think," said Tom, "it's a monstrous pity he <i>is</i> so
altered, for I am sure he's not the same person to me that he was; I really
think it is all for the sake of my sister-in-law, that pretty girl who is
here now, you noticed her I dare say."

"Not I, I never look after pretty girls of that class—those I can have
nothing to say to; there's an uncommon pretty girl at the lodge-gate, who
stared at me as I came in, I noticed her there, and winked at her as hard
as I could; and I intend to notice her again before I've done with her; but
what are other pretty girls to me—not my sort, eh Tom?"

Tom laughed so much, Emma did not hear what followed, but it ended with a
proposal that when they had had enough grub, they should adjourn to the
lodge to look after the rustic beauty.

By this time Emma had been borne by the throng into the interior, and
unluckily the place she found for herself, was close to Mrs. Harding
Russell and her brother-in-law. She did not expect much pleasure from this
vicinity, and could not, therefore, complain of disappointment, as well as
disagreeables during this part of the entertainment.

Mrs. Harding Russell for some minutes would not turn her head towards Tom,
and when he claimed her attention, she turned towards him with a scornful
smile and exclaimed:

"Oh, you are come, are you? I hope you did not hurry yourself on <i>my</i>
account, Mr. Musgrove. I should be sorry if you had put yourself to any
inconvenience."

"Indeed I have though. I have been making frantic exertions, and trodden on
at least a dozen toes to secure a place near you, convinced you would enjoy
nothing unless I were here to help you."

"Upon my word, a very pretty speech—just like a man though—quite what one
might expect from the vain sex. Pray do not take a seat, which I have no
doubt must be very disagreeable to you. I dare say somebody else would
change places with you: the young fellow talking to your
wife—Baker—Butcher—Barber—what's his name—I shall call him, he would do
just as well—he could hardly say less civil things."

"What did I say, anything rude? do you not know you were to take my
speeches by contraries—did we not agree so—it is so much safer: but you
know your power—your delight in tormenting me—caprice is so charming in
women—and <i>you</i> know how to make it positively bewitching."

"Really I have not the slightest wish to bewitch you, nor can I believe
that I do so—I have no power over any one, least of all you—I who have no
charms, no graces—oh, no indeed, I do not expect civility, much less
attention from men."

"Fie, you slander yourself and me, and the whole race of men in such
assertions; you no charms—no graces—I should like to know where they are to
be seen, that is all, if you do not exhibit them. I am sure Mr. Harding
Russell would not say so, happy man!"

"What do <i>you</i> know of Mr. Harding Russell?" enquired the lady turning
abruptly round to him.

"Nothing at all, except that like Roy's,

.nf c
"His age is three times mine"—
.nf-
.ti 0
shall I go on?"

"Say what you please, it is better to be an old man's pet than a young man's
slave," retorted she.

"Possibly, but you may reverse that saying—a young man would infallibly
become your slave, fairest."

The rest of the conversation need not be detailed, it was too common-place,
and trivial to deserve further notice; every one has heard two under-bred
and over-pretending individuals making fools of themselves and each other,
by their compliments and self-flatteries.

Very much rejoiced was Emma when the conclusion of the banquet at last
allowed her the relief of a change of neighbours and conversation. As she
was looking about for some one whom she could join, standing back a little
to allow the tide of finery and flutter to roll past, she suddenly found
Lord Osborne at her side.

"How came you to go all wrong, Miss Watson, at dinner?" enquired he
abruptly.

"I, my lord—how!" was her answer, rather puzzled.

"Getting down quite with the wrong set—you belonged to us, and had no
business at all with Mrs. Harding Russell, or women of that kind; I looked
for you, but you had given me the slip."

"Oh, is that all?" replied she, "I was really afraid I had committed some
glaring crime, from your lordship's reproaches, but if it was only sitting
near the wrong persons, I assure you I have done penance enough already for
that—I cannot say that I thought them very pleasant."

"I am glad of it," he replied with much animation, "you would have been
very different from what I fancied, if you had found any pleasure in Mrs.
Harding Russell."

Emma made no answer, and he immediately afterwards proposed her joining
Lady Gordon, to which she assented. They found, on joining the circle round
the hostess, that she was proposing for them a ramble through the prettiest
parts of the park, to see the waterfall and the fairy fountain, and hear
the echo, which was famous in the glen; there were a number of young people
round her, and they seemed just in a humour for such an expedition. Some
were to take carriages, some to go on foot, and amongst this latter group
were included Emma and also Miss Carr, who seemed suddenly seized with a
very decided partiality for Miss Watson, which grew particularly strong
whenever Lord Osborne approached.

Quite uninvited she linked her arm in Emma's, and would be her inseparable
companion in the walk. It was very pretty scenery through which they had to
pass, and the lively party with their gay dresses gave it quite a novel
effect. There was nothing like connected conversation carried on, only
lively remarks, and quick repartees, with quaint observations from Sir
William Gordon, who formed one of the party, and matter-of-fact assertions
from his brother-in-law, who was, however, remarkably talkative for him.

In passing through one portion of the park under a sunny bank, they
startled some of the harmless speckled snakes which writhed themselves away
in haste, but not without causing much alarm and trepidation on the part of
some of the young ladies, who protested they had a natural horror of such
reptiles. This led the conversation into a new train, a long discussion on
natural antipathies, when all the young ladies were called on by Sir
William to declare what were their pet antipathies, presuming that they all
cherished some such amiable weakness. He in return was immediately
assaulted by an accusation of thinking ill of young women—entertaining
satirical ideas about them, and making ill-natured speeches to them; which
of course he denied, and the dispute which this accusation brought on
lasted till they reached the fairy fountain.

Seated by the side of the spring was a brilliant, dark-eyed, beauty of a
gipsy, who seemed to be waiting their approach.

"Here's a part of the masque for which I was not prepared," cried Sir
William; "I wonder whether my wife sent this woman here."

Then advancing, he enquired what she wanted.

"I am waiting," she exclaimed with a smile, "to meet you all—not you, Sir
William," putting him back with her hand. "It is not you I wish to see, but
the young lord. Stand forth, Lord Osborne."

"Holloa! what now," cried he advancing—but another gentleman put him back,
and placing himself before the gipsy enquired why she called him forth.

"I never called <i>you</i>, Arthur Brooke—who named your name?—keep in your
proper place, and be not hurried to assume that of others." Then rising,
she pointed to the spring and exclaimed, "Are you all come to drink at the
fairy spring? How will you do it—where are your glasses or your pitchers?"

It was perfectly true they had all come to drink, but had forgotten or
neglected to bring any vessel with which to draw the water. After looking
at them for a moment, with triumph she exclaimed,

"You must then condescend to be beholden to the gipsy for your draught—see
here," and she produced, as she spoke, a small silver cup: "Lord Osborne,
take this cup and fill it for your guests."

Lord Osborne advanced and prepared to obey her. Sir William stopped him by
suggesting perhaps it was a magic cup which might work them harm and woe.

"Scoffer!" said the woman. "It is a magic cup. Carry that cup steadily to
your lips, full to the brim, without losing a drop, and it betides you
success in your life's undertakings."

"Who will try the omen?" cried Lord Osborne. "For whom shall I dip?"

"Not me! not me!" exclaimed several of the young ladies addressed.

"Let me try first for myself," he said, and stooping filled the little
goblet to the brim, raising it steadily and carefully.

"A toast," cried Sir William, "you must not drink without a toast."

"Success to our secret wishes," said he, and drained the cup to the bottom.
"Will none follow my example," added he: then again filling the cup, he
presented it to Emma; she took it and drank a part, then deliberately
poured the remainder on the ground. The gipsy's eyes flashed.

"You defy me," she said, "dark-haired girl—but ere the sun stands again
where it now does, your heart will be as heavy as your curls—your hopes as
dark as your eyes—tremble—for the approaching news—you, who have dared to
disregard my cautions."

"Whatever ill news may be in store for me," said Emma firmly, looking up;
"it will come quite irrespective of the water I just poured upon the
ground. I do not fear <i>you</i>. I have seen you before."

"Yes, we have met before; and I remember kindness with gratitude, and I
grieve that young hearts should break—but it must be so—triumph and success
to his lordship—but tinged with regret and sorrow—for he has drank from the
gipsy's cup. Who will have their fortunes told."

"I don't believe a word of it," said Lord Osborne, "How should she know?"

"It is well to disbelieve, no doubt; but see now, you come to the fairy
well for water; but, without my help, you would have come in vain. So it is
with the future. You wish to draw knowledge from the dark bottomless well
of destiny; you may seek in vain, unless you condescend to borrow of gipsy
lore. Have courage and face the future."

"Oh! do not let us have any thing to do with her," cried one young lady.

"I am not afraid, I will have my fortune told," said Miss Carr, advancing;
"tell me, if you can, what will be my fate?"

"No," replied the young woman, turning away, "I dare not predict for
you—but one thing I foresee—disappointment and sorrow to you all—bright
hopes faded—joyous faces clouded—smiles changed to tears for some, and the
gayest hours cut short with grief and dismay. Farewell!"

She fled down the glen as she spoke, and a turn of the path hid her from
sight. A something of fear and chill fell on the whole party. Sir William
was the first to break the silence.

"Who is she, Miss Watson? she claims you as an acquaintance—where did you
ever see her?"

Emma told him that it was a long time ago—before last Christmas—when out
walking with one of her sisters. She did not explain that it was during
that well-remembered walk, when she had met Mr. Howard for the first time
after the ball, and he had accompanied them home. This young woman had
followed them on that occasion, and Emma had persuaded Elizabeth to give
her some relief from the kitchen, as she seemed almost famishing. Having
been struck by her beauty, Emma had instantly recollected her.

The waterfall and the echo, combined with meeting those who had gone there
in carriages, and detailing the adventure of the gipsy girl to them,
sufficed to restore most of the spirits which had been damped by her
predictions—and there was a great deal of merriment going on around her—but
Emma remarked that Sir William looked particularly thoughtful and quite
unlike his usual self.

"Are you brooding over the threatenings of the girl," enquired she, coming
to his side, "you look so uncommonly grave, I really think they must have
made an impression on you."

"I own they have," replied he.

"Oh! Sir William," exclaimed she, "I did not expect such superstition from
you. I am surprised."

"Are you," said he, looking fixedly at her; "do you not know that those
people seldom prophesy without some foundation to go on? They are quick at
guessing feelings and wishes, and combining them with past and passing
events; and extremely quick at learning any kind of news and turning it to
their own advantage. Their knowledge in this way is astonishing; and I
certainly feel afraid lest it may prove too true,—that something to us
unknown, has occurred to grieve us."

"You almost frighten me, Sir William," replied Emma, turning pale. "Your
attaching such consequence to words which appeared to me spoken at random,
seems quite like a reproach to me for treating them so lightly."

"Perhaps her predictions, after all, may be the worst things that we shall
hear," added Sir William, trying to shake off his gravity; "and they will
be quite fulfilled, if I make you so pale. You are tired—take my arm!"

She could not deny it; and was glad to accept a seat in one of the
carriages to return to the Castle: whither the most delicate of the guests
now agreed to turn their steps, to rest and refresh themselves after their
exertions, previous to the ball at night.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch12
CHAPTER XII.
.sp 2

Emma was content to lie down quietly in her own room, for her ankle was not
strong, and she had taxed it so severely, that she felt dancing would be
out of the question for her that night; she was rather sorry, for she
really liked dancing; but she felt that prudence required the sacrifice,
lest she should be lame for a much longer period.

How the rest of the afternoon was spent by the guests, she could not tell,
except that the sounds of music and merriment were often borne through her
open windows, and came apparently from the lawns or the terrace.

Refreshed by a couple of hours' peace and solitude, she repaired, about
seven o'clock to Lady Gordon's dressing-room, and found her busy with her
toilette. Her own dress and appearance received due commendation both from
her friend and her friend's bower woman. It being the gift of the one, and
the work of the other, it was no wonder perhaps that they thought it looked
well. The attendant observed:

"It was quite a pleasure to make gowns for Miss Watson, she became them so
completely: the work was never thrown away on her."

Perhaps the speaker had an eye to some future situation as waiting-woman to
the young Lady Osborne, for his Lordship's devotion was quite evident to
the inmates of the still-room, as it was then called; and Miss Watson was
honoured accordingly. Whilst she was there, Sir William came in likewise,
and chatted in a way, which drew from Emma the observation that he had
quite recovered his spirits; his wife did not hear the remark, and taking
advantage of the occupation which at that moment engrossed her, to speak
without her notice, he begged Emma not to allude to it before <i>her</i>
again. Of course Emma was quite ready to comply, but she thought it strange
that he should attach so much importance to the circumstance.

They all went to the grand reception rooms together: they were already gay
with parties impatient for the continuance of their pleasures. When the
dancing commenced, Emma withdrew into the conservatory, which was cool and
refreshing, for the ball-room was already heated by the company and the
lights. Here she walked in solitude for some time; her friends were all
dancing, Lady Gordon, her brother, her husband, and Miss Carr, so there was
no one to interrupt her reverie, or disturb her meditations.

But at length, by the cessation of the music, she learnt that the long
country dance had finished, and soon afterwards, couples and groups sought
the same refreshment as herself. She sat down in a moon-lighted corner,
where amongst the flowers and shrubs, and by the soft and subdued light,
her white crape gown showed like the sculptured drapery of some marble
statue, and here she was still suffered to remain in peace, though the
conservatory echoed to merry voices, and the light laugh and sparkling
sally of wit, sounded above the trickling of the silvery fountain.

Presently, the music recalled all the dancers to the ball-room, and she was
again in solitude, but not now for long: a heavy step approached, and just
as she was rising from her seat, Lord Osborne joined her.

"Now do sit down again," said he, "but how completely you have hidden
yourself; I began to despair of finding you—ain't you going to dance?"

She told him her reason for declining it, at which he expressed concern,
but immediately added:—

"However, perhaps on the whole, it is as well, for I wanted particularly to
talk to you, without being overheard: can you listen to me now?"

She acceded, with some surprise at the request; he leaned against the wall
by her side, and began.

"Do you know my journey the other day was all on your account?"

"Indeed," she exclaimed, in some surprise.

"Yes, I will tell you why, only don't interrupt me till I have done, that
puts me out; Miss Carr, whom you know I do not like, but perhaps you do not
know I do not believe, would say such ill-natured things about you and Lady
Fanny Allston, and her reason for not taking you as governess, none of
which I believed, so you need not look angry, that I determined to go to
her Ladyship, and make her contradict them. What do you think of that?"

"You really went to Lady Fanny on that subject," exclaimed Emma, "may I ask
what authority you had for interfering in my affairs?"

"The authority, Miss Watson, the right which every man has to protect a
woman who is slandered and defenceless. Miss Carr had slandered <i>you</i>
to my sister, in my hearing; she referred to her cousin as her authority, I
compelled her cousin to acknowledge the sources of the calumny, and having
traced it to a contemptible and envious Miss Jenkins, I forced her to eat
her words, and retract every aspersion she had cast on the character of one
whom I always believed blameless. Are you now angry with me Miss Watson?"
his voice softened at the last words, his energy fled, and he looked again
like himself.

"I cannot tell what I feel," said she hesitating, "Tell me what Lady Fanny
says now of me!"

"That she is convinced that she was misled by vile calumniators, and that
she wished me to use any influence I possessed with you to renew her former
negotiation."

"Which you promised to do," said she, "and so you tell me this?"

There was a tone of playfulness in her voice which reassured him.

"You are not angry with me?" said he enquiringly.

"I think not; it depends partly on your motive, but on the whole I am
inclined to forgive you."

"A hundred thanks, but if you do forgive me—give me your hand!"

She extended one finger towards him, saying with a smile her whole hand was
too much at once: but he did not listen to her words; her hand was caught
and pressed in his, and raised to his lips before she could release it from
the unexpected thraldom. Then mustering all his courage and becoming
eloquent under an emotion which makes many an eloquent man silent, he
added,

"It was for your hand I did it, to earn a claim on that, that I travelled
and met strangers, and wrangled with and coaxed them. It was because I
could not bear a blot on your fair fame—you whom I love so very much: dear
Emma—you who are so kind, so good-natured, will you not love me!"

"Lord Osborne," said she with profound gravity, "cease I beg; this species
of conversation becomes neither your station nor mine. If I own myself
obliged by your exertions for my sake, do not annul the obligation by words
which never should have been spoken. Let me go!"

But he stood before her, and would not let her pass; whilst saying in a
low, deep voice,

"You must misunderstand me, Miss Watson, or you would not speak thus. Have
I not as much right as any one, to love what is fair and excellent—if I am
plain and awkward myself, can that make my love an insult—and you—are you
not deserving to be loved, worshipped, idolised by every man who comes near
you. Have you not everything that I want—everything that would grace a far
higher title, a much larger fortune than mine. But because I have none of
these things is that any reason I should not admire, and love them, or
offer my coronet to one who would so well become it. It is yours if you
will but accept it; hand, fortune, title, everything—do give me an answer."

But before Emma could find voice to answer, or arrange her ideas, they were
startled by a scream from the ball-room—the music stopped completely, and a
sudden stillness for a moment prevailed, seeming awful by the contrast to
what preceded: then came a murmur, like a hundred whispers in one, which
seemed to gather and increase.

Emma had started up at the scream, and now stood suspended, with a beating
heart and unsteady breath.

"What can be the matter," said he, "shall I go and see—sit down, do not
alarm yourself."

She really was obliged to seat herself, for she could not stand; he went a
few steps, where he was met by Sir William.

"For Heaven's sake Osborne come here and send off all these people, your
sister is in a fit, and I am almost as bad from horror."

"What in the world is the matter," cried he, struck by the agitated tone
and look of his brother-in-law.

"A report has been brought from Wales that Howard is dead," said Sir
William, "killed by a fall from a horse amongst the mountains, and Rosa
heard it suddenly—and I am afraid—"

"Killed—Howard—dead—good Heavens," instinctively he was turning to the spot
where Emma sat, but Sir William impatiently seized his arm and hurried him
away unconscious that she was near.

She was left alone to her feelings, and how the next half hour passed she
never knew. She could neither think nor move; to feel was too much, for a
confused murmur rang in her ears; a sound of suppressed voices, and hurried
footsteps, and rolling wheels, and then all seemed still again. How long
she sat there she could not calculate, horror-struck and immoveable, she
seemed unconscious of everything but the one thought that he was
<i>dead</i>. And so suddenly, so awfully—it could not be!—and yet it must
be true; she shivered with horror, and then she seemed again to become
insensible to everything, closing her eyes to the gay lights and gaudy
flowers which appeared to mock her when she gazed at them.

She was just beginning to recover, but still unable to move, when she heard
Sir William's voice enquiring,

"Where is Emma—Osborne, have you seen her? she was not in the ball-room."

"She was with me in the conservatory," replied his companion.

"Good heavens, then she must have heard it all," cried Sir William, then
hurrying forward as he caught a glimpse of her white gown, he gazed with
anxious enquiry at her.

Her bloodless cheek, and her whole air, at once betrayed her knowledge of
what had passed; but making a violent effort to conquer emotions which were
almost choking her, she attempted to rise and come forward. She had hardly
strength for the exertion, she trembled so violently, but still the effort
did her good. Sir William looked at her compassionately, and drawing her
hand under his arm without a word, led her away. Lord Osborne followed with
a look of deep dismay in his face, and an air of indescribable dejection
over his whole figure.

"Can I be of any use to Lady Gordon?" enquired Emma, forcing slowly, one by
one, from her parched and trembling lips, the words which she could
scarcely articulate.

"Lady Gordon is tolerably composed, and gone to bed," replied he, "let me
recommend the same course to you. I am shocked to think you should have
been left so long uncared for. You seem quite exhausted and worn out."

Emma gladly complied with his recommendation, and tried to sleep, but that
was vain. Images of horror of every kind filled her mind the moment she
attempted it, and she was glad at length to rise and throw open the window
to breathe the fresh air.

The moon, which was still high in the sky, was beginning to grow pale
before the increasing light in the east; the air was calm, the wind merely
a gentle breathing: now and then was heard the chirp of the early birds in
the neighbouring trees, but as yet the busy tenants of the rookery near the
castle were still. The cry of the deer in the park, the lowing of cattle at
a still greater distance, the murmur of the stream in the valley came
distinctly on the ear, during the profound hush which preceded the dawn.

Everything looked so fair and calm, and happy—could it be that misery and
disappointment, and suffering, were for ever lurking under all! How gay had
been the commencement of yesterday; how sad the close! Such was worldly
pleasure—such it must be—such it ought to be. Happiness was fled from her
for ever; she could not expect to meet it again. A calm, dull future spread
before her, uncheered by love, or home, or hope. Her affections blighted in
their first spring, were for ever destroyed, and if she could learn
resignation that was the utmost she could look forward to.

She burst into tears, went back to her bed, cried herself to sleep, and did
not wake till a late hour the following day.

Of course she was looking wretchedly pale and miserable when she descended
the next day. So conscious was she of this that she longed to remain in her
own room, but feared that it might have even a more suspicious appearance
than her pale cheeks. She was relieved on entering the sitting room to find
only Sir William, Lord Osborne having breakfasted and gone out. He was
looking sad and grave, but replied to her anxious enquiries, that his wife
was better, but not well enough to leave her room yet. He regarded her with
a compassionate expression, and said,

"You too are suffering from the events of yesterday—no wonder; such a blow
coming after so much excitement and fatigue."

Her lip quivered, and she could not answer.

"Miss Watson," added he, "the gipsy must have known of this before we met
her. She must have alluded to this shocking event."

Emma made an effort, and succeeded in articulating,

"Certainly."

Then after a pause, she ventured to enquire,

"How did the report reach you?"

It had been brought, it appeared, by one of the guests, whose cousin or
brother, or some such friend, had just arrived from Wales, and learnt it
before leaving Denbighshire. It had been accidentally mentioned by this
gentleman in Lady Gordon's hearing; and she being at the time in a nervous,
irritable state from fatigue, excitement, and the heat of the ball-room,
had been seized with a violent fit of hysteria at the information, which
had broken up the dancing and compelled her to quit the company.

"And my abruptness I fear overpowered you, Miss Watson," added Sir William,
"I had no idea that you were there when I met Osborne, and spoke with the
conviction that I was distressing no nerves weaker than his."

"But even Lord Osborne must feel such a shock," said Emma.

"Oh yes he feels it very much, but it is not his way to be overpowered by
his feeling. None who had known Howard could help feeling it—so sudden an
event—and quitting us quite well only a few days before—what his poor
sister must have felt!"

Sir William paused, for Emma had walked away to hide her tears and smother
her sobs at the window. The entrance of Miss Carr at the moment,
well-dressed, and cheerful looking as usual, tended greatly to compose
Emma's spirits, but quite overpowered Sir William.

He escaped instantly out of the room. Miss Carr came up to Emma.

"How miserably uncomfortable everything seems to-day. I cannot imagine why
the death of this man—even supposing he is dead—should derange everybody
here to such a degree. A thing which happened too some hundreds of miles
away, Rosa in bed, and neither Sir William, nor Osborne visible. Don't you
think it's too bad?"

"I dare say Lady Gordon will soon recover," replied Emma, "but I cannot
wonder if she is indisposed considering everything—the heat, the fatigue,
and all the excitement of yesterday."

"Have you breakfasted, Miss Watson?" enquired Miss Carr.

Emma replied she had not.

"Then come with me, and let us get some," said she, passing her hand under
Emma's arm. "There is no reason that we should fast, I suppose; for, though
Mr. Howard's death is very shocking, I confess it does not take away the
appetite quite."

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.

It was a very great relief to her to give unrestrained course to her
tears—there was no occasion now to repress them. She need not fear harsh
constructions, nor shrink from animadversions on her feelings. She had a
<i>right</i> to grieve. She had lost a declared lover, one too whose
passion she had returned—and who would blame her now for pale cheeks and
tearful eyes?

She did not think this with such distinctness as to put it into words, but
she felt it deeply, and it was a strange comfort to her.

After the letter had been read many times, every word weighed and examined,
and the reason which dictated his choice of each expression guessed at;
after even the address had been accurately surveyed, and either anxiety or
love discovered in every curve or stroke of the pen, it was carefully
folded and placed in her bosom, there to remain for ever; for never could
the feelings with which she regarded its writer change; never could she
love another, or listen to another suit. Her lot in life was fixed for
ever, and perpetual celibacy for his sake was not too great a compliment to
the memory of one so dearly loved, so sadly lost.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch13
CHAPTER XIII.
.sp 2

After composing her feelings, smoothing her hair, and cooling her face at
the fountain close by, she ventured to return to the Castle, with the
intention, if she were permitted, of seeing Lady Gordon, though she had not
yet decided upon telling her how deeply her feelings were involved in the
melancholy past. Her friend was in the morning room when she returned to
it, lying on a sofa, and on Emma's entrance there was a general expression
of wonder as to where she had been for so long a time from the three who
were sitting there. Her only answer of course was that she did not know she
<i>had</i> been long away: she had been sitting in the flower-garden.

"I wonder you like to sit there," said Miss Carr; "I always am stung by
gnats if I venture on such a thing."

She then turned herself sleepily on the sofa and dozed again.

Sir William, after an earnest look at Emma's countenance, withdrew his
eyes, and was apparently occupied with a newspaper, whilst Emma drawing her
embroidery frame close to Lady Gordon's sofa, sat down with apparent
industry to her work, with the satisfactory consciousness that every time
she drew a long breath, her precious letter was more closely pressed to her
swelling heart.

The long silence which ensued was only broken by Sir William at last
throwing down the paper, and proposing to his wife a walk or a
drive—anything for change of air and scene. She agreed to the drive, and he
went to hurry the phæton, she to arrange her dress. Miss Carr begged to
accompany them, and could not be refused, though they did not particularly
desire her society; and thus Emma was left alone to indulge in sad
recollections and tender reveries, which were, however, speedily cut short
by the entrance of Lord Osborne.

It was natural that, having seen the others go out without Emma, he should
calculate on finding her alone, and equally so that he should be
exceedingly anxious for an interview, as his question was still unanswered,
his hand unaccepted, his future happiness as yet uncertain.

She looked up with an air of consciousness on his approach, which
encouraged him to advance, and draw a seat by her side. He tried to take
her hand, but the attempt was made with so much hesitation and awkwardness
that she was not even sure whether he intended it; no repulse was
requisite, the simple not encouraging it was enough to prevent so daring an
act of gallantry. In fact, he had lost the courage which on the previous
night had distinguished him; the warmth and animation were gone—he was
again himself, labouring under rather more than his usual awkwardness of
manner, and quite overpowered by his various sensations. To have expressed
all his feelings would have been impossible even for an eloquent man—his
love was so mingled with jealousy, his hope with doubt, and his
satisfaction with regret.

He sat looking at her for some minutes in silence, which Emma thought
particularly disagreeable, until at length she concluded that he expected
her to commence the conversation, and looking up with as steady a voice as
she could command, she enquired whether he had received any further
intelligence from Wales.

"No!" he replied, abruptly, but the question roused him to exertion, and he
added,

"You cannot imagine, however much I may think of the unlucky event, that I
came here to talk about <i>that</i> to you. I am come to ask, to entreat,
to claim an answer to my question last night: for every man has a right to
an answer to such a question!"

He paused, and she tried to speak; it was at first with difficulty she
could utter a syllable: but her courage rose as she proceeded, and she was
able to finish with firmness.

"Lord Osborne, I cannot deny your claim to an answer, but I regret that I
should be under the necessity of paining you by that answer; I cannot
accept the offer you have made me, but I shall always remember your good
opinion, and liberality of sentiment, with gratitude."

"I did not ask for gratitude," replied he reproachfully, "what good will
that do me? Besides I do not see that I deserve it."

"You have judged me kindly, my lord; you have given me credit for
rectitude, nay you have exerted yourself to prove it, when others might
have thought and acted very differently."

"Yes; I dare say—some who did not know you as well, might have judged you
harshly, but Emma, dear, beautiful Emma, I knew you could not be wrong. I
have loved you so dearly, and I never loved any woman before, it is very
hard you will not like me in return."

"I cannot, my lord," said she, her eyes filling with tears, "I have no love
to bestow on any one, my heart is—" she stopped abruptly.

He looked very fixedly at her, and then said,

"You <i>did</i> love Howard."

She raised her eyes proudly for a moment, but there was nothing of
impertinence in his look or tone, nothing which need offend her; and moved
by her feelings at the moment she exclaimed,

"Yes I <i>did</i> love him—how can I listen to your suit?"

He looked down intently, and taking up one of her embroidery needles thrust
it backwards and forwards through the corner of her work, for some minutes,
with an energy which ended in breaking the needle itself—then again
addressing her he said in a feeling tone.

"Poor fellow, he did not live to know that, I am sorry for him!"

There was something in the manner of this very unexpected admission which
quite overpowered Emma's heroism; it was so different from what she had
expected; she covered her face and burst into tears.

He sat looking at her, then said, "Don't Miss Watson, pray don't cry—it
makes me so very uncomfortable; but indeed I do pity our poor friend, and
the more so because loving you so very much myself, I feel what he has
lost; and I am so sorry for you too; you must have felt it—the shock of his
death I mean."

Emma's sobs quite prevented her speaking, but she struggled to suppress her
tears, and presently succeeded in mastering her agitation.

"Did you know he loved you?" asked Lord Osborne suddenly.

"I did, but not till this very morning," answered she, hardly conscious of
what she was saying.

He was again silent for a good while, but ended with saying firmly,

"With such feelings, I cannot expect you to listen to my suit, and will not
torment you with it. Remember you have not a sincerer friend in the world
than myself, or one who would do more to prove his good opinion. And I do
not say it merely to be thanked—as I mean to shew you whenever I can."

He took her hand this time, and pressed it, looked at it as he held it for
a moment, and then as she drew it away, he rose and left the room.

She was quite surprised at the way in which the interview had terminated;
he had shewn so much good feeling, so much less of selfishness than she had
been in the habit of mentally attributing to him; there was no indignation,
no wounded pride, no pique or resentment at her refusal; it was almost as
if he had thought more of her disappointment than of his own, and regarded
her feelings as of more consequence than his attachment. Her opinion of him
had never been so high as when she thus declined his proposals: she felt
that with a suitable wife, one who could value his good qualities, improve
his tastes, and really love him, he might in time turn out a very estimable
character.

If he were but as fortunate in his selection of a partner, as his sister
had been, there was every probability of his equalling her in domestic
happiness. She did not regret her own decision, but she regretted that he
should have been so unfortunate as to love where no return could be given;
if he had but chosen one whose heart was disengaged;—but as for herself,
<i>she</i> was not the woman who could really make him happy; she had not
the energy and decision of character requisite for his wife; she did not
wish to govern, and she felt that she could only be happy, in proportion as
she respected as well as loved her husband; unless she could trust his
judgment and lean on him, she felt convinced she should despise him and be
miserable.

When the family met at dinner, Lord Osborne was there, and she had not the
slightest hint as to his probable departure; but there was nothing in his
conduct or manners to create unpleasant feelings, or reveal the past to
lookers on. There was but little said in their small circle that evening;
the shock had been too recent to be yet so soon rallied from. Lady Gordon
had been so very much attached to Mr. Howard; from her girlhood he had been
her peculiar admiration, and her standard of excellence as a clergyman: the
only wonder was that this attachment had continued on both sides so
entirely platonic; that considering their opportunities of intercourse
there had never been any approach to love. But so it was—whether there was
too much pride on both sides, or whether her heart had been unknowingly
engrossed by Sir William Gordon, she could not have told, but certainly,
though they had talked and jested, quarrelled and been reproved, agreed and
differed for the last four years, they had never passed the temperate zone
of friendship, and her sorrow at his death was expressed fully,
unreservedly, bitterly, without exciting the shadow of jealousy in her
husband's mind. Indeed he fully sympathised in her feelings for he had
loved and highly valued Howard, whom he had known intimately at College,
before he became the young lord's tutor.

Fanny Carr was the only member of the party who seemed quite unaffected by
what had occurred, but she was out of temper about something which
concerned herself, and was fortunately silent.

Emma went to her friend's dressing-room the next morning by particular
desire to breakfast quietly with her, whilst Sir William was sent down to
do the honours of the house to Miss Carr and his brother-in-law.

"I want to talk to you, my dear friend," said Lady Gordon, "but I hardly
know how to begin—about this shocking affair—poor, dear Mr. Howard, is it
not sad?"

Emma's eyes filled with tears, and she could not answer.

"I thought so," said Lady Gordon, earnestly gazing at her face, "I knew
your heart—you have, of us all, the most reason to regret his death."

Emma continued silent, for she had no voice to speak.

"You are not angry with me for the suggestion," continued Rosa, taking her
hand, "I would not offend or vex you, but I cannot help expressing my
interest in your feelings. It was so natural that you should return his
affection."

"You knew of his love then," sobbed Emma.

"I could not help seeing what was so very evident, but you, doubtless, were
better informed on the subject?" replied Lady Gordon, with some curiosity.

Emma controlled her feelings enough to give her a sensible account of the
letter which she had received the morning previous; that precious letter
which had doubled her sorrow, and made her feel her misfortune so much more
deeply.

"How very sad," cried Lady Gordon, "and that was really the first you heard
of his attachment—the first declaration you had from him; it must have
broken your heart. I can imagine in some degree what you have felt. Had he
been alive what answer would you have returned?"

"What answer?" exclaimed Emma, "how can you ask, Lady Gordon—you
<i>know</i> what I should have said; that his love was dearer to me than
all the wealth of the country, or the honors of the peerage!"

"Poor girl—you will never recover from such a shock."

"Never, never—I can never love another, or cease to regret the one I have
so sadly lost. Time can only increase my regret. But we must not think only
of ourselves, what must his sister have felt—dear Lady Gordon, think of
her; how I wish I were near her, to love and comfort her."

"Poor thing," sighed Lady Gordon, "yes I do pity her. She was very fond of
him, and she can never have another brother."

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch14
CHAPTER XIV.
.sp 2

Just at this moment a gentle tap was heard at the door; Lady Gordon gave
her permission to enter; and the opening door displayed to their astonished
eyes, Howard himself.

Yes, there he was, to all appearance perfectly well,—the man whom they had
been mourning over as dead, stood before them in flesh and blood, with no
other difference from his usual air, than that he looked rather flushed
with exercise, and somewhat surprised at his reception.

"Mr. Howard!" gasped Lady Gordon, scarcely believing her senses.

Emma was speechless with twenty different feelings.

"I fear I am an unwelcome visitor," said he, amazed at his reception;
"shall I withdraw?"

Before either of the ladies could reply, Sir William precipitately entered
the room; he had apparently been in the act of dressing, for he made his
appearance without a coat, and unmindful of where he was, he rushed up to
Howard, and actually embracing him in the excitement of his joy, exclaimed:

"My dear fellow, twenty millions of welcomes to you, how came you here—we
never thought to see you again!"

Lady Gordon too, had risen, and clasping both his hands in hers, she
exclaimed:

"Oh, how I rejoice to see you alive—you cannot think how we all grieved
when we heard you were dead!"

It was now Howard's turn to look bewildered: he turned from the husband to
the wife in uncontrollable amazement, and said:

"May I ask what is the meaning of all this—are you performing a comedy or
acting a charade!"

"Why I suppose," said Sir William, recovering himself a little, "we do all
seem rather frantic to you, since you must be alike ignorant of our
anxieties and the relief your presence has occasioned. The fact is, we
heard you were dead!"

"Indeed!" exclaimed Howard.

"Take care, or Mr. Howard will begin to believe it too, and that will
frighten him," said Rosa, laughing almost hysterically.

"But do tell me what you thought was the matter with me," said Howard
impatiently.

"We heard you had fallen and been killed amongst the rocks," said Sir
William, "and we were very unhappy about it. I assure you, you have been
wept by bright eyes, and fair cheeks have turned pale at the news of your
death. There is not a man in the whole county has been more talked of than
you; the news of your melancholy death reached us in the gayest moment of a
<lang="fr"><i>fête</i></lang>, sent Lady Gordon into fits, and all the
company out of the house, broke up the dance, interrupted six tender
flirtations and three rubbers at whist, in short, caused more unhappiness,
disappointment, and dismay, than an ordinary individual would reasonably
expect to excite either living or dying."

"Really it is a very uncommon fate for a man to hear the lamentations
occasioned by his death, and if what you say is not exaggerated, Sir
William, I ought to be greatly flattered," replied Howard smiling, but at
the same time looking round the room to see what was become of the one
face, whose expression he was most anxious to read. But Emma was gone; she
had left the room without a word of congratulatory greeting, or a single
expression of interest.

"I cannot think how you can jest about so serious an affair, William," said
his wife reproachfully, "you did not jest, however, whilst you believed it;
he is not quite without feeling, Mr. Howard."

"And did you honor me with tears, Lady Gordon?" said the young clergyman,
taking her hand with an irrepressible feeling of gratification. "That was a
thing almost worth dying for."

"Come, come," said Sir William interposing, "do not be making love to Rosa
before my face; though she did cry, hers were not the only tears shed on
the occasion, nor the most flattering to you."

"Who else wept for me?" enquired he with something more than curiosity.

"Your old housekeeper, and your gardener's daughter," replied Lady Gordon
maliciously.

"Nobody else?"

"Abominable conceit—who else do you expect to hear of?" exclaimed she, "I
declare all men are alike, if you give the smallest encouragement to their
good opinion of themselves, they set no bounds to their presumptuous
expectations. I shall tell you no more. Find out for yourself who feels any
interest in your fate."

"Miss Carr expressed great sensibility on the occasion," interrupted Sir
William, "I was dancing with her at the time the news arrived, and she
said:

"'Dear me, how very shocking—poor young man.'"

"Thank you," replied Howard with a glow of satisfaction, "you have told me
quite enough to satisfy a much less modest man than I am. I have heard
sufficient. But I think I know how the report arose. I <i>was</i> left
behind at a riding party, as the girth of my saddle broke, and I stopped at
a country shop to get it repaired. I dare say in the imperfect Welsh which
was all we could muster of the country's language, there was some confusion
made between a broken girth and a broken neck, which gave rise to the
distressing intelligence."

"That may be very possible," replied Lady Gordon, "but I shall never in
future believe any report of your misfortunes again, and if you want me to
grieve again for you, you must break your neck in good earnest."

"Excuse me, but I have no wish to cause you any concern, Lady Gordon, or to
put your feelings to such a test."

"By the bye, when did you arrive, Howard?" enquired the baronet.

"About two hours ago; and I own I was rather surprised to find my house
shut up, and nobody at home; but if my servants thought me dead, it was all
very natural."

"No doubt they will tell you they were afraid of remaining lest you should
walk again," observed Sir William.

"As I do not know when they will return," continued he, "and I do not wish
to break into my house, I must throw myself on your hospitality for to-day,
if you will receive a poor wanderer."

Of course he was made extremely welcome by his friends, and invited to
remain as long as was convenient. It was very pleasant to be so kindly
received; but there was another voice he was longing to hear welcome him,
another hand he wished to press, another smile to bless his eyes. As soon
as he could he left Lady Gordon, and went to look for Emma. In the
breakfast-room, the library, the conservatory, the flower-garden he sought
her, but in vain; in fact she had shut herself into her own room, to give
utterance, in grateful thanks, to the emotions which swelled her heart;
emotions far too powerful for words.

At the moment she could not have encountered him with anything like a due
and decorous dignity; had she seen him, she must have been guilty of
expressing too warmly her interest in his welfare: it would not do to
flatter him with a knowledge how very glad she was at his having safely
returned; for he was but a man, and as such, liable of course to all the
foibles of mankind: the vanity, the triumph, the selfish gratification
which such a dangerous knowledge would create. She thought very well of him
certainly, but the temptation to conceit might be too strong, and she might
have to rue the day if she placed such confidence in him.

No, she would not see him till her feelings were in better order, and more
under her own control.

Such was her resolution as she sought the shelter of her dressing-room; it
did not occur to her, that he might consider he had a claim on her
attention, and a right to demand an interview with her; a claim and a right
which no man very much in love could be expected to forego.

Having been quite unsuccessful in his search for her, he took a very plain
and straight-forward course to obtain what he wished, going to Lady Gordon
for assistance.

"Will you be my friend," said he, appealing to her with a look of great
concern, "my friend in a very important matter."

"Have I ever been otherwise, why should you ask?" replied she.

"Then procure me an interview with Emma—I cannot find her any where, and I
cannot exist longer in suspense. Dear Lady Gordon, do pray have pity on
me!"

"Yes!" replied she, affecting to look very grave, "I have pity on you; and
since you wish so much for an interview, I will try and procure one, that
is if Emma is not absolutely bent on refusing to hear you. But are you
prepared—can you stand the shock which awaits you?"

"Good Heavens! what do you mean, Lady Gordon?" cried he, catching her hand
in his with an accent of alarm.

"Why, what do you expect?" said she, withdrawing her hand, "but that she
will refuse you; what else can you anticipate?"

"Refuse me, why—do not torment me—I am <i>not</i> afraid—" he added, trying
to smile.

"Upon my word, a very modest speech!" exclaimed she, "so you feel no
alarm—tranquil self-confidence possesses your soul. Emma will be intensely
gratified!"

"Dear Lady Gordon—" said he, pleadingly; but she would not listen.

"So I am to call Miss Watson down to you, persuading her to come with an
assurance, that you feel so confident of what her answer will be that you
entertain no anxiety, no alarm. Is that what I am to say?"

"Say anything you please, Lady Gordon," exclaimed he, in desperation, "only
procure me the sight of Miss Watson, and the opportunity to speak to her."

"Very well, go to the library, and I will bring her there."

He anxiously hastened to the rendezvous she appointed; she crossed the
gallery to her friend's dressing-room.

On obtaining admission, she found Emma had been lying on the sofa in a
darkened room; she sat down by her, and affectionately kissing her forehead
and cheek, she said,

"I am come to congratulate you, my dear Miss Watson, that our imaginary
tragedy has proved an entire fable—Mr. Howard is quite well, and all the
loss on the occasion is that of a very pleasant dance, which I had intended
should be very much enjoyed."

"It seems so strange and incomprehensible," observed Emma, putting back the
ringlets from her forehead, "I could hardly believe my eyes, or credit my
senses, and as to speaking, that was out of the question. I hope you did
not think me very rude if you noticed me, but the only thing I could do,
was to run away."

"But now you have recovered your self-possession, and the use of your
speech, I hope you do not mean to seclude yourself here all day; pray come
and join us all. You had better."

"Perhaps I had," said Emma, "I will come with you in a moment; just let me
smooth my hair first."

"It is very nice I assure you, but I will wait as long as you please."

Miss Carr and Sir William were in the sitting-room; but Lady Gordon did not
stop there; to the great relief of Emma, who dreaded the remarks of the
young lady, they walked into the conservatory, through it, and entered from
the other end the library window.

Lord Osborne and Mr. Howard were there together, but the former instantly
took flight at their approach. Lady Gordon still keeping Emma's hand under
her own arm, led her up to Mr. Howard, and said,

"I have brought my friend to congratulate the dead-alive, Mr. Howard; she
was wishing to say civil speeches to you like the rest of us, but as I have
done my duty in that way, and a twice told tale is tedious, I shall leave
you, to go after my brother."

As Emma had held out her hand to the gentleman, she could not follow Lady
Gordon in her flight, though looking exceedingly inclined to do so; for he
held her with a gentle pressure, and would not let her go. His eyes were so
earnestly bent upon hers, that she dared not look up after the one glance
she had given him; and she stood, her slender fingers trembling in his
grasp, longing to speak, but wanting courage to break the silence.

"I am glad Miss Watson is not to be the only one from whom I hear no word
of welcome," said he gently. "If you knew how very grateful I should feel
for one sentence of kindness—even one look which evinced interest, could
you refuse me?"

"I assure you, Mr. Howard," said she, determined no longer to stand
silently blushing like a criminal before him; "I assure you it was not want
of interest, or kindly feeling towards you, which kept me silent."

"Thank you—you were glad to see me again?"

"Indeed I was."

"And you guess—you must know and feel why I hurried home?"

"No, indeed," but the words were accompanied by so very deep a blush, that
they looked exceedingly like a falsehood.

"There was a letter, which I wrote, but to which I received no answer,
which hurried my movements—do you now know what I mean?"

"I believe I do," she uttered in desperation finding he seemed determined
she should answer him.

"And though you would not write, you will condescend now to answer that
letter by word of mouth," taking her hand in both of his; "I am sure you
are too generous wilfully to torment me—and if you had known how much pain
your silence gave me, you would not have allowed it to last so long."

"Mr. Howard," said Emma, looking up, but making no attempt to withdraw her
hand; "I only received that letter yesterday morning; and as I then thought
you were dead—you cannot imagine the pain which the receipt of it
occasioned <i>me</i>."

She spoke hurriedly, without considering the full value of her words; but
<i>he</i> saw the implied meaning—where was the man ever blind to such a
compliment. The speech he made on the occasion, was a great deal too
rapturous and lover-like to bear transcribing, indeed, when lovers'
speeches really come from the heart, they would seldom be sufficiently
intelligible to interest general readers. There is so much understood by
the pressure of the hands—so much explained by the language of the eyes—and
so much made up by other signs well-known to the initiated, but unnecessary
to detail to those who have never gone through such an ordeal, that in most
cases it seems probable an accurate relation in words would be the most
tiresome, the most incomprehensible, the most ridiculous thing in the world
to those not taking a principal part in it.

Where the heart takes but a small share in the proceedings, indeed, fine
speeches may be made, but where the affections are engaged, the meaning can
be perfectly understood without them.

The result of his speech, and Emma's answer, was much more favorable to his
happiness, than the reply which she had made the previous day to a similar
question from Lord Osborne. She acknowledged that she loved him, and that
the dread of being poor, or the desire of being great, would not prevent
her promising to become his wife.

When the first effervescence of his joy had subsided, and he was able to
speak in a calm and reasonable manner, and consider what was best to be
done, he urged her to come out with him into the park, as the first step to
securing her company perfectly undisturbed—for, in the library, they were
constantly exposed to be interrupted. Here she tried to obtain from him
some rational account as to why he had tantalised her so long by deferring
an explanation—which, for any thing she could see to the contrary, might
just as well, or better, have been made long before. Since he professed he
had loved her even before she went to Croydon, why did he take no steps to
tell her so; or why, since he ended in writing, did he not write to her
there? Was it necessary to go as far as North Wales to find courage for
such an epistle.

He told her it was doubt and want of courage kept him silent—then he
contradicted himself and said it was really jealousy of Lord Osborne. He
had believed the young baron loved her.

So he might, perhaps, was Emma's reply—but what had that to do with it; to
make the admiration dangerous, it was necessary that she should return his
affection, "and surely, you never suspected me of that?" said she.

"How could I tell? Might you not naturally be dazzled with the idea of a
coronet; why, should I have interfered with your advantage or advancement?"

"As if it would be to my advantage to marry a man like Lord Osborne,"
replied Emma. "I do not wish to say anything derogatory to your friends, or
to Lady Gordon's brother, but indeed I think you might have given me credit
for rather a different taste at least. I have no wish either to flatter you
too much; but I fancy, whether better or worse, <i>our</i> tastes are more
consonant than mine and Lord Osborne's."

"But, my dearest Emma, did he not love you?"

"What right have you to ask me any such questions, Mr. Howard? so long as I
assure you, I did not love him, that ought to be sufficient for you—let his
feelings remain a secret."

"There should be no secrets between us, Emma."

"Very well—but there shall be between Lord Osborne and me."

"For shame, Emma, I shall certainly forbid anything of the kind."

"Set me the example of sincerity and openness then, tell me to how many
ladies you have made love—how many hopeless and inextinguishable flames you
have nourished, and how many hearts you have found obdurate to your finest
speeches."

Mr. Howard protested he had never loved any other woman, never sought any
other hand than hers, and never made fine speeches to any one. With all his
eloquence and ability he was not able to extract from her the fact, that
she had refused Lord Osborne. She had two motives for her silence; a
feeling of delicacy towards her rejected suitor, and a decided
determination not to flatter Howard's vanity by such a mark of her
preference. She thought it quite enough for him to know himself accepted
without learning, at least at present, how many she had refused for his
sake.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch15
CHAPTER XV
.sp 2

Lady Gordon, and her husband, learnt with sincere pleasure, that a happy
understanding had been established between Emma and her lover; they both
hinted that the disappointment to Lord Osborne would not be lasting, and
that the attachment would on the whole have done him good. He had improved
so much during its progress, had become so sociable and civilised by his
affection, that he seemed a different person; and whilst rejoicing at the
change, they trusted he would not relapse under the effects of his want of
success, but would prove himself worthy of his place in society, and his
position in the world.

As to the young man himself, he felt his disappointment most acutely, but
it did not make him more selfish than he had been. On the contrary it
seemed to give rise to a magnanimity of sentiment which could hardly have
been expected from him.

Two days after the engagement it was found he went down to see Howard at
the vicarage immediately after the post had come in. That morning he had
received an announcement of the death of the old rector before mentioned.
He now hastened to offer the living to Howard, delighted to have it in his
power thus to improve his circumstances.

"Howard," said he, "I have learnt by this letter that the living of
Carsdean is vacant. I am glad of it—as I am sure it will make you much more
comfortable. Will you accept it?"

"My dear lord," said he, with much emotion, "you are too kind to me: I am
ashamed to accept such a benefit, when I have robbed you of what you so
much desired."

"Do not speak of that," said the other, "she took her choice, and no doubt
chose wisely; I always <i>felt</i> you were beloved, Howard, even whilst I
was fool enough to flatter myself with success: but I am not angry either
with her or you, and since I cannot make her happy myself, I am glad I can
help you to do so. This living was always meant for you—but coming as it
does just now, it gives me very great pleasure."

"I knew you were generous," replied Howard, "and I can feel how much
satisfaction the power of obliging must confer."

"Make her happy, Howard, and when I can, I will come and see you, but it is
best at first that we should be apart. You accept my wedding gift!"

"A noble one, like the heart which dictates it, and a welcome one indeed
since it removes the only obstacle to my marriage," replied Howard.

"Howard, you are a lucky man; I would have given half my income to have had
the power of persuading her to accept the other half. You know, I dare say,
that she refused me?"

"No, indeed!"

"Did not Emma tell you? She <i>did</i> refuse me, and I loved her the
better for it, for it was entirely for <i>your</i> sake; but as I thought
you were dead then I did not take it so much to heart, because I trusted to
time and perseverance when my rival was removed."

"And when I came back and destroyed your dream, how you must have hated me!
I wonder you could shake hands as you did, and say you were glad to see
me."

"Howard," said Lord Osborne with much agitation, "if I thought you were
serious in what you say, I would never speak to you again; I <i>know</i>
you only say it to torment me, but is that generous when you are the
winning party?"

"I beg your pardon," said Howard holding out his hand; and no more was said
on the subject.

"What a pity it is," said Emma Watson to Howard when he was joyfully
detailing to her his happy prospects, and Lord Osborne's generosity, "what
a pity it is that Lord Osborne's manners are so inferior to his mind. With
so much good feeling and generosity of sentiment, it is unfortunate that he
should have so little engaging in his appearance and address."

"I do not think so at all, Emma, for if his manners had been such as you
admire, and calculated to set off his good qualities, you would certainly
have been lost to me."

"What abominable conceit!" cried Emma; "you really take credit to yourself,
do you, for such very captivating manners yourself, since you think that
those alone are the passports to my good opinion."

"I did not mean to say that; I trust my other good qualities are so
remarkable that you have, in their favour, overlooked any little
deficiencies which might otherwise strike you in my manners."

"Modest, truly! What is the income of the living which his lordship
presents to you?"

"About a thousand a year, I believe, and a very pretty country and pleasant
neighbourhood. I have been there, and always thought I should like it so
very much."

"I am quite sorry to leave this pretty place though," said Emma looking at
the Vicarage near which they were wandering; "I am sure the other cannot
have so pleasant a garden, nor so pleasant a little drawing-room. Those
were happy days when we were snowed up there."

They then went off into a long series of reminiscences and explanations
through which it would be useless, were it possible, to follow them.

Emma spent one very happy week at the Castle after her engagement; which
was not the less agreeable to every one concerned because both Lord Osborne
and Miss Carr left it. He quitted his house immediately after the
conversation above recorded; and she then decided that her visit had been
long enough to such dreadfully dull people as Rosa and her husband were
become: so she took leave of her dear friends and returned, unsuccessful,
home.

At the end of a week, Mr. Howard found it necessary to go too; there was
business connected with his new living which must be attended to, and
unwillingly he tore himself away.

Mrs. Willis still continued in Wales, for though Charles was better, and
indeed daily gaining strength, the physicians had so strongly recommended
sea air for the re-establishment of his health, that his mother had decided
on spending the summer on the sea-coast there.

Howard's departure proved, however, only the prelude to Emma's return to
Croydon. Elizabeth's marriage was fast approaching, and she pressed to see
Emma again before that event. The idea of again becoming an inmate of
Robert's house was so very repulsive to Emma that she demurred from that
reason alone, and she was much more inclined to accede to Miss Bridge's
repeated invitations to return to Burton. But this Elizabeth urged would be
doing no good at all; fourteen miles would as effectually preclude daily
meetings as forty, and would be only tantalizing instead of comfortable.
The affair was at length arranged through the intervention of Mr. Bridge,
who invited both his sister and her young friend to take up their residence
for a time in his Vicarage at Croydon. And so it was settled at last, and
after a hundred kind words and caresses from Lady Gordon, and the most
cordial good wishes from her husband, Emma left the Castle, travelling, be
it recorded, in one of Sir William's carriages half the way, where she was
to be met by Miss Bridge's chariot, to convey her the latter half of the
journey.

With no accident and no adventure she reached Croydon, and of course
received a far warmer welcome than when she had formerly made the same
journey.

Elizabeth was waiting to receive her—her face was seen through the flowers
in the drawing-room window, and she reached the entrance door, and ran down
the steps to open the carriage before the fat, well-powdered footman had
time to put on his livery coat. She led her sister into the house, and in
the passage pushed back the bonnet and the dark curls from her cheeks, to
see if she was as pretty as ever. Then, before leading her into the
drawing-room, she paused again to make her guess who she would find there.

Emma suggested Mr. and Miss Bridge.

"You little goose," replied Elizabeth, "as if I should have thought it
worth while to make you guess that!"

Then throwing open the door she ushered her in, and in another moment Emma
was clasped in the arms of her dear brother Sam. This was a very unexpected
pleasure—she had hoped to see him certainly, but never for a moment
anticipated meeting him so soon. It was the joint kindness of Miss Bridge
and Elizabeth; the one well remembering the affectionate terms in which
Emma always spoke of her brother had been suggesting the possibility of his
coming, and the other eager to carry out the plan had persuaded George
Millar to ask him to his house for the week preceding the wedding. He had
arrived that very afternoon, and after an introduction to his future
brother, had accompanied Elizabeth to meet Emma.

Emma had much to communicate to Sam; besides her own prospects she had
matters which must be interesting to him as concerning himself. A farewell
visit which she had paid to the Edwards had brought another engagement to
her knowledge. Mary Edwards was soon to be married to Captain Hunter. She
found them <lang="fr"><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang> in the parlour when she
entered, and appearances were so very suspicious, that even without the
direct information which Mrs. Edwards subsequently whispered to her, she
would have concluded her brother's cause to be lost.

Mrs. Edwards appeared on the whole better reconciled to the match than
Emma, from her early recollections, would have supposed. Perhaps she had
discouraged Mary's partiality for the Captain, from a doubt of his
sincerity, which was now removed; or perhaps finding herself in the
minority, she had given up her previous objections, because it was no use
to persist in them; whatever were her feelings, she had received Emma's
congratulations with a good grace, and Emma hoped there was no ill-will
implied in the message of compliments which she charged her to deliver to
their old acquaintance Mr. Sam Watson.

All this she had to communicate to Sam, who listened with philosophy, and
whistled <lang=it><i>sotto voce</i></lang> instead of an answer. Certainly
the part which piqued him most was Mrs. Edwards' message; for some time
indeed he had almost despaired of Mary's affection, but he could not bear
that the mother who had never been his friend, should suppose he cared at
all about it.

There seemed nothing wanting to complete the felicity of the happy party
assembled at the Rectory of Croydon. Perhaps indeed Mr. Howard would not
have been flattered had he supposed this the case; but so it really was;
Emma had parted from him so recently that she hardly felt the want of his
society yet, and the satisfaction of knowing herself beloved was at present
sufficient for her repose of mind. The agitations and anxieties of suspense
were over, and were followed by a calmness and peace of mind which seemed
all that she could require. She had now as much to hear as to tell, for Sam
had been to Chichester, and seen Penelope and her husband, had arranged the
plan for his future establishment, and his prospects were of a very bright
character. Could he only have commanded a couple of thousand pounds,
besides what he possessed, there would have been no difficulty at all in
stepping into a comfortable house and flourishing business. As it was, the
prospects which Penelope promised him should be realized in a short time,
were sufficient to raise his mind and ease his spirits.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch16
CHAPTER XVI.
.sp 2

The next morning Emma had a succession of visitors. Miss Millar was among
the first and gayest of the number. She came up with Sam immediately after
breakfast, to spend a long day, and expressed great satisfaction at seeing
her again.

"You cannot think how dreadfully dull I have been," said she, "almost ever
since you went away. George being in love is the stupidest thing in the
world. Formerly when he had done with his business, and escaped from his
offices he used to be glad of my society and would read or walk when I
wanted him, but now all that is quite changed, and if I do get a speech
from him once in a week I am taught to consider it a great favour. Upon my
word it is a sad disease."

"They say it is infectious," said Emma, laughing.

"Oh I trust not," cried Annie quite seriously, "I hope I shall escape the
infection, I have such a horror of the whole thing. I beg the pardon of all
such of the present company who may be engaged, but I think that people in
love are very ridiculous."

"Can you always discern at the first glance when they have the disease,"
enquired Miss Bridge good-humouredly.

"Yes I think I can—but happily it leaves no marks, and when it is passed,
people may be as amiable as before. But it's a sad thing that young people
should be so constantly exposed to the danger. I hope you will keep clear
Emma, in spite of the atmosphere to which you have removed."

"Is it worse than when I was here two months ago?" enquired Emma, secretly
smiling at her young friend's remarks.

"We shall soon see," replied Annie; "if there were any one to fall in love
with here, I am certain you would be in a dangerous position."

"Well, why should you except me?" said Mr. Bridge, "here I am a bachelor,
why may I not aspire to be considered as a dangerous individual?"

"You, my dear Mr. Bridge—because you are engaged to me; you know you long
ago promised to marry me yourself," replied Annie.

"I am flattered at your remembering our engagement, young lady, but I am
astonished that you are left so long to me without competition; I think you
must be something like Beatrice."

"No, I never had lovers to mock," said she, "except Mr. Alfred Fremantle,
and he is the facsimile of Sir John Suckling's constant lover, or rather he
resembles him in constancy, but has none of his wit to express it. What is
it he says—

.nf 
     "I have been in love three days,
      And shall be three days more."
.nf-
.ti 0
"I cannot remember the words exactly, but it is something to that effect."

Sam turned round from the window, and repeated the lines to which Annie
alluded. She looked astonished.

"How came you to know them?" said she.

"I read them amongst his poems," was his answer.

"I thought you were a surgeon, Mr. Samuel Watson," said she still in
amazement, "and though never doubting that you knew a great deal of anatomy
and such things, did not expect you would be acquainted with love poetry."

"And is it to want of taste or want of time, Miss Millar, that you would
attribute my imaginary ignorance?"

"I do not wish to offend you, but certainly I had expected a surgeon's
tastes to be different; and I should have referred a case of dislocation or
fracture to you, with much more faith than a failure of memory."

"You thought I could mend your finger better than a broken verse, and that
though I might make you whole, I should make a line halt—was that it?"

"I believe it was, and my amazement is so great, I do not know when I shall
recover," replied she saucily.

"I know you always had a strong prejudice against the medical profession,"
said Mr. Bridge smiling, "you considered one specimen the type of the whole
class."

"I am delighted to hear it," exclaimed Sam, "I like of all things to meet
with prejudiced people, one has such a pleasure in disputing with them;
good, strong prejudices are delightful things, they are so constantly
changing their color and complexion; for I have often observed a strong
dislike converted into a decided approbation, whilst the owner is unaware
of the change, and gravely assures you he never alters his mind."

"That must be a man's prejudice, Mr. Watson," said Annie, "women are much
more consistent. I have hated doctors, surgeons and apothecaries ever since
I was five years old, and Mr. Morgan gave me some
<lang="fr"><i>bon-bons</i></lang> which made me sick. I have always
distrusted them since that."

"I am not at all surprised," said Sam, with much gravity; "such an offence
was unpardonable, and well deserves to be visited on the whole of the
medical profession by your unchanging and unmitigated contempt. After this
we cannot allow your dislike to be called a prejudice!"

"Is your brother always as impertinent to every young woman as he is to
me?" enquired Annie, turning to Emma, "he seems determined to quarrel with
me—has he naturally a bad temper?"

"Really I do not know," replied Emma, "I have seen so little of him, and
never with any other young ladies; do you imagine want of temper a
necessary accompaniment to his profession?"

"Oh no, I am not quite so bad as that," said she laughing, "doctors ought
to be particularly bland and insinuating, able to make all the bitter
realities they inflict on one, pass easily under the sweetening cover of a
smile and honied words."

They were interrupted by the arrival of other visitors. Emma having just
arrived from a prolonged visit to Lady Gordon at Osborne Castle, was likely
to become a very popular character at Croydon; there was so much virtue
comprised in the friendship of a baronet's wife, and as it was whispered,
the admiration of her brother; for accounts of his visit to Croydon had
been whispered abroad, and such an act could only be attributed to one
motive. All her former acquaintance looked on her as a baroness elect, and
all began to find out what a very charming girl they had always thought
her. They would not for the world neglect calling on that sweet, amiable
Emma Watson. They were so delighted to see her back again; they were so
eager that she should make a long stay amongst them all. Croydon would be
so gay with all that was going on. The three Miss Watsons had been such a
very great addition, it had never been like itself since they came.

Amongst her visitors were her sister-in-law and niece. Emma was really glad
to see the little girl, who clung to her and begged her to come back again
very soon, as she had no one to teach her now so nicely as she had been
used to do.

"My dear Emma," cried Jane, "how delighted I am to see you again, and so
blooming as you are looking; upon my word, I really begin to see what Mr.
Morgan once said of our likeness. I hope you left your kind friends at the
Castle well—charming young man Lord Osborne; nothing of hauteur or pride
about him. He seemed quite at home with me—but, to be sure, when people
have lived in the same sort of society, they acquire a sort of ease towards
each other. I cannot make out that he knew my uncle, Sir Thomas, but he
reminded me very much of some of the young men that I used to see at his
house."

Here she paused, and Emma, thinking some sort of remark necessary, and yet
not having the least idea what she was expected to reply to, only ventured
to enquire for her brother.

"Mr. Watson? oh, he is well enough, I believe! I have not seen him this
morning, however, for he breakfasted early with Elizabeth; I believe, if he
can, he will come and see you some day, but indeed, Emma, you must come to
us. We have plenty of room, and should you have any friends coming, we
could easily accommodate them too. I would not mind putting myself to any
inconvenience for your sake, my dear."

"I am sure I feel much obliged, but at present I mast decline your offers,"
said Emma, trying to speak with warmth.

"Oh, no, not at all, I assure you, you could expect nothing less from us;
<i>we</i>, you know, are your nearest relations, and under certain
circumstances, <i>we</i> may naturally be expected to show our approbation
and patronage; every young woman has a claim on her own family; so you will
certainly come back to us."

"Indeed I must decline Jane," said Emma firmly, "at least, for the
present."

"And indeed, dear, I will not take a refusal, so I shall certainly get a
room ready for you, and another shall be prepared for a friend whenever it
is needed. Did you leave Lord Osborne at the Castle, did you say?"

Emma replied in the negative of course.

"Really, for so young a man," continued Mrs. Watson, "his air and manner
were remarkable; so exceedingly high-bred and aristocratic. I have seldom
seen manners which delighted me more, I assure you. Don't blush so, my
dear," added she, making believe to whisper; "nobody here knows anything
about him, except you and me."

"Then allow me to suggest that, as a reason for dropping the subject," said
Emma, "and recurring to some one more generally interesting."

"La, my dear," laughed Jane, "it looks very suspicious, your not choosing
to talk of him. However, if you don't like it, I will say no more—I would
not vex you for the world, my dear sister—what a sweet pretty gown that is
you have on; Lady Gordon's choice, beyond a doubt."

"No, indeed," replied Emma, smiling, "but I dare say Miss Bridge remembers
choosing it for me, whilst we were at Burton."

"What sort of bonnets are most in fashion, Emma?" asked Jane, "Elizabeth's
wedding bonnet is, to my taste, vastly ugly; not that I pretend to be a
judge at all,—though I used to be thought to have some taste—but I dare
say, she was quite right not to take my advice; one must not expect to be
always judged candidly—every one cannot see one's merits; so I am not
surprised—how are heads worn now?"

Emma tried to recall and describe some of the bonnets she had seen at Lady
Gordon's <lang="fr"><i>fête</i></lang>, but Mrs. Watson pronounced her
description unsatisfactory, wished she had been there to see it, and
wondered Margaret had never thought of asking her over for that day. She
might have done it so easily, Jane was sure, and considering how very kind
Jane had been to Margaret, and how large a share Robert had had in bringing
about her marriage, she thought it was the least she could have done, to
shew her gratitude and mark her sense of former favors.

Emma tried to excuse Margaret, but fortunately, before she had wasted much
eloquence in that way, Jane perceived it was time to withdraw.

No sooner was she out of the room than Sam returned from the window where
he had ensconced himself during her visit, and exclaimed:

"Really, I hope it is not very wicked, but that woman puts me more out of
patience than all the rest of the world of Croydon put together."

"The rest of the world of Croydon is infinitely obliged to you," said Annie
Millar, walking up to him; "allow me, sir, as its representative, to make
you a grateful curtsey on the occasion. You can bear with us all better
than with your sister-in-law?"

She made him a saucy curtsey as she spoke, looking exceedingly pretty as
she did so.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for such a speech, Sam," said Emma, at
the same moment; "I am sure she meant to be kind."

"Yes, but who did she mean to be kind to, Emma? was it to Emma Watson or
some imaginary future baroness," replied Sam.

"Why should I enquire into motives, or attribute a bad ones? She might have
been just the same if Lord Osborne had never existed."

"I do not believe it," persisted he.

"Your brother wants to see how violent prejudices become him," said Annie
Millar, "do not argue with him—he does not deserve it."

"Miss Millar is angry with me for the implied reflection on Croydon," said
he, "but I knew she had not been brought up here, and never thought of her
as belonging to the place."

"And what do you know of Croydon, to give you so dark an opinion of its
inhabitants?" enquired she, "I do not think we slander, or court here worse
than in other places."

"I have heard a great deal about you all, from my two sisters," replied he;
"Emma especially, gave me lively pictures of your proceedings. I was well
acquainted with you and your irreconcileable prejudices against unfortunate
surgeons several months ago.

"Oh! you used to correspond with Emma, did you?" said she.

"To be sure I did; would not you write to your brother, Miss Millar?"

"Perhaps I might—but I do not think he would read it if I did—especially if
I crossed the letter! George is not fond of letters!"

"But you like them yourself?"

"Oh yes! I should like to have seen Emma's to you. I am sure they would
have been very interesting—does she not write very clever letters?"

"<i>I</i> used to think them interesting and clever—but, perhaps, that was
because I am only a surgeon, and could not be expected to have either taste
or judgment," replied he, with mock humility.

"Oh, but I think you might have both on <i>that</i> subject—your admiring
Emma's letters is decidedly a proof of it."

"Even though I am a surgeon?"

"Yes, even though you are a surgeon."

"And though you have never seen any of those letters, the liking which
secures your approbation?"

"Ah! you are too clever for me—you want to make me contradict myself, or
something of that sort—but I will not argue with you, and then you cannot
prove me wrong."

"You need not say you <i>will</i> not—you <i>cannot</i> argue; no woman
can, they can only feel, and express those feelings."

"And taking the converse of your proposition, Mr. Samuel Watson, I presume
that men surpass us so much in argument, because they have <i>no</i>
feelings. Am I to infer that?"

"We have them, but we guide them, not they us. It is exactly the reverse
with you, and you never see more than one side of a question," replied he,
in the most straightforward manner possible.

"Yes; you have some feelings very apparent," replied she, "contempt for
women is evidently a prominent one."

"Contempt, Miss Millar! no indeed, you do me injustice, if you think
so—but, perhaps, you imagine that a part of my profession?"

"I certainly think it one that hardens all the feelings," said she turning
away and thus putting a stop to the conversation. It had been settled that
the whole vicarage party were to dine at the Millars' that afternoon, and
it now became time for those who did not belong to it, to return home to
prepare for dinner. Elizabeth Watson, her brother, and Miss Millar
accordingly set off together. Elizabeth taking Sam's arm, and Annie walking
on her other side; they made the passage with scarcely a syllable passing
between them; and as the Millars' house was nearer the vicarage than the
residence of the Robert Watsons, Annie left them at the door of her house.

"What do you think of Annie Millar?" cried Elizabeth eagerly, as she and
her brother proceeded together. "Is she not charming?"

"Yes, she is a very fine girl," replied he quietly.

"Oh, Sam," continued Elizabeth, "I do so wish you would like her; I have
always thought she was exactly suited to you. She will have twenty thousand
pounds of her own, and I am sure she is much better worth liking than Mary
Edwards."

Elizabeth, in her open-hearted zeal for Sam's welfare, never for a moment
reflected that she was taking the most probable way to prejudice him
against her, since there is nothing which in general has more influence
that way than a sister's praises; whilst the surest means to interest a
man's favor for any young woman, is to abuse or find fault with her. True
to his feelings as a man, Sam of course replied:

"If you reckon her merits by her pounds, I dare say she is, but I do not
see otherwise in what she surpasses Mary Edwards."

Fortunately they had just arrived at the termination of their walk, and Sam
having seen his sister safely deposited in the house, returned alone to
George Millar's residence.

The evening was a very merry one, for the whole party was well assorted and
in good spirits, in spite, as Annie observed, of the tremendous event
hanging over some of them. But it was not Elizabeth's nature to be very
pensive; positive evils did not make her sad, it was not likely then that
what she firmly believed to be a positive good, would weigh heavily on her
spirits. She was perfectly satisfied with her future prospects, and could
look forward without any trembling emotion to her approaching fate. After
dinner, when the ladies had returned to the drawing-room, Elizabeth, who
was burning with anxiety to make known the fact of Emma's engagement, began
enquiring of Annie, if she thought her sister changed since her visit to
Osborne Castle. Miss Millar declared she was looking better, plumper,
gayer, prettier than ever; but in no other respect was she altered.

"Then you do not suspect her of having fallen in love?" enquired Miss
Watson laughingly.

"I see no trace of it," said the other, examining Emma from head to foot
with a grave air, taking a candle from the chimney-piece to throw more
light on her countenance. "I see no symptoms at all, pray do not attempt to
raise such unfounded imputations against her, Elizabeth; your insinuations
disgrace you!"

"Nay then, in my own justification I must inform you, Annie,—shall I tell,
Emma—or do you blush to own the truth?" enquired Miss Watson with a
significant smile.

"Not that she is engaged to that Lord Osborne!" cried Annie, starting back
with horror, "you are not going to confirm the rumour which Miss Jenkins
and Mrs. Watson so industriously circulate, and that brought Miss Morgan
and Miss Fenton to call on her to-day. This can never be."

"My dear Annie," said Emma smiling quietly, "<i>that</i> Lord Osborne, as
you call him, is a very estimable young man, and would make any woman who
liked him very happy I have no doubt."

"Indeed! well I hope he will, if you are going to marry him," said Annie
with a mournful countenance and expression, that made Elizabeth laugh
out-right, "but in that case, when you are Lady Osborne, we shall never see
you again."

"I dare say not," replied Emma, "but, believe me, I never intend to be Lady
Osborne, so your alarm is unfounded."

"And you are not engaged to him, and you are free—oh, how glad I am—I was
sure you could not be," cried Annie quite rapturously.

Emma looked at Elizabeth and said,

"Finish the story, as you began it."

"Well then, Annie, I am sorry to lower your opinion of my sister, but as
the fact must come sooner or later to your knowledge, and you seem now
tolerably prepared to receive it, I have to make to you the distressing
announcement that Emma is in reality engaged to be married, though not to
Lord Osborne, who is not the only man in the world I assure you."

"Emma engaged to be married," said Annie with a desponding look, "then
<i>I</i> have no hope; the next thing I shall hear, is that my hand is
disposed of; we shall none of us escape it. Dear Miss Bridge, how did you
manage?"

"I would not recommend you to wish for my fate, my dear, I had a bitter
disappointment," replied the old lady with extraordinary placidity.

"My dear madam," said Annie respectfully, and taking her hand as she spoke,
"I beg your pardon a thousand times, but I assure you I did not know that,
or I would not have jested on the subject."

"My dear child, the thing is too long passed to hurt my feelings now," said
Miss Bridge smoothing down Annie's glossy hair as she inclined her head
towards her; "but I do not think you would wish to buy my present peace of
mind by undergoing all I have felt and suffered."

A pause ensued, which Mrs. Turner was the first to break.

"Well Elizabeth, do tell us what is the name of your sister's young man—who
is he and what is he? I am longing to know all about it."

Elizabeth told them all she knew, and when she added that Lord Osborne had
recently given him a valuable living, Emma enquired whether she was not
right in saying that Lord Osborne was an estimable young man.

"What, because he has livings to dispose of?" said Annie. "I suppose he
could not help that."

Emma was silent, but Elizabeth exclaimed,

"Oh! but you must understand that Lord Osborne was in love with her, and
therefore, as he could not marry her himself, it was very generous of him
to give his rival an income to enable <i>him</i> to do so."

"Elizabeth!" said Emma reproachfully.

"Emma tries to make a mystery of it," continued her sister; "I cannot get
her to own that Lord Osborne proposed to her; but I am sure if he did not,
it was because she accepted Mr. Howard before he had time to do so."

The gentlemen at this juncture returned to the drawing-room, for neither of
the three seemed disposed to prefer the bottle to the ladies, and Annie sat
down to prepare tea. Sam approached the table, which was a little removed
from the others, and tendered his assistance if necessary. She did not
accept or decline his offer, but looked a little confused; he could not
decide whether she was angry or vexed, and stood quietly by considering her
countenance, and aiding her whenever she required more water from the
elegant silver kettle which swung over a spirit-lamp in the place of our
modern urn.

At length, when the others seemed engrossed with their tea and
conversation, she raised her head and said, with a little embarrassment,

"I certainly owe you some apology, Mr. Watson, for the incivility of my
last speech to you this afternoon. I am quite shocked to think I should
have been so rude."

"Indeed, Miss Millar, I was not affronted, for I had known your opinion
before, and I thought the apologies were rather due from me, since, though
quite unintentionally, I had given you the idea that I entertained a
contempt for women. I did not deserve that accusation, but my expressions
must have been wrong, if they awoke such an idea."

Annie could not help feeling that even a surgeon might look very handsome,
and that <i>his</i> tone and manner might convey the conviction of his
perfect sincerity: she liked him, in spite of his profession.

"Seriously, Mr. Watson, I should never accuse you of anything of the sort,"
returned she after a moment's reflection; "so I suppose we may pass an
amnesty for past offences, and declare a truce for the present."

"Let it be a treaty of peace," said he playfully; "permanent peace."

"No," she replied shaking her head; "that would be promising too much. I
shall be certain to quarrel with you again, and it does not do to break
treaties. Do you know I was never, as a child, so much inclined to be
naughty as when I had just promised to be very good. Let us content
ourselves with a four hours' truce, renewable or not at the end of that
time."

"Be it so," replied he laughing, "if you think that the safest proceeding
or the most agreeable. So you were a naughty girl, were you, at school?"

"Oh, always in a scrape—the torment of my governess," said she laughing at
the recollection. "They used gravely to shake their heads, and say they did
not know what would become of me; I should never be good for anything; so
idle—so rebellious—so mischievous—so saucy—and withal so merry and happy—I
always got my own way with them all."

"And what did you learn at school, may I ask?"

"First to play at battledore and shuttle-cock, and repeat 'I love my love
with an A,' &c.—then to dance—I liked that—then to do cross-stitch, tent
and marking—I worked a magnificent sampler, which I will show you some day.
Then I learnt my letters and to read, because they promised me some fairy
tales if I would try. The next accomplishment I acquired was to do a sum in
the rule of three, for which I was rewarded with 'Sir Charles Grandison,'
in seven volumes. I do not know that I learnt anything else, except the way
to govern all my companions, coax my superiors—oh, and write a letter."

"Well, I think it must have been a very good school, and if ever I have
daughters they shall be sent there too. I admire the system exceedingly."

"Yes, I think it was a very good school," replied Annie; "to be sure, I
learnt nothing worth knowing, and a great deal which I had better have let
alone: one sees a prodigious deal of meanness, and manœuvring, and artful
conduct when thirty or forty girls are assembled together; but I suppose it
is all right, since it has gone on for so many generations, and I do not
know that women are worse than they used to be before they ever pretended
to learn. We do not expect to rival Lady Jane Grey, or Queen Elizabeth, or
the daughters of Evelyn, and I dare say if we did, we should only be
disliked and ridiculed. No doubt it is quite right that women should be
idle and frivolous; it keeps us in our right places in the world."

She spoke with something in her tone between jest and bitterness, to which
Sam hardly knew how to answer.

"I protest against your giving the conversation such a turn; it is breaking
our truce," said he, "you must either speak in complete jest, or serious
earnest. I shall be getting into a scrape again with you, if I answer now,
for I do not know which you mean."

"Let it pass for a jest then, lest you should think me seriously
discontented with my position in society," replied she, "and in the
meantime, give me Miss Bridge's teacup to replenish!"

"She is an odd girl," thought he, "I wonder in what light she looks upon
me!"

"After all, for a surgeon, he really is pleasant," thought she, "it is a
pity he has such a bad profession, I am quite sorry for him."

It was with these feelings that they sat down to cards; after which, of
course, they had no more private conversation until the company had left
the house.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch17
CHAPTER XVII.
.sp 2

The week that preceded Elizabeth's wedding, seemed extremely short to the
whole of the parties immediately concerned; every day was occupied with
some excursion for their amusement, and every evening was passed at the
house of some friendly acquaintance, who would not be refused the pleasure
of their company. Nobody, at this epoch, was more popular than the future
Mrs. George Millar; since her neighbours could not prevent her marriage,
they were determined to extract as much pleasure from the occurrence as
possible. For this end they gave a number of tea-parties to welcome her
brother and say good-bye to her sisters, and learn as much as they could of
the future plans and prospects of each. The handsome Mr. Samuel Watson,
with his lively manners, promising prospects, and probable disengaged
heart, was really a most interesting object; and since Emma was supposed to
be engaged, and there was no further ground for her exciting jealousy, she
was allowed, on all hands, to be uncommonly handsome and agreeable too.
Nothing, therefore, was omitted, which could express their favourable
opinion of the whole family, or their anxiety to be on good terms with them
all.

It was no particular misery to Jane that, whilst every one else was
pressing for their company, there was not one day left disengaged for her.
She liked a great better to be invited to meet them, as she was every
evening: for, unless she could quite outshine all her neighbours in the
elegance of her entertainment, she preferred giving none at all; and as it
happened that Robert was in a stingy mood, she had, with difficulty,
extracted from him sufficient money to buy the very handsome gown and
bonnet in which she was to appear at the wedding.

At all these parties where, of course, the Millars regularly met the
Watsons, Sam still contrived to be a great deal with Annie,—but the most
favourable opportunities for intercourse, were during their long rambles in
the country. Then he was always her cavalier, and they quarrelled and
laughed together without interruption. Her spirits seemed as inexhaustible
as her strength; she could both walk and talk for miles without mental or
bodily exhaustion, and often tired out all her companions except Sam.

It was no wonder then, when he paid her the compliment of untiring
attention, and unvarying amusement, that she should, in her turn, find him
a most delightful companion, infinitely more agreeable than any one she had
ever known. No more was heard about his profession—she forgot it entirely,
and only considered him in the light of a very pleasant acquaintance.

It was natural that, during some of their many engagements, Emma should
again meet Mr. Morgan; and equally natural that she should feel some
embarrassing recollections at doing so. A bow was all that their situation,
at the first moment of meeting, allowed to pass between them; but, when by
a movement amongst her neighbours, a vacant seat, and the power of reaching
it allowed him, he did not hesitate to avail himself of the opportunity,
and place himself by her side.

There was nothing of restraint or embarrassment in his manner—no appearance
of consciousness or shame; he did not know, perhaps, how much their joint
names had been made the subject of gossip and scandal—she thought so for a
moment, but then, from what she remembered, she knew he must have been
aware of it; then she felt angry at his impudence; but finally, she
concluded that, after all, he was taking the wisest course; and that to
converse quietly, as if nothing had passed to raise an unpleasant feeling,
would be, on the whole, the conduct least calculated to excite attention.

Calm and polite as she was, he was sensible of a difference in her manners
from past days, and he did not indulge a hope of regaining her confidence;
but it wounded his vanity to suppose that she, amongst all the women of his
acquaintance, beheld him with calm dislike; whilst he could not even to
himself deny her superiority over the many whose approbation or admiration
constantly followed his footsteps.

If he could not regain her friendship he wanted at least to excite some
emotion in her mind, and call up one of her former smiles so full of
brightness and feeling. With the tact which gave him half his popularity,
he hit upon the subject most likely to awaken kind sentiments in her heart;
he began praising her brother. The introduction had given him so much
pleasure, he was, he would not say astonished, but certainly most agreeably
surprised to find Mr. Samuel Watson so very superior a young man. There was
no likeness to Mr. Watson—no—he could not compliment his good friend,
Robert, by saying that there was; seldom had he seen two brothers more
dissimilar; but her younger brother's manners were so good—such a young man
must make his way in the world, must be a favourite; there was every
probability of his success; nay, there was certainty of it: there was
intelligence and spirit in his eye, which promised nobly. Then he enquired
minutely into his prospects; entered with the warmth of a friend into the
plan for his establishing himself at Chichester, and gave several hints for
his benefit.

Emma, in spite of her aversion to the speaker, and her determination that
nothing should make her admit even the semblance of mutual friendship in
their future intercourse, found herself speaking with unintentional warmth
and animation. She checked herself immediately, and a shade of vexation
passed over her countenance; which was not lost on her companion.
Accustomed to study the minds and inclinations of his various patients, his
quickness at reading all the little marks of feeling evinced in their
countenances, enabled him pretty well to appreciate the state of her mind;
but when he proceeded on the same subject, in hopes of once more inducing
her to express her feelings, he was extremely vexed to find that, after
making him some short and trivial reply, she rose and walked away.

This movement marked a decided aversion on her part which piqued him
deeply, and for which he was not prepared. He remained in his seat, spoke
to no one else, and occupied himself, whilst he continued in the room, in
considering whether he no longer had any chance of regaining his influence
with her.

He knew pretty well all that had passed, and all that had been whispered
about their former intimacy; but he thought that since all that had been
set in a favourable point of view, and her character perfectly cleared, she
need not now have been so cold and distant to him. If, as was whispered,
she was engaged to some one else, there was no reason for shunning him,
unless, and the thought actually thrilled his mind with delight, unless she
had really preferred him, and now feared to trust herself in his power.
This would account for all her conduct; her flight to Burton—her engagement
itself, and her present shrinking from him—all might be traced to the same
source. His vanity was excited to the highest pitch, as he thought of this
interpretation, and he could believe her quite capable of such strength of
mind, and firmness of purpose. Other women when they had liked him, had
thrown themselves in his way, but it was perfectly consonant with what he
supposed her character to be, that she should follow a precisely opposite
course of conduct.

If this were the case he felt sure he might regain his former influence by
a little dexterous management, and as a first step towards it, he resolved
to cultivate the friendship of her youngest brother. Had he known that he
was perfectly excluded from her regard by the double barrier of a very ill
opinion of himself, and a warm attachment to Mr. Howard, he might have
spared himself the trouble of the attempt.

Towards the end of the week a sort of gipsy party had been arranged to form
an expedition to a pretty park in the neighbourhood, which from the absence
of the owner was a frequent resort on such occasions. Mr. Morgan was not
originally asked to join it; but knowing what was going on, he presented
himself at the door of George Millar's house just before the company
started, and his expressions of regret at not having time to see more of
Sam speedily produced a very hearty invitation from Mrs. Turner, the
chaperone of the party, to accompany them; for, as she observed, "on such
occasions the more the merrier."

It was a very large party without him. Mrs. Turner and the two Millars,
four Watsons, for Jane was of the party, with Alfred Freemantle as her
escort, since her husband would not leave the office, two cousins of hers,
young ladies who had arrived the day before to grace Elizabeth's wedding,
Miss Bridge, and some young ladies, natives of the town: in short they
numbered fourteen without Mr. Morgan, but as ladies were in the majority he
was heartily welcomed by several of the party at least, if not by those
particular individuals whose favour he most desired.

How the whole of the party were disposed of in different vehicles, need not
now be particularised; there was variety at least in their equipages, and
the power of choice in arranging themselves. Sam was the charioteer of an
"inside Irish car," which of course amongst its passengers numbered Annie
Millar, and likewise Emma Watson; Mrs. Robert Watson; two young cousins,
completed this party, and apparently made any addition impossible; but one
of the girls, not liking to be entitled to only a fifth part of the
attention of any gentleman, suddenly abdicated her seat in favour of Mr.
Morgan, that she might enjoy the place of third in a gig, under the escort
of Alfred Freemantle. Nothing could have been more consonant to his wishes,
than this sudden piece of good luck which thus befell Mr. Morgan: his
gaiety was quite remarkable, but his judgment and tact, were still more so.
For he devoted himself at first to please the stranger, and do the honors
of the country to her; he was bent on making himself agreeable, but it was
in the most open and unsuspicious way. There was nothing of tenderness or
sentiment in his manners, nothing approaching to flirtation in his address
to Miss Hall, and to the others it was as perfectly correct, as if dictated
by Lord Chesterfield himself.

Annie, indeed, was too much engrossed by the driver to notice the intruder;
she had no attention to bestow on any one else; and had not the horse been
particularly quiet and sagacious, and the road remarkably smooth and
straight, it is by no means unlikely that their drive might have terminated
abruptly under some hedge, so much more was Sam himself occupied with the
lady behind, than the road in front of him. Neither Miss Hall nor Emma,
however, made any complaint of his coachmanship; for Emma, being opposite
to Annie, enjoyed the full benefit of her lively remarks; and whilst her
neighbour confined his attention to his <lang="fr"><i>vis-à-vis</i></lang>,
the proximity to him, in which she unexpectedly found herself, did not
discompose her at all, nor did she feel any impatience for the termination
of so agreeable a drive.

When they alighted in the park, which was the termination of their drive,
they found most of the company assembled before them, and separated into
groups strolling about on the borders of the artificial lake, a sail on
which was one of their projected pleasures. In consequence of this, these
five were left together to entertain each other, until the arrival of the
whole party enabled them to arrange their plans for the day's amusement.
The point of rendezvous was an ornamental boat-house, standing at one angle
of the lake, embowered in fir trees, and commanding a pretty view of the
opposite banks, which were high and woody. Miss Hall was, what was then
more rare than now, a sketching young lady: and her pencils were speedily
produced. But she could not bear inspection whilst taking her views, and
unceremoniously desired the other four to walk away.

It was a proof of Sam's great good-nature to Emma, that he continued with
her, and declined the tempting opportunity of securing a comfortable walk
with Annie Millar, that he might not leave his sister with no other
companion than Mr. Morgan. Perhaps Miss Millar might not entirely
appreciate this self-sacrifice on his part, or possibly might not thank him
for it, so much as Emma; certainly Mr. Morgan, who had calculated on a
different line of conduct, judging from the evident admiration which Sam
had previously testified for Annie, was very much disappointed at it. He
took care to keep close to Emma's side, ready to improve any opportunity
that might present itself; and thus they wandered about, without thinking
much of where they were going, or paying much attention to the really
pretty scenery around them. The consequence of this was, that they lost
their place in the boat, for being quite out of sight and hearing when it
was ready, their companions did not wait for them; and the intended sail
had so entirely escaped the memory of the quartet, that the first thing
which recalled it to their memory, was the sight of the boat, which caught
their eyes just us they gained the summit of an eminence commanding a view
of the whole sheet of water at their feet.

Sam expressed a hope that Miss Millar was not vexed at this incident. Annie
protested that for herself she did not care about it, but she should be
very sorry indeed, if she had beguiled Emma from sharing in any pleasure
she would have enjoyed.

Emma, on her side, was of opinion that they were much more comfortable as
they were; the boat seemed very much crowded, and she thought to be
squeezed in such a way that they could not move, nor even turn their heads
to contemplate the scenery, was not half so pleasant as sitting on the
green bank where they were resting so comfortably.

"In parties of this sort," said Mr. Morgan, "all depends on the company; an
uncongenial companion will spoil everything—even the finest landscape in
the world."

"Very true," replied Annie, quickly; "but how can one help that? One can
not say to a disagreeable person, 'Go away—you annoy and distress me!' One
can only smile politely and suffer internally."

"You, I dare say, can smile whilst annoyed," observed Sam, "but I never
can; whether I am happy or miserable, I show it immediately."

"Do you indeed," replied she, "I am sorry to hear that; I had been hoping
that the gloomy look and air of despondency with which you have treated us,
were your habitual manners, and might not really indicate the state of
intense suffering to which I suppose I must now attribute them."

"I am certain my looks have expressed my feelings accurately," replied he
sturdily.

"Very well, I shall set my imagination to work to invent some romantic
cause for the dejection of spirits which you display. You are, probably,
repenting over some lost patient, whose end you hastened by your surgical
arts."

"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."

"I believe," said he, after a momentary pause, "my feelings are deeper and
more permanent, than those of most people."

"Yours Mr. Morgan!" interposed Annie, amazed, "I had no idea you were
troubled with any thing of the sort—when did you first find out that you
had any feelings?"

"Have I ever given you cause to doubt it," enquired he, significantly.

"Why, to own the truth, though we have been so long acquainted," said she,
"I cannot say that I ever undertook to investigate the nature or extent of
your feelings on any subject. I had a sort of general idea that you had
some; but of what quality I should have been very much puzzled to say,
except that I certainly should <i>not</i> have thought of constancy as your
particular <lang="fr"><i>forte</i></lang>. However, I am willing to plead
total ignorance on the subject. Ignorance for which I alone am to blame,
arising from indifference and inattention."

"You need hardly remind me of that, Miss Millar," retorted he with mock
humility, "I am quite aware that I am too entirely an object of
indifference to you, for my feelings to be considered worth a moment's
attention."

He walked away, as he spoke, to a short distance, and seemed occupied in
viewing the landscape from the brow of the hill on which he stood, his
features expressing an appearance of wounded feelings struggling with
pride.

"You have hurt him, Annie," whispered Emma, "you are too severe."

"At least he wants to make us believe so," replied she softly, "but it's
all seeming—seeming—there is nothing real about that man."

"Now I rather like him," said Sam, "he seems so kind and friendly towards
me, I am quite indebted to him for the interest which he has taken in my
prospects, and the useful hints which he has given me."

"Did he recommend you to marry, Sam?" enquired Emma.

"I did not consult him on the subject, it is a point on which I should
neither ask nor take advice."

"Bravo, Mr. Watson—a most spirited determination. It is a point of so
little consequence indeed, and one in which your own experience must be so
calculated to guide you, that no doubt your intention to reject all advice,
is most judicious and praise-worthy."

"Are you of opinion that I am incompetent to act for myself in such a
case?" enquired he.

"I shall tell you as I did Mr. Morgan just now, I am ignorant and
indifferent on that subject—and now <i>you</i> can go and walk on the other
side of the hill—or if you think it will look more picturesque, by the side
of yonder angry gentleman."

"No, Miss Millar, your ignorance, and indifference shall not drive me from
you; I would rather try to enlighten the one and overcome the other."

This, though whispered softly, seemed to overpower her; she coloured
deeply; rose from the bank where they were sitting, and walked away to the
side of an adjoining thicket, where she employed herself in trying to
gather some brier roses from the hedge. Sam watched her for some minutes,
then perceiving that in stretching forward to grasp a blossom, her veil had
become entangled in a thorny shrub, he started up, and in a moment was at
her side to aid and release her.

Emma did not like to follow them, thinking she should be in the way, and
expecting that a few minutes would bring them back. In the mean time Mr.
Morgan looked round, and seeing her alone joined her. He still affected to
look hurt and sad, and Emma generously gave him credit for more feeling
than he deserved.

"That volatile girl—" said he, and then stopped.

"You must not mind what she says," suggested Emma kindly, "I am certain
she sometimes speaks without thinking, but never from malice or ill will,
even when she seems severe."

"She does not surprise me," replied he; "I am used to her ways, and there
is no change in <i>her</i>; she is always the same, it is vacillations of
friendship, variations of good opinion which I confess astonish and pain
me. And yet why should they—after all, the human mind is so liable to
error, so prone to seek misconstructions, so inclined to change and
variation, that nothing of the kind ought to surprise me."

She was determined to be silent, and occupied herself in wishing for the
return of her brother and Annie, who had strayed farther than she had
expected, and were now out of sight.

He was disappointed at her silence, and changed the subject into an enquiry
as to whether she should make a long stay at Croydon. She told him she was
only to remain until her sister's marriage, which would, as he knew, very
shortly occur.

"And then," said he, "may I ask where you are going—do you return to
Osborne Castle?"

"Certainly not," replied she decisively, "I do not think I am likely to go
there at all. Sir William and Lady Gordon have taken a house in the
neighbourhood of his own property, and if I visit them, it will be there."

"Then where will be your home?"

"At Burton, with Miss Bridge, for the present I believe."

"I trust <i>you</i>, with your talents and accomplishments, your taste and
your sensibility, are not doomed to pass your life as the companion of an
elderly lady, buried in an obscure country village, unknown and unadmired."

"There might be many worse positions in life, more disagreeable companions,
and more trying situations, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma with warmth.

"Forgive me if my interest for you has led me to express my feelings in an
unauthorised way. <i>I</i> cannot entirely forget the past, nor consign to
oblivion all that I once flatter myself was felt between us."

She could not exactly tell what to answer him, for she really hardly knew
what construction to place upon his words. He paused for a moment and then
resumed.

"Rumour was wrong then, when it asserted that there were ties in
contemplation, which would bind you closely to Osborne Castle—that, in
short, the young lord, doing justice to the merits which would grace a
higher rank, had sought to make you his wife."

"I am not engaged to Lord Osborne, if that is what you mean," said Emma
calmly.

"I had thought it strange indeed if a young man so unformed, so bearish, so
almost brutal, had known how to value, much more to win, a jewel so bright
and excellent."

"I must beg, Mr. Morgan, if you mention Lord Osborne's name at all, it may
be in terms such as I may listen to without offence. Pray remember that I
am under obligations to that family, for which it would be a bad return to
hear, without remonstrance, such aspersions cast on the head of it. But I
must confess I see no reason why either they or myself should form the
subject of your interrogatories. You have no claim either past or present,
which can make these enquiries anything short of impertinent, and I must
beg they may cease entirely."

She then walked a few steps to see if she could obtain any view of her
brother and friend, for whose return she felt anxious. Nothing, however,
was to be seen of them, and as she paused, her companion was again at her
side.

"How unfortunate I am," said he in a low tone, "it is constantly my fate to
offend those for whom I feel the deepest interest, and to be misunderstood
on every occasion where my sentiments are concerned. Interest, friendship,
zeal, constantly carry me beyond the bounds proscribed by cold custom and
formality, and I am repulsed in a way which all but annihilates me. At this
moment <i>you</i> are angry with me; have I sinned unpardonably?"

"I am not <i>angry</i>" said Emma, drily, "but I must beg that all personal
subjects of conversation may be dropped; we have neither sentiments nor
interests in common, and on all topics connected with feeling I must impose
a total silence."

"Unfeeling, cruel girl," cried he, then seeing that she resolutely walked
away in the direction of the boat-house, where she concluded the party must
be now assembled, he followed her steps in haste, and placing himself by
her side, he continued in a low but emphatic tone,

"Emma Watson, why should you scorn my offers of friendship, and my
professions of regard? Why should you shun me as if I were some dangerous
enemy? Do you mistrust my word; or am I responsible for the silly gossiping
of idle women? Did I not warn you against it?—why then visit it on me? Or
have I personally offended you?—what have I done?—you will not speak—you
try to elude me—nay, but you <i>shall</i> hear me; you <i>shall</i> answer
me by heaven!—Who has wronged me in your opinion?"

"Mr. Morgan, let go my hand—is <i>this</i> honourable?—is this manly to
attempt to obtain an answer to impertinent enquiries by compulsion?—Let go
my hand—I tell you I will neither hear nor answer you!"

"Emma, I was wrong—" said he, softening his voice, but instead of releasing
her hand, clasping it in both of his, "I ought to know you better—I
understand your heart and feelings—"

"You do no such thing, sir,—or you would not detain me here, or compel me
to listen to such language. Let me go—I command you."

"Emma, your heart is no longer your own—am I not right?—you <i>love</i>!"

"And if I do—what concern is that of yours?" retorted she.

"Of <i>mine</i>, it is everything in the world to me—you love
<i>me</i>—deny it if you can."

"Insolence!" exclaimed Emma, "unmanly insolence."

"No, it is not insolence, Emma, you look beautiful in scorn, but you need
not scorn <i>me</i>; I am your equal in birth and education—aye! and in
taste and mental qualities too—and happily possessed of the fortune which
<i>you</i> want. And I love you, and tender all to you. You have done what
no other woman ever did—for your sake I would even stoop to the yoke of
matrimony; so great is my love and admiration for you. Now have I said
enough—now you may venture to confess the feelings long treasured in your
heart—the love which I have long read in your downcast eye, and averted
smile—maiden modesty need no more compel you to silence—speak, <i>my</i>
Emma—bless me with the words I am longing, panting to hear."

He advanced one step nearer as he spoke, and seemed about to pass his arm
round her waist, but Emma availed herself of the movement to snatch her
hand from his, and stepping back, whilst she cast on him a look of
withering scorn, she replied,

"Yes, you <i>have</i> said enough, Mr. Morgan, to warrant <i>my</i>
speaking plainly—and I <i>will</i> speak—from what extraordinary perversion
of reasoning, you have persuaded yourself I loved <i>you</i> I cannot tell,
but I trust you will believe me once for all—when I say <i>my</i> feelings
are entirely the reverse of yours—and when I add—I <i>love</i> and am
<i>engaged</i> to another."

Mr. Morgan stepped back in his turn with an air in which disbelief and
bitter mortification struggled, with an attempt at indifference and
contempt.

"Engaged—impossible—Emma, you are deceiving me—it is a downright
falsehood!" exclaimed he.

"I must beg you to leave me," said she, haughtily. "I am not accustomed to
associate with those who accuse me of falsehood—I can find my way alone."

She had continued to walk on from the moment she had declared her
engagement, and she flattered herself she must be approaching the
boat-house, but as they had reached the low ground, and were making their
way amidst thickets intersected with narrow paths, they could not see the
building.

"And it is for this," he exclaimed, presently, "that I stooped to ask your
hand—that I humbled myself as I never before did to woman, to be scorned
and rejected—false-hearted girl—true type of your weak and vacillating
sex—leading me to believe you preferred me, that you might spurn me from
you with disdain!" he approached one step nearer as he spoke, and his face
wore a look of malignity which absolutely frightened Emma—he saw it.

"No, you need not shrink from me—I am not so mad as to do you harm; you are
safe under the protection of the laws. I would not risk my freedom for all
the girls in Surrey. But I must speak my feelings—"

He had no time, however, to say more, for hurried footsteps were heard
behind them, and in another moment Sam was beside his sister.

"My dearest Emma, I beg ten thousand pardons, but I was so sorry that I
left you—I assure you I had no intention of doing so—only—only—Annie Millar
persuaded me; but the moment we met some one whom she could join, I ran
back for you, and found you were gone—I am very sorry. You are not angry
with me?"

"No," said Emma softly; "but I am very glad you are come, dear Sam."

He felt her hand tremble under his arm, and looking in her face, perceived
she was very pale.

"You have walked too far, dear Emma," said he affectionately; "you wanted
my arm—how sorry I am. Why did not Morgan support you?"

He looked round, but the gentleman in question had taken another path and
was out of sight. Emma tried to speak, but instead of articulating words,
she only burst into tears, and astonished Sam by appearing on the verge of
a fit of hysterics.

He had too much sense to press for an explanation, but contented himself
with making her sit down, removing her bonnet and gloves, and supporting
her till she was calm again.

He then begged for some explanation of her emotion: she said she was
foolish: he admitted that was possible, but only if she refused him all
reasons for her conduct. She promised to be more explicit some other time
if he would only now give her back her bonnet, allow her to make herself
tidy, and rejoin the party.

These very reasonable requests could not be refused, and they returned to
the boat-house together, just as another division of their party entered it
likewise; consequently their appearance without Mr. Morgan created no
surprise or remark.

He returned a short time after, quite calm and happy in appearance, and
nothing on either side transpired to attract the attention of the company,
or give rise to the smallest surmise that anything unusual had occurred. It
was some comfort to have to deal with so complete an actor, one who would
betray nothing undesirable, by word or deed.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch18
CHAPTER XVIII.
.sp 2

After dinner Sam again drew Emma aside and would not be satisfied till he
had, by close questioning, extorted from her everything that had passed.
Nothing less than the exact words, so far as she could remember them, would
do for him; he supposed things twenty times worse than the truth, unless
she could assert, on her honour, the exact state of the facts. She was
quite miserable at telling him, because she could not get him to own what
he thought, or promise to take no further notice of the circumstance.
Instead of giving her the assurance she required, he sometimes laughed and
put her off with an evasive answer, sometimes frowned and resolutely closed
his lips—sometimes told her to go away for a foolish girl, and not meddle
with what did not concern her.

She was certain he meditated more than he would own, and her fears made her
apprehend that any demand for explanation or apology from Mr. Morgan, would
produce a quarrel which must end in a challenge. With wretched feelings she
returned to the party.

Here they found a rather noisy scene. Alfred Freemantle and Mr. Morgan,
having both elevated their spirits by the great quantity of bad wine which
they had imbibed at dinner, were trying to induce some of the young ladies
to accompany them in the boat, which was lying near the shore. The two Miss
Halls and Mrs. Robert Watson, were carrying on a half-romping opposition to
this plan, but evidently intending to yield their consent after a proper
opposition.

Alfred Freemantle accused them of being cowards, which the three ladies of
course denied.

"Come, then," cried Mr. Morgan, catching her hand and dragging Mrs. Watson
down the bank. "Come and shew that you trust me!"

George Millar turned to Sam, and said softly,

"Morgan is half drunk—can you not prevent your sister going with him."

"I have no influence with either," said Sam, coolly, "perhaps you could
dissuade her better than I!"

George followed her, and drawing her back, whispered something in her ear,
which was not communicated to the others, but which seemed to have some
effect upon her. She paused a moment, and then returning to the others
said,

"I think you are right, George Millar, it will not agree with me so soon
after dinner. I shall not go."

"And if you do not, Jane," said Miss Hall, "I am sure neither my sister nor
I shall venture—it would be quite improper without a chaperone."

"I think you are very wise," observed Miss Bridge, quietly.

"I know what it is," cried Alfred, "you think we cannot manage the boat,
but you are quite mistaken, as you shall see. I am not drunk, though you
think we are; we will go without you!"

As he said these words he sprang on board after Mr. Morgan, who was already
there, and they pushed off from the shore, and rowed a little way.
Presently two of the other young ladies called to them to enquire where
they were going.

Mr. Morgan replied that they were going to land on a little island opposite
to smoke a cigar—would they come?

The girls acceded to the proposition; and, contrary to the advice of the
whole party, persisted in their determination. The boat returned to take
them on board, and no sooner where they seated, than Alfred amused himself
by making the boat roll in the water, in order to frighten them. Had they
sat still, there would have been no danger—but in their alarm they both
started up, and catching hold of him at the same moment, they all three
fell heavily against the gun-wale and upset the boat at once.

A loud scream from the party on shore was, of course, the first effort of
their sympathy. The two other gentlemen simultaneously rushed into the
water, and without much difficulty, succeeded in rescuing the two
ladies—for the accident had happened so close to the shore, that it was not
out of their depth. Alfred Freemantle likewise rose, and scrambled towards
the bank, up which he crept a deplorable object.

The young women of course, excited the greatest sympathy, and none but
Emma, at the first moment, remembered that there had been a fourth person
in the boat. But she had kept her eyes on the place where he had sunk, and
saw, with horror, that there was no trace of him—he did not reappear.

"Mr. Morgan," she exclaimed, "what has become of him?"

Every one turned at the name, from the dripping objects round which they
had been crowding—ejaculations on every side were heard.

"True, Morgan! he has sunk—he is drowning! good heavens! can you do
nothing? Call for help! run for the boatmen!" and twenty other
exclamations.

"Watson, we must look for him," said George.

Sam's coat was off before he had done speaking.

"But we must be cautious," continued Millar, "he may be sunk in a hole, or
entangled in the weeds—the bottom is very foul."

"Where did he sink," cried Sam, "did any one see."

Emma pointed out, as well as she could, the spot where he had disappeared,
and watched, with breathless anxiety, whilst the two swam round and round,
and dived again and again. His hat was floating on the water at a little
distance; but no sign or trace of him appeared. One of the party had
summoned the boatmen, who, after much delay brought drags and hooks, and
having succeeded in righting the boat, they did their utmost to discover
the missing man; but they did not seem to have much expectation of success;
they said they knew it was a dangerous part of the bank; that there was a
deep hole just thereabouts, into which the gentleman had probably sunk, and
that many years ago, a similar accident having happened, had occasioned the
former owner of the place, to forbid boating there at all. But his son had,
for some years, allowed it, though they should not wonder if he were to
shut it up now from the public.

Their conjectures on the subject might have lasted a long time before any
one interrupted them, for the whole party were too horror-stricken to
speak. The dripping and the dry alike stood together in motionless
excitement, or intense anxiety, watching the result of their efforts. It
seemed impossible, that one but lately so full of life and spirit, one of
themselves—one who had for so long a time belonged to them, could have thus
suddenly disappeared without warning, and have left no vestige behind. It
was too horrible—to perish before their eyes, and from so trivial a cause.
For many minutes, the extremity of their feeling was shown by their total
silence; then, when the conviction was forced on them, that he was really
lost, hysterical sobs and screams were heard, especially from the two
girls, who had been the immediate cause of the accident, and who, shocked
at their own share of the misfortune, shivering with cold, convulsed with
horror, and in every way overcome, now demanded the attention of such of
the party, as had any sense or self-possession left.

Fortunately the carriages were at this moment announced, and the only
possible thing to do, as they were far from all assistance, was for the
sufferers to be wrapped in such cloaks as could be found amongst them, and
conveyed back to Croydon as speedily as possible.

Neither George nor Sam would consent to leave the place, whilst a shadow of
a hope remained that the body might be recovered, but they insisted that
their sisters should return home at once, as they proposed, when all was
over, if the search was unsuccessful, to walk to a public-house on the
outskirts of the Park, and dry themselves there, before returning to
Croydon. Emma had the presence of mind to propose that a carriage and a
supply of dry clothes should be despatched there to meet them, by the first
of the party that arrived at home.

Under the escort of Miss Bridge's manservant, instead of Sam, Elizabeth,
Emma, Annie, and Miss Hall, returned in the vehicle which had borne them so
gaily and light-hearted to the Park. But little conversation passed, and
the few words which were said, had no reference to the fatal event; it was
too recent and too shocking to speak of. To Emma, indeed, after what had so
lately passed between them, the circumstance seemed beyond description or
imagination terrible. The angry feelings with which they had parted, the
malevolence he had expressed, and the evident state of half-intoxication,
to which he had perhaps resorted to drown his disappointed feelings, and
conceal his chagrin and mortification, all seemed to rise up, as if to
reproach her conscience. Why had she been so scornful and so bitter;
perhaps, had she answered more mildly, had she shown less contempt and more
compassion, he might still have been alive, all this might not have
happened. It appeared like a horrid dream altogether, their angry
dispute—Sam's indignation, and her fears for him, and finally, Mr. Morgan's
sudden disappearance, all had passed so rapidly, that she could scarcely
feel it a reality.

One thing she was resolved—she would never join a large, mixed
pleasure-party again; it was impossible that real satisfaction could be
found in such society, and so far as her experience went, they seemed
always nothing but preludes to some heavy misfortune. It was a relief to
her to find herself once more at home in the Rectory at Croydon, alone in
her apartment, able to think without distraction, rest without
interruption, and cry without observation.

She was so completely worn out, that to sit down and indulge in a very
hearty flood of tears was the greatest relief imaginable.

Sam called at the Rectory on his return to the town, and saw her for a few
minutes. It was dark and the candles were not lighted, so she had ventured
down stairs to meet him.

"Any news?" enquired Mr. Bridge.

"Nothing," said he: then crossing the room to his sister, he whispered,

"Emma, you are avenged!"

She shuddered and did not answer.

.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch19
CHAPTER XIX.
.sp 2

The next day brought a pleasing change to the current of Emma's thoughts.
She was walking slowly under the old trees on the lawn, and was not aware
of any one's approach until an arm was suddenly clasped round her waist,
and she found herself obliged to submit to several very unceremonious
kisses from her lover, who had contrived as usual thus unexpectedly to meet
her.

"How you do startle one," cried she struggling to release herself. "I will
have you indicted for assault."

"<i>Tears</i>, Emma," said he looking at her attentively; "what are those
red eyes for?"

"You had better not ask questions," replied she, "lest you should hear
unpleasant truths."

"But I will ask questions, and you must answer me!" said he earnestly; "I
cannot let you cry without knowing the reason."

"But suppose there is none, what then?" suggested she playfully.

"Then I shall feel under the necessity of effacing the marks of your tears
in the best way I can," replied he.

She then relieved her mind and his feelings by telling him the whole
history of their yesterday's excursion and its termination, which led of
course to almost interminable references to past events, explanations and
details relative to Mr. Morgan himself, of all which until this moment he
had been profoundly ignorant. The slanders circulated relative to Emma, the
expedition of Lord Osborne to rebut them, and the trouble he had taken on
her account made a great impression on him, and he took a vehement dislike
to Croydon and everything connected with a place where Emma had been
exposed to such misrepresentations. Of course he would not admit that she
was in the least degree to blame for past events, or that she had showed
any undue severity towards Mr. Morgan—on the contrary, he thought she had
throughout been too lenient towards him; but this was an error arising from
the rare goodness of disposition which led her in so remarkable a degree to
tolerate the imperfections and weaknesses of those around her, of which her
attachment to himself was a conspicuous example.

He had some news to communicate in return for hers, which though not of
quite so tragical a nature, was to him a great disappointment.

The rectory house at Carsdeane proved to be in so extremely dilapidated a
state that, in order to make it at all a comfortable residence, Lord
Osborne proposed to rebuild it entirely. In the meantime there was no
suitable home for Emma, and he feared their marriage must be delayed at
least for some months, instead as he had hoped of taking place immediately.

This was a very great disappointment to them both. Emma had ventured to
hope that the Autumn would have seen her installed in a settled home, of
which she would be the mistress, and they tried very hard to persuade
themselves and each other, that it would not be more prudent and advisable,
to wait till Mr. Howard had a house to receive his bride. They might have
succeeded perhaps in thinking so themselves, but they could not induce
their friends to agree in the decision. On the contrary, like most friends
when two young people wish to marry, they all concurred in considering it a
very great advantage that they should wait a little.

And I am far from supposing them wrong in the idea. Taking into
consideration Emma's youth, for she was not yet quite twenty, and the
shortness of their acquaintance, which had as yet lasted barely six months,
I am of opinion that the delay even of a whole year would have been by no
means detrimental to their future happiness. It was perfectly natural that
both Mr. and Miss Bridge should adopt this idea, and I trust equally so
that since they urged it, Emma should yield to their prudent persuasions:
the more especially as appearing to yield at this time and agreeing to wait
a twelvemonth, would by no means preclude them from entirely changing their
minds in a couple of months time, in case they should see any occasion for
so doing.

As to any difficulty about Emma's home in the meantime, Miss Bridge
declared it could not exist, since her house was always open to her, and
she could regard her in no other light than as her adopted child. In vain
Mr. Howard remonstrated. Miss Bridge was so firm in her conviction that
Emma had better spend the next year in her house, and professed so much
satisfaction at the idea, that he at last declared, in despair, he was
certain it was for the sake of securing her company that Miss Bridge
interposed to prevent the marriage.

Before however the two disputants could settle their conflicting claims on
Emma's society, a new turn was given to the affair by the intervention of
her youngest brother. He should want a companion at Chichester, and it had
always been an understood thing he declared, that Emma was to live with him
till she married. She readily admitted the fact, and so it was settled; she
was to accompany him to Chichester immediately after Elizabeth's wedding,
and remain there as he said, "until they were tired of one another."

Howard yielded this point much more readily than the other. Carsdeane was
much nearer Chichester than Burton, and he could easily visit her there.
Besides his penetration led him to surmise that Sam would be soon desirous
of placing another person at the head of his establishment; that a sister's
society would not long content him, and that when this change took place,
he would probably be thankful to be relieved from the charge he was
undertaking. He thought it likewise a great advantage that she should be
removed entirely from Croydon for a time, and from the painful impressions
which he observed seemed still to haunt her. She had suffered so much
there, as he now began to understand, that he could not help wishing that
she should see the place no more; a wish in which she certainly did not
concur when she remembered it would be Elizabeth's future home.

The wedding that week was a very quiet one: the death of Mr. Morgan had
thrown a damp over the whole town from which it could not at once recover,
and no one felt inclined to indulge in festivities where he would be so
much missed. Accordingly everything was conducted in the simplest manner,
to the great disappointment of Mrs. Watson, who vowed it was hardly worth
putting on her new and handsome clothes, when there would be no one to see
her at Church.

It was some alleviation to her distress of mind however to remember that
they would be equally handsome and more interesting after the wedding was
over, and she should be able to appear in uncommon splendour, when
returning all the congratulatory visits on some subsequent occasion.

When all was over, and Mrs. George Millar and her husband had set out from
Croydon to make a short visit to London, which the bride had never seen,
Emma took an affectionate leave of Annie Millar, and returned to the
Rectory to prepare for her journey.

Sam remained a few minutes behind; it was only to ask Annie if she still
thought marriages as foolish as she had always declared them to be.

"Twenty times worse," said she, "they are not only foolish but sad, and I
shall consider myself particularly fortunate when this miserable day is
fairly over."

"What do you consider the worst part of the affair," enquired he, still
lingering.

"Oh the leave takings," said Annie hastily, "if Elizabeth had never married
you would all have stayed on here waiting for it, and we have been so happy
for this last week. Now you are going, and you must take Emma too!"

"And will you give me leave to flatter myself that you are sorry at my
going."

"I dare say you would not wait for my leave; men always take it for granted
that women sit down and cry when they leave them," said she saucily.

"I should certainly entertain no such expectation Miss Millar; I am aware
my profession renders me too unpleasant in your eyes for you to do
otherwise than rejoice at my departure."

"Upon my word you make me out to be a very rational young woman," replied
she; "when did I ever find fault with your profession, or express a wish
that you were other than what you are? Because I should never have chosen
the surgical profession myself is that any reason that I should detest a
man who did—or so long as you do not exercise your skill on me, or in my
presence, do you imagine I object to your exhibiting it elsewhere?"

"I had much rather you should detest my profession than consider it with
indifference, Miss Millar."

She only looked down and blushed, then holding out her hand, said in a
hurried manner,

"Good bye, I must go!" and left him, to his great disappointment.

If Sam felt discouraged by this sudden termination to his interview, the
feeling lasted no longer than till the receipt of Annie's first letter to
his sister after they were settled at Chichester; for there the allusions
and reminiscences were of a most flattering kind, and the frequent mention
of his name, and the manner in which it was introduced gave him very great
pleasure.

Emma became reconciled to Penelope's marriage when she saw how well she was
suited to her situation in life, and though she did not greatly admire her
brother-in-law, he was so very superior to Tom Musgrove, that she thought
her sister quite fortunate in comparison with Margaret. To forget
everything that had passed of an unpleasant nature previous to her marriage
was the wisest source which her friends could adopt; and it is so
exceedingly common that there should be something which requires
forgetting, that if the relatives of all married couples acted in the same
way, there would be a great deal more of unity in the world than at
present.

Before she had been resident at Chichester three months, two events
occurred, which effected a change in her plans. One, as Mr. Howard and many
others had foreseen, was the engagement of Sam and Annie, and preparations
for their speedy marriage. The other was more unexpected.

Her aunt, whose sudden and ill-advised marriage had originally deprived her
of her home, exasperated by the unkind and unprincipled conduct of her
young husband, quitted him abruptly; procured a separation, and as she
still retained the control of her income, he was left very much as he
deserved to be, no better off than when he made his mercenary marriage. She
returned to England, wrote to Emma, then came to her; was delighted with
Sam, with Mr. Howard, and with everything she learnt of their doings, past,
present, or future. She made Emma a magnificent wedding present, both in
money and clothes, and declared her determination of ultimately dividing
her fortune between her youngest nephew and niece. In the meantime, she
took an elegant mansion in the parish of Carsdeane, and insisted on the
marriage taking place immediately, and the young couple taking up their
residence with her, until the rectory house was prepared for them.

This advice was much too agreeable to be long resisted, and before Emma and
Mr. Howard had seen the anniversary of their first meeting, they were man
and wife.

Whether they ever repented the interference of Miss Bridge to delay, or of
Mrs. MacMahon to hurry the union, I leave entirely to the imaginations of
my readers to settle; satisfied with having done my duty in detailing
events as they really occurred.

There is but one more circumstance of any importance to relate; but that
is, that Lord Osborne, after Emma's marriage, joined a regiment abroad as a
volunteer—fought for some years in the Peninsular, and returned to England
about ten years after he had been refused by Emma, accompanied by his wife,
a very charming young Spanish lady, with whom he fell in love, because her
dark eyes reminded him of Mrs. Howard's.

He had forgotten the likeness long before he reached Osborne Castle; and no
one who saw Mrs. Howard when visiting the young bride, or watched his
devotion to Lady Osborne, could, for a moment, have imagined that Lord
Osborne's love could have had such a foundation.

I have nothing more to say of any of the party, and only trust that all who
read my tale, may be convinced, as I am, that prudence, gentleness, and
good sense, will secure friends under the most disadvantageous
circumstances; but that marriage alone, unless undertaken with right
feelings and motives, cannot be considered a certain recipe for worldly
happiness.

.sp 4
.ce
THE END.

.sp 4
.ce
<sc>T. C. Newby</sc>, Printer, 30, Welbeck-street, Cavendish-sq.

.pb
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<xl>MR. NEWBY'S NEW WORKS.</xl>

Now ready in Two Vols.

THE

<xl>LADY OF THE BED-CHAMBER.</xl>

A Novel. By <sc>Mrs.</sc> CRAWFORD.
.nf-
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above the ordinary standard of fashionable fictions that are still so
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<xl>OUR GUARDIAN</xl>.

A Novel. By <sc>Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel</sc>,
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Mrs. Daniel has already obtained by her former works, such as 'My sister
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It exhibits Mrs. Daniel's wonted elegance of style and pathos.—Spectator.

We must rank this production as one of the 'upper form,' of its
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<xl>SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE.</xl>

By the Author of 'Lady Granard's Nieces.'
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<xl>THE GOLDEN CALF.</xl>
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THE NEW CHRISTMAS TALE

<xl>CHRISTMAS SHADOWS,</xl>

A TALE OF THE DISTRESSED NEEDLEWOMEN.
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We have few Christmas books this season. The 'Shadows,' is the largest we
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It carries with it an excellent moral in favor of the working classes, and
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<xl>LIFE'S SUNSHINE.</xl>

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<xl>THE UNCLE'S LEGACY.</xl>

A Novel. <sc>By John B. TORR, Esq.</sc>
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In all his pages there is an honest, cordial, healthy English morality. The
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This novel possesses a merit to which few of the present day even pretend
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By the Author of 'Recollections of a French
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<xl>KINGSCONNELL.</xl>
A Novel. By <sc>Mrs.</sc> GORDON.
Author of 'The Fortunes of the Falconers.'
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Now ready. In three Vols.

THE
<xl>FOREST AND THE FORTRESS</xl>
A ROMANCE OF THE 19<sc>th.</sc> CENTURY

BY <sc>Miss</sc> LAURA JEWRY.

Author of 'The Ransom,' 'The Vassal,' &c.
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This is the best romance we have read since the days of Sir Walter Scott.
The scene in which it is laid is new to the English reader, and there is in
the portraiture of its principal characters all the freshness of
originality. We doubt if any one, even the most hackneyed of novel and
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feeling deeply interested in the progress of the tale, and anxious to
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conviction that the plot, which makes the work a romance, is the only thing
that takes it out of the range of history; for its incidents are facts to
which only new names are given. Its portraiture of manners and of classes
as they exist in Servia is as correct as that given of England in the reign
of Richard Cœur de Lion, in Ivanhoe. Thus forewarned that a new and
eventful period in the history of a strange country and an extraordinary
people is embodied in this romance, the public is invited to its perusal.
We can assure them that it will be found well worthy of their attention,
and our only regret is, that we cannot spare space for even a single
extract from this truly affecting and interesting romance.—Morning Herald.

One of the finest, most powerful, most truthful romance of the age.—The
Naval and Military Gazette.

The great act of the opening is intensely striking, and colours all the
future.... There is general simplicity. No effort to be fine, or
sentimental, or pathetic. The 'Forest and the Fortress' a genuinely good
historical novel, and does infinite credit to a female pen. We recommend it
as one of the best of its order: keeping close to the realities and truths
of history, and most ingeniously and skilfully impregnated with inventive
charms, to render those realities and truths, dramatically
popular.—Literary Gazette. 
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In Three Vols. 8vo., price 31s. 6d.,
<xl>RIZZIO.</xl>
EDITED <sc>By</sc> G. P. R. JAMES, <sc>Esq.</sc>
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We have read it with a pleasure in which method and reason have as much
share as imagination. It is more readable than ninety-nine hundredths of so
called historical novels.—Athenæum.

The author must have read a great deal to enable him to acquire the
information, paint the portraits, dress up individual traditions in the
clever fashion he has reached in his "Rizzio"—the volumes are, in every
respect, curiosities of literature.—Literary Gazette.

A most valuable and interesting publication, valuable to the scholar, who
is well acquainted with the history of the times of which it treats, and
interesting to all who read merely for amusement.—Morning Herald.

"Rizzio" is a curious work. The author has read a good deal upon the
history of the period in which he lays his story, and looked into its
habits and manners. There is a certain imitation of reality about it, which
really carries the reader along.— Spectator.

These volumes will be read with avidity.—Economist.
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In Three Vols.
<xl>MATERNAL LOVE.</xl>

A Novel. <sc>By Mrs. LOUDON</sc>.
.nf-

A most amusing book.—Athenæum.
.ni

.pb
.sp 4
.ul
.it Transcriber's Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it A few cases of inconsistent spelling were regularized. 
.it p. 223: Rosa changed to Fanny ("You give me more credit than I deserve \
 a great deal, Fanny;) 
.if h
.it With the view of producing a project containing all three volumes, a \
Table of Contents was added. 
.if-
.ul-
.ul-