.dt The Younger Sister Vols 1-3, by Mrs. Hubback--A Project Gutenberg eBook
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THE YOUNGER SISTER.
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A Novel
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BY
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Mrs. HUBBACK,
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VOLUMES 1-3.
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LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER
30, WELBECK St., CAVENDISH Sq.
1850.
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TO THE MEMORY OF HER AUNT,
THE LATE JANE AUSTEN,
THIS WORK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
BY THE AUTHORESS
WHO, THOUGH TOO YOUNG TO HAVE KNOWN
HER PERSONALLY,
WAS FROM CHILDHOOD TAUGHT TO
ESTEEM HER VIRTUES,
AND ADMIRE HER TALENTS.
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Aberystwith
Feb. 1850.
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CONTENTS || #Volume I:vol1#
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#CHAPTER I:v1ch01#
#CHAPTER II:v1ch02#
#CHAPTER III:v1ch03#
#CHAPTER IV:v1ch04#
#CHAPTER V:v1ch05#
#CHAPTER VI:v1ch06#
#CHAPTER VII:v1ch07#
#CHAPTER VIII:v1ch08#
#CHAPTER IX:v1ch09#
#CHAPTER X:v1ch10#
#CHAPTER XI:v1ch11#
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CONTENTS || #Volume II:vol2#
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#CHAPTER I:v2ch01#
#CHAPTER II:v2ch02#
#CHAPTER III:v2ch03#
#CHAPTER IV:v2ch04#
#CHAPTER V:v2ch05#
#CHAPTER VI:v2ch06#
#CHAPTER VII:v2ch07#
#CHAPTER VIII:v2ch08#
#CHAPTER IX:v2ch09#
#CHAPTER X:v2ch10#
#CHAPTER XI:v2ch11#
#CHAPTER XII:v2ch12#
#CHAPTER XIII:v2ch13#
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CONTENTS || #Volume III:vol3#
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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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THE YOUNGER SISTER, VOL I.
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CHAPTER I.
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The Reverend John Watson, who, for the space of twenty years, was the
incumbent of the village of Winston, had not always been such an
indolent invalid as he appeared to those who only knew him during the
last ten years of that time. When he was inducted into the living, he
was a husband and the father of five children; a sixth was very shortly
added to their nursery; and, for several years after her birth, Mrs.
Watson's activity, good judgment, and influence with her husband,
preserved, for him, the esteem and respect of his parishioners, and the
character amongst his acquaintance, of a very kind and attentive
neighbour, and a most highly respectable parish priest. But, with her
life, his energy seemed to depart; he became indolent from sorrow;
shunning society—shrinking from exertion—and confining himself to what
was absolutely unavoidable of his duties. This line of conduct, begun
from grief, which seemed to prostrate his mental strength, was continued
from self-indulgence, long after the poignancy of the grief was worn
away, and it ended in really entailing the ill-health—from which, he
had, for sometime, pleased himself with fancying that he suffered.
Frequent attacks of the gout, disabled him from much exertion, and often
confined him to his room for weeks together.
In the meantime, his family grew up with almost every disadvantage that
could attend them. Motherless, and unchecked by their father, his
girls—at least, the three eldest—were left entirely to their own
guidance and discretion, or indiscretion, to speak with more propriety;
and the sons were early sent out, to fight their own way in the world,
without the softening influence of domestic ties, or the memory of a
happy home to warm their hearts and strengthen their principles.
The only one of the family who could be said to have received a good
education, was the youngest daughter, Emma—who, on her mother's death,
was begged of her father by his brother-in-law, and brought up by him
and his wife, as tenderly as if she had been their own. He was a wealthy
man; and by her own family, when they thought of her at all, she was
generally considered with something like envy—excepting by her eldest
sister, who had been too fond of her as an infant, not to rejoice in her
removal to a better home. It was considered as indisputable by the
others, that she was uncommonly lucky; since, beyond doubt, her uncle
would leave her handsomely provided for; and the only question on that
subject, which was debated with much anxiety, was, whether he ought not
to divide his wealth equally amongst them all, or whether the eldest son
should inherit the greatest share. Mr. Robert Watson, the expectant
nephew, was an attorney at Croydon and his flourishing business, joined
to his great expectations from his rich uncle, had proved overpowering
attractions to a young lady in that neighbourhood, to whom he had been
united for several years, when the death of his uncle occurred. Had the
greedy anticipations of the nephew, or the selfish hopes of his vain
wife, been the only disappointed feelings on the occasion, nobody, but
themselves, would have much cared. But Mr. Pearson, in his will,
trusting much more to the steadiness of his wife, and less to the
affection of his niece, than either deserved, left the whole of his
property in the widow's power. He intended, perhaps, by this measure, to
secure to her the respect and attention of his sister's children, whose
interest it thus became to keep on good terms with their aunt; and was
very far from anticipating the catastrophe that ensued. Instead of
acting the part of an indulgent aunt, or of a patronising and tyrannical
one, Mrs. Pearson took an active part to obliterate all trace of the
connection, by bestowing her hand, and her first husband's property, on
a handsome but poor young Irishman; and, on her shortly after quitting
England, to visit his relatives, she kindly gave Emma leave to return to
her father's house, with a generous present of fifty pounds to be
divided between her and her sisters.
At the period of her return home, Emma found her two younger sisters
were absent; and the affectionate warmth with which Elizabeth Watson
received her, joined to the silence of her father on the mortifying
subject of her aunt's marriage, did great good to her heart and
feelings. The painful sensations which the union in question had
occasioned her, were quite as strong as the indignation, and far more
amiable than the disappointment, which had been experienced by other
members of her family. She had loved and revered her uncle, and would
not, even to herself, admit that he had been unjust, hardly even
injudicious in the disposition of his property. But she had, also, loved
her aunt; and the memory of old obligations, and gratitude for
long-continued kindness, struggled painfully with less agreeable
feelings. So far as her own loss of fortune was concerned, she did not
consider it worth a regret: having been early accustomed to the luxuries
of a handsome income, she had not the smallest practical knowledge of
what poverty is; and, therefore, with the generous indifference natural
to an amiable and liberal mind, she would have felt no resentment, had
this been the only evil attending the marriage. But the fear that her
aunt was bringing unhappiness on herself, by her injudicious choice; the
certainty that she was rendering herself an object of contempt or
ridicule; and the disappointment to her own affectionate heart in being
thus cast off for a stranger, though each bitter in itself, were
altogether easy to bear, compared with the glaring disrespect to her
beloved uncle's memory, which these hasty nuptials testified. This cut
her to the heart; and perhaps it was the silent reproach which her looks
conveyed that made Mrs. Mac Mahon so very desirous that Emma should
cultivate an acquaintance with her own family, from whom she had been
too long separated. With the strong feelings of a warm and youthful
mind, not yet versed in the fleeting nature of every human woe, she
deemed this a grief which time might soften, but could never quite heal;
and though rejoicing at the prospect of meeting with her sisters, and
cultivating an unremitting and unfading affection for them, she was
convinced that she never should quite got over the disappointment her
aunt had caused her.
The Christmas assembly was fast approaching, and Mrs. Edwards had, as
usual, invited one of the Miss Watsons to accompany her family to the
ball. The absence of Penelope and Margaret prevented there being any
indecision as to which should be the fortunate individual. Mr. Watson
could not be left quite alone, and Emma having never been to a ball,
Elizabeth, without hesitation, decided in her favour.
For the first day or two that it was in contemplation, Emma, true to her
pre-arranged hopeless despondency, took little interest in the prospect;
and though strongly feeling her sister's good nature, and, for her sake,
trying to seem pleased, would really have given up her place without a
sigh, to any individual who desired it. But the interest of preparing
her frock, arranging her ornaments, and settling the minute details of
the toilette, had the same irresistible attraction for her, that they
would have for nine girls out of ten, and when the important afternoon
arrived, she was in a very pleasant state of excitement on the subject.
"You will find the Edwardses very agreeable people," said Elizabeth to
her, as they drove slowly from the parsonage along the lane, now splashy
and deep with November mud. "I assure you, they live in very good style;
the door will be opened by a man-servant, and their dinner is sure to be
handsome."
"What sort of person is Mr. Edwards?" enquired Emma, who began to have a
little palpitation, at the idea of being left quite amongst strangers.
"Oh, you need not mind him," said her sister, "you will see him at
dinner, and he will ask you to take wine; and he will eat a great many
filberts after dinner, and offer you some gingerbread; but you need not
take it if you don't like; Mary Edwards makes it on purpose for her
father, who eats it every day. Mr. Edwards will play at cards all the
evening at the ball, and if he wins you will stay late, and he will be
quite good tempered; but if he has ill-luck, he will hurry you home very
early. However you will be sure of some comfortable soup afterwards; and
if he is cross, you had better say nothing, and go to bed as soon as you
can!"
"I will be sure and remember it," observed Emma.
"As the party from Osborne Castle are expected," continued Elizabeth, "I
dare say it will be a very good ball; I am sure you will be very much
admired; how I should like to be there myself!"
"Well, Elizabeth, I am sure you shall go instead of me; it would be much
better, as you know everybody, and I am quite a stranger.
I could send John over with your things if you staid in my place; I
should not be at all afraid of driving this steady old thing back to
Winston by myself; and as to our father, I dare say I could amuse him.
Do you know I really think you had better settle it so."
"My dearest Emma," cried Elizabeth warmly, "how excessively good-natured
of you; but I could not do such a thing for the world, though I shall
always remember your making the offer. Keep you from your first ball
indeed; when you are so sure of being so much admired! oh no, it is only
fit that you should have your turn of pleasure, and I would not hinder
you."
"But indeed, dear Elizabeth, I should not care about it, I am sure, in
comparison with you, so you need not mind that!"
"But indeed I could not think of such a thing; and besides, my principal
wish would be to see you there. I am sure you will enjoy it.
Offer to give up a ball at nineteen, and your first ball too; I wonder
when Pen or Margaret would think of such a thing: I am sure I
should never have forgiven any one who kept me from a ball at
your age. But if my father seems pretty well, and can spare me, I really
think I would wrap myself up, and make John drive me over to join you
there; I could easily do that you know."
"What! drive over in this pony-chaise, Elizabeth?" said Emma, much
surprised.
"Yes, why not! I suppose you have been so used to a coach, as to
think that impossible: but, my dear Emma, I am afraid you are too
refined to be happy with us!"
"Too refined!" said Emma, "what do you mean?"
"Why that is just an example,—you are not used to make shifts, and be
put about; and are shocked at such an idea; it will not answer, I assure
you, it will not make you happy."
"I am sorry you see anything to find fault with, Elizabeth; I did not
know I was refined; it is natural to me; I only think and feel like the
people I have been used to," and she sighed at the thought of her uncle
and aunt.
"I dare say that is very true; but it will not do here; how Pen would
laugh at you; you have no idea how she ridicules everything not just
like herself. So you had better get over it as fast as you can!"
"I will do my best," sighed Emma.
"I should not wonder if Tom Musgrove were to dance with you, he
generally notices every new girl, especially if they are pretty. But I
should not like you to be caught by him."
"Who is he? I never heard you mention him."
"Oh, he is a young man of independent property who lives near here; and
one of our pleasantest young men too; but I must warn you against him,
Emma; he has a way of paying attentions to young girls, and he is so
pleasant they all like him; so when he has made one desperately in love,
he flies off to somebody else, and does not mind what hearts he breaks."
"What a despicable character," cried Emma warmly, "you need not fear my
liking him after that."
"I assure you," returned Miss Watson, "he is very agreeable, and
I defy any girl to whom he tries to recommend himself, not to find him
agreeable. Almost every girl in this neighbourhood except myself, has
been desperately in love with him at one time or other. Margaret was his
last object, but though he has not paid her much attention for these six
months, she is perfectly persuaded that he is as much attached to her as
she is to him; and this is the second time since last spring that she
has gone to stay a month at Croydon, in the hopes of his following and
proposing to her. He never will however."
"And how came you to escape?" enquired Emma with interest.
"Really I can hardly tell; I think at first I was so taken up with the
affair with Purvis, and my disappointment there, that I thought little
about Tom Musgrove."
"To whom do you allude?" said Emma, "I do not at all understand you?"
"Did you never hear about that!" said Elizabeth with surprise, "perhaps
you were thought too young to be trusted; but I will tell you now. I was
engaged to him; he was a very nice young man, and it would have been a
very good match for me—and what do you think prevented it?"
"I am anxious to know, Elizabeth, but cannot guess!"
"It was Penelope—yes, it was really Pen, she said; and did things which
caused the rupture—and Purvis left me!"
Emma looked much shocked.
"I can hardly believe it: your own sister; it seems quite impossible
that any girl could be guilty of such treachery: what could be her
motive!"
"Oh, she wanted to marry him herself—Pen would do anything in the world
to be married—that is what she is gone to Chichester about now—did you
not know that?"
"Gone about?" repeated Emma looking puzzled—"what do you mean, how can
she be gone to be married?"
"Don't you know that," again exclaimed
Elizabeth, "though, to be sure, I do not see how you should, as nobody
could have told you. I believe there is some old doctor there whom she
is bent upon marrying. He is quite an old man, asthmatic, and all sorts
of bad things: the friend she is staying with, however, thinks it would
be a very good match for her, as he would make her a handsome
settlement, and could not live long. I am not at all in her confidence,
however, and have only a general notion of how things go on; I just hear
what she tells Margaret, or what she lets out accidentally. I believe
they think everything going on very prosperously now, and, perhaps, she
may soon be married to him. I am sure I hope she will."
"Oh, Elizabeth, do you think she could be happy with an old asthmatic
man? and marrying from such mercenary motives," cried Emma, half
horrified.
"Really I do not know," replied Miss Watson quietly, "whether she
would be happier or not; but I am sure we should.
I wish with all my heart Pen and Margaret both were married; for
Margaret is so peevish, there is no peace unless one lets her have her
own way; and Penelope would rather have quarrelling going on than
nothing. Now I think you and I could live together very comfortably,
Emma; and really I would rather the others were married than myself."
"Yes, I can easily believe that," returned Emma, "having once loved, and
been disappointed, I can understand your not caring about any one else."
"I do not know that that would make any difference," returned
Miss Watson. "Poor Purvis, I certainly was very sorry to lose him; and
really suffered very much at the time; but it would be a very pleasant
thing to be well married; and, I believe, scarce any body marries their
first love."
"I would rather do anything than marry for money," observed Emma, "it is
so shocking. I would rather be teacher at a boarding school."
"I have been at school, Emma, which you have not, and know what a school
teacher is—such a life—I would rather do anything than that!"
"But to marry without love—that must surely be worse," persisted Emma.
"Oh, I would not marry without love, exactly; but I think I could easily
love any tolerably good-tempered man, who could give me a comfortable
home. I am sure I would make any body a good wife; unless they were very
cross. But your idea of loving is just another of your
refinements, Emma; and only does for rich people who can afford such
luxuries."
Emma did not reply; but presently said—
"I think there is only one Miss Edwards, you told me."
"Oh yes, Mary Edwards is the only daughter; and I wish you particularly
to observe who she dances with; whether she is much with the officers,
especially if Captain Hunter is very attentive to her. I must write to
Sam soon, and he will be anxious to hear—"
"Why should he care?" enquired Emma.
"Because, poor fellow, he is very much in love with her himself—and he
begged me to watch for him, and let him know what chance he has—I must
say, I do not think he has any at all; and even if Mary liked him, her
father, and certainly her mother, would not encourage it. If Sam were
set up for himself even, as an apothecary, I do not know that they would
let her think of him; but being merely an assistant to a country doctor,
I am sure he ought to have no hopes."
"Poor fellow," said Emma, "you think he loves her, do you?"
"Oh yes, I have no doubt of his love being very strong; he is
always writing about her, and, when he comes home, trying to see her:
however, he says now, he does not mean to see her again, unless he gets
some decided encouragement; or else he might have tried to come here and
meet her at this ball: he will not ask for a day at Christmas, unless I
send him a good account."
"Well, I will be sure to observe," replied Emma.
No more conversation could pass between the sisters, as they had reached
the outskirts of the town; and the noise of the carriage wheels on the
rough pitching of the street, made all attempts to be heard quite
fruitless. Elizabeth whipped and urged on the old horse into something
like an animated trot, and they soon were threading their way between
the carts of cabbages, and turnips—waggons of hay—stalls of cattle, and
sheep—old women with baskets—young women with fine gowns—boors with open
mouths, and idle boys and girls with mischievous fingers congregating in
the untidy market-place of a small country town. Having successfully
crossed these, and escaped without accident, though not without some
apprehension on Emma's part, they proceeded along the High Street in
safety, until the house of Mr. Edwards was reached. Elizabeth certainly
expected Emma to be somewhat impressed with the grandeur of this, the
principal residence of the town; but the bright red-brick house created
no peculiar sensation in her mind, though she saw it was one story
higher than the neighbouring buildings. The dark green door, glittering
brass knocker, and snow white steps, were likewise considered by Emma as
things of course, being unaware that they testified to the wealth and
taste of the proprietor, and when their knock was answered by a footman
in livery, as Elizabeth had foretold, she was yet so entirely ignorant
as to regard him without emotion, or entertain any feeling of extra
respect for his master.
They found Mrs. and Miss Edwards sitting together—the father, of course,
was at his office and not likely to appear till dinner time. Mary
Edwards was a pleasing looking girl, though the curl papers, which were
a part of her preparation for the evening, did not improve her
appearance. Her manner was rather reserved, but less so than that her
mother—whose formal stiffness was so great, that Emma almost fancied
herself an unwelcome guest; and felt so uncomfortable and frightened, as
to be more than half inclined to accompany Elizabeth home again. When,
after sitting a short time, the latter rose to depart, leaving her
sister with a sinking heart, Mrs. Edwards tried to be agreeable,
enquired how Emma liked their country—whether she walked much—and if she
usually enjoyed good health—to all which questions, Emma returned
answers as coherent and intelligible as could be expected from a person
whose thoughts were fixed on another subject. Her mind was involved in a
labyrinth of wonder, as to the reason why Mrs. Edwards had so far
punished herself as to have invited one to whom she seemed so very
unfriendly.
After half an hour of this unpleasant intercourse, the ladies went up
stairs to dress; and as the two girls were now together, without the
mother's cold looks to distress them, they soon became more easy and
intimate. The little cares of the toilette—the assistance they mutually
afforded each other—the interest thereby raised, quickly dispersed the
apparent coldness of Mary Edwards' manner; and she even ventured to
observe to Emma, that she thought her like her brother. It was easy to
guess which brother she meant, and Emma did not force her to
particularise; but as Miss Edwards turned away directly after uttering
this, and bent over a drawer to search for something, which she never
found, it was impossible to decide as to the degree of her blushing; but
Emma thought, at the moment, her companion looked so very pretty and
lady-like in her ball-dress, that she felt no surprise at her brother's
predilection.
Mr. Edwards joined them at dinner; and, whilst he was helping the soup,
he repeated the observation, which his daughter had previously and
privately made, that Miss Emma Watson was very like her brother.
Mrs. Edwards coolly replied she did not see it.
"We are very well acquainted with your brother, Mr. Sam." resumed Mr.
Edwards. "He usually dines with us, when he is at home."
Emma did not know exactly what to answer, but Mrs. Edwards took up the
subject in her peculiarly cold manner, and observed:
"It is, now, many months since we have seen anything of Mr. Sam
Watson—though, I believe, he did dine with you, Mr. Edwards, whilst
we were at Bath, last year."
Mary's cheeks became of a decidedly deeper shade of pink during this
discourse, but she ate her soup without speaking.
"I hope he was well, when you heard of him last," persisted Mr. Edwards,
seeming, in a very husband-like way, bent on continuing the conversation
which his wife desired to stop.
"I do not think my sister has heard, since I have been at Winston,"
replied Emma.
"Young men in business, have not much time for idle correspondence,"
observed the elder lady, so much as if she thought Miss Watson
ought not to have received a letter, that Emma ventured to
observe she supposed that was the reason.
Mr. Edwards did not, any further, provoke his wife by persevering on
this subject, and the rest of the dinner passed calmly and uneventfully
away.
Mrs. Edwards, anxious to secure a comfortable seat by the fire, was
determined to be, as usual, very early in the ball-room—and her husband
was roused from his after-dinner nap, to accompany them—which he
unwillingly did; after settling his cravat and arranging his wig at the
glass, which surmounted the drawing-room chimney-piece. The coach
conveyed them very safely to the assembly rooms in the Red Lion; and as
they were mounting the stairs in the dark, for they were so early that
the lamp in the lobby was not lighted, the door of a bed-room was
suddenly opened, and a young man appeared in dishabille.
"Ha! Mrs. Edwards!" said he, "early, as usual! you always take care to
be the first in the field. When you come, I know it is time for me to
dine; but I think I must dress first—don't you think so?"
Mrs. Edwards replied by begging they might not interrupt him in so
necessary an occupation; and, with a formal bow, passed on—looking round
anxiously to see whether her two young charges were following.
"Do you know him?" whispered Mary.
"No," replied Emma, in the same tone.
"It is Tom Musgrove," said Miss Edwards, a little louder, as they
advanced further from the vicinity of his apartment.
"Mr. Musgrove," said her mother, with a peculiar emphasis.
Mary blushed and was silent.
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CHAPTER II.
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They entered the ball-room; it looked very cold and very dull; the
candles as yet hardly lighted, and the fires yielding far more smoke
than heat. Over one of these several officers were lounging; Mrs.
Edwards directed her steps to the other, and seated herself on the
warmest side; her two companions found chairs near her, Mr. Edwards
having left them at the door of the ball-room, to seek out his old
associates at the whist-tables. But it was all so new to Emma, that she
did not feel any of the annoyance at their early appearance with which a
more experienced young lady would have been afflicted. Everything
interested her happy mind, and she even felt amused in ascertaining the
number of lights, and listening to the scraping of the fiddles tuning in
the orchestra. They had not been seated many minutes, when they were
joined by a young officer, whom Emma immediately guessed to be Captain
Hunter, and from the pleasure which the quiet Mary demonstrated at his
addresses, she augured unfavourably for her brother's prospects.
She could not, however, accuse Mrs. Edwards of looking more kindly on
the gay soldier than she seemed to do on the doctor's assistant: and had
it been Sam himself, he could hardly have received a more frigid
recognition than the formal and ungracious bow, which Emma witnessed.
Captain Hunter showed no symptom of discouragement, but continued a low
but eloquent conversation with Mary, the only part of which intelligible
to her companions was an engagement for the first two dances; for these
were the days of country dances, before quadrilles, waltzes, and polkas
had changed the face of the ball-room. There must certainly be some
connexion between the style of dress and the style of dancing prevalent
in any particular generation. The stiff ruffs, the awful long waists and
formal boddices of Elizabeth's reign were quite in keeping with a
stately pavan; the loose attire and complete undress adopted by the
courtly beauties of Charles the Second may be considered characteristic
of the elegant but licentious style pervading their dances. The minuet
matched well with the buckram, and rich brocade, and high head-dress
which marked the era of the earlier Georges; whilst powder and hoops of
course disappeared under the influence of the merry country-dance and
cotillion. Perhaps at the present time the dresses, like the dances,
partake more of the character of the latter Stuarts—graceful and
bewitching; the habiliments full and flowing, the steps vivacious but
tending to giddiness, with a near approximation to romping, and a great
risk of inducing a faux-pas, or even a serious
fall.
But all this is a digression from my story, and cannot possibly have
passed through my heroine's mind, since, sixty years ago, the liveliest
fancy would have never pictured an English ball such as we now see it.
The accessions to the company at first few and at great intervals, so as
to allow Emma time to notice the dress, manners, and appearance of each
individual, gradually became so much more numerous, as to prevent her
seeing or observing more than half of them. Dancing, however, was
delayed because the Osborne Castle party were expected, and the
stewards, of course, were waiting for Miss Osborne to open the ball.
At length, a bustle in the assembly-room called Emma's attention to the
door, from a very remarkable dress which she had been for some minutes
contemplating, and the important group made their appearance. Mary
pointed them out to her young companion: there was Lady Osborne, with
her splendid diamond necklace; her son and daughter, and her daughter's
friend, Miss Carr; her son's late tutor, Mr. Howard, his sister, and her
little boy, a child apparently about six years old. The last mentioned
lady, a widow with pleasing manners and a very agreeable countenance,
happened to seat herself near Emma, whose attention was speedily called
to the little boy, by the extreme impatience he evinced for the dance to
begin. His mother, turning to a friend beside her, observed,
"You will not wonder that Charles is so eager for his first dance, when
you hear how he is to be honoured; Miss Osborne has promised to dance
with him herself, which is very good-natured."
"Oh yes," cried Charles, "she has promised to be my partner ever since
Saturday, indeed as long as I knew I was coming to the ball."
Just at this moment, Miss Osborne stepped hastily forward, and
addressing the little boy in a hurried manner, said:
"Charles, I am very sorry, but I find I cannot keep my engagement with
you this time; I must dance with Colonel Miller, but another time, the
next dance, perhaps, will do just as well for us I dare say."
She then hastened away, without waiting to witness the effect of her
communication on the little fellow, whose hopes and enjoyment seemed to
vanish together. Disappointment was painted on every feature, and his
swelling heart appeared about to prompt a shower of tears, with which a
proud desire to appear manly was maintaining an ineffectual struggle.
His mother, who seemed little less distressed, endeavoured to soothe his
grief, and held out vague hopes of better luck another time; when
Emma, who really pitied him, and was quite interested by the appearance
of both, said with the most obliging air:
"If you will accept me as a substitute for Miss Osborne, sir, I shall be
most happy to dance with you the two next dances."
It would be difficult to tell, of the mother or son, which countenance
looked the brightest, or whose eyes showed the greatest pleasure at this
kind offer: and the couple took their place in the dance with equal
satisfaction, Emma being perfectly contented with her juvenile partner,
whilst he was all anxiety to acquit himself well to do her honor, and
especially intent on running his fingers as far as possible into the
points of the new gloves which he had received from his mother on
quitting her side, with sundry injunctions to keep them on.
Emma had been much amused when the Osborne party entered, to see Tom
Musgrove accompanying them; having, no doubt, from the knowledge she had
previously acquired, of his having been long in the house, that he had
been waiting outside the door, in order to join them, and appear as if
he formed one of their party. She now discerned him standing opposite to
herself by the side of Lord Osborne; who, she learnt from casual remarks
amongst ladies near her, never danced himself, and was now preventing or
dissuading Tom Musgrove from doing so either. Lord Osborne was a
remarkably plain young man, barely endowed with the air of a gentleman,
and it seemed to observers, as if the time spent in the ball-room were
one of actual penance to him. His principal occupation appeared to
consist in regarding Emma with a broad, unmitigated stare, which rather
disconcerted her, and made her exert herself to converse with Charles,
that she might not seem to mind it. It was not easy for her to decide
what drew his attention so fixedly on herself; she thought, perhaps,
that he wondered at her presumption in standing up with one of his
party; or that he was criticising her style of dress; or censuring her
dancing; she wished with all her heart that he could find some other
subject for his speculation, and was quite relieved at the gradual
change of place which dancing produced. Charles was very happy, and
spoke his feelings in rather an audible whisper, when addressing Mr.
Howard, as that gentleman was passing near him, he said:
"Oh, do look, Uncle Howard, at my pretty partner, I do really think she
is the prettiest girl in the room," an opinion which Mr. Howard himself
did not seem inclined to controvert, though his answer was more
cautiously and softly given.
"Upon my word, Charles," said Miss Osborne, as she gave him hands
across; "you are in high luck; I am sure you have gained by the
exchange," an assertion to which, had Charles been a few years older, he
would have replied with less sincerity than his hurried "Yes," now
announced.
He told Emma he was very glad now, that Miss Osborne had broken
her promise, but could not help anxiously enquiring whether she thought
she would keep her engagement for the next dance.
Emma answered in the affirmative, though she could have given no better
reason for expecting Miss Osborne to perform her promise next time, than
that she had broken it the last. When the dance was concluded, and Emma
returned to her seat, Mrs. Wells, Charles' mother, expressed in warm
terms, her obligation to Miss Watson for so kindly dancing with her
little boy; Emma assured her, with great sincerity, that she was very
happy to have given him pleasure, and that she had greatly enjoyed her
dance.
They soon entered into an agreeable conversation—and she was exceedingly
pleased, when, a short time afterwards, they were joined by Mr. Howard,
who begged his sister to introduce him, and solicited her hand for the
ensuing dance. Mr. Howard's appearance and manner were such, as could
not fail to prepossess any one in his favor, and Emma had formed a
favorable opinion of him already, from the affectionate terms in which
little Charles had spoken of his uncle, when he informed her that he and
his mother resided constantly with him. The good nature which had
actuated her brought its own reward; and she thought, with much
pleasure, of the ensuing dances. Previous to their commencement, there
was a proposal made by Mrs. Wells, that they should go in search of tea.
They set off accordingly—Charles very proudly escorting his partner—Mr.
Howard and his sister being close behind; when, in attempting to enter
the tea-room, they were met by so many returning to the dancing, that
they were forced to draw aside; and, almost pushed behind a half-opened
door. Whilst waiting here for a passage, Emma heard Lord Osborne address
Mr. Tom Musgrove, as they were standing together before the very door
which concealed her.
"I say, Musgrove, why don't you go and dance with that beautiful Emma
Watson that I may come and look at her?"
"I was just going to ask her, my lord:" cried Tom, "the very thought
that I had in my head this moment."
"Ay, do so, then," continued Lord Osborne, "and I will stand behind you;
by Jove, she's so handsome that, if ever I did dance with any girl, it
should be with her!"
It was with no little self-congratulation, that Emma reflected on her
engagement to Mr. Howard, which would save her, as she hoped, from the
unwelcome suit of Mr. Musgrove and the stare of Lord Osborne. There was
a sort of suppressed look of mirth and amusement on the countenance of
Mr. Howard, which convinced her that he, too, had heard this
short dialogue, and Charles evinced his perception of it by whispering:
"They did not know we could hear them—and I would not have told them for
the world—would you?" A sentiment in which Emma silently, but entirely
joined.
It was not till they left the room—and she had joined Mrs. Edwards—that
they again encountered Mr. Musgrove. He immediately requested an
introduction, and Mrs. Edwards was obliged to comply; but, it was in her
coldest and most ungracious manner. It evidently made not the slightest
difference to the gentleman, however, who heeded not the means to gain a
wished-for end, and had long been aware that he was no favorite with the
Edwards' family generally. He immediately flattered himself he should be
permitted the great honor of dancing with Miss Emma Watson the two next
dances. She had peculiar satisfaction in replying that she was engaged.
"Oh! but, indeed," he eagerly replied, "we must not let my little
friend, Charles, engross you entirely, Miss Emma?"
To which, with a demure face, and an internal sensation of delight, she
answered that she was not engaged to dance with Master Wells.
Tom was baffled and mortified, and he shewed it in his face. He
lingered, however, near her, until her partner appeared to claim her
hand; when, with a look of surprise, he went to inform Lord Osborne of
his ill-success.
The young nobleman bore it with great philosophy.
"Oh, with Howard is it!" was his observation; "well, that will do just
as well for me."
And accordingly he stationed himself exactly behind that gentleman, and
again indulged in the stare which Emma had previously found so annoying.
She wished with all her heart that he could find a less disagreeable way
of expressing his admiration, as even the idea that he thought her so
handsome could not reconcile her to his method of demonstrating it.
However, she found Mr. Howard quite us agreeable as his countenance had
led her to expect, and upon the whole she enjoyed herself exceedingly.
When the dance had concluded, whilst she was still engaged in a pleasant
conversation with her partner, they were suddenly interrupted by
discovering that the Osborne Castle party were preparing to leave. She
heard Lord Osborne telling Tom Musgrove that the thing had become very
dull to the ladies, and his mother was determined to go home: though for
his own part, he thought it was the best ball he had been at for a long
time. Mrs. Wells and her brother of course accompanied the others, and
Emma wished them good night, and saw them depart with regret, in which
they appeared to participate. Lord Osborne entered, after quitting the
room for a minute or two, as if reluctant to tear himself away, and
disturbing her from the corner where she was resting, muttered an
inaudible excuse of having left his gloves in the window-seat behind
her; though the said gloves being carefully coiled up in his hand all
the time, it was certain that he must have had some other object in
view, which probably was to enjoy one more stare at her.
Tom Musgrove disappeared at the same time from the ball-room, as he
would not be guilty of the vulgarity of outstaying the grandest part of
the company; whether he spent the rest of the evening in helping Mrs.
Newland make negus at the bar, or consoled himself by ordering a barrel
of oysters and whisky-punch in his own room, Emma never ascertained, but
her partner, who laughed excessively at his airs of elegance, assured
her he had no doubt it was great mortification and self-denial on his
part to appear indifferent, and she was too little pleased with him to
avoid feeling a secret satisfaction at this conviction.
The rest of the assembly lost nothing in spirit by their departure, and
seemed determined to enjoy themselves, though Miss Osborne had
pronounced the evening dull, and her friend Miss Carr was heard to
declare, after surveying every one through her glass, that it all seemed
very vulgar.
Emma's next partner was an officer, but she had several other
solicitations which she was forced to refuse, as a very pretty girl,
quite new, and evidently admired by Lord Osborne, was not likely to be
neglected in a country assembly-room, and for the rest of the evening it
was quite the fashion to call her "the pretty Miss Watson."
As it was a regulation in the ball-room that no other dance should be
called after one o'clock, this finished her amusement; and at the
summons of Mr. Edwards she was not at all dissatisfied to return home,
although she professed to have spent a most delightful evening. She felt
rather anxious to ascertain whether Mr. Edwards had lost or won at
cards, and on entering the dining-room, where the supper-table was
spread, she looked anxiously at his countenance, to read his features,
and discover his state of mind. The pleasant conviction that fortune had
favoured him was conveyed to her mind, when, on the subsidence of the
frown which the sudden glare of candle-light occasioned, he presented a
bland smile and self-satisfied aspect, pronounced the soup which, as
Elizabeth had predicted, appeared to comfort them, to be extremely good,
and joked with Emma about the hearts which he guessed she had conquered
on this her first appearance in their country.
"Well, Mary," added he, turning to his daughter, and chucking her under
the chin, "and who did you dance with? Who was your first partner?"
"Captain Hunter, sir," replied Mary, demurely, yet blushing a little.
"And who next?" pursued he.
"Mr. Edward Hunter, sir."
"And who is he?"
"Captain Hunter's cousin."
"Oh, aye—very well: who next?"
"Captain Scott, sir."
"Who is he—another cousin of Captain Hunter, eh?"
"No, sir; only a friend of his."
"I thought so," said her father, chuckling.
"Mary was surrounded with red-coats the whole evening," observed Mrs.
Edwards. "I must say I should have been as well pleased to have seen her
dancing with some of our old friends and neighbours, and less taken up
with those soldiers."
It was lucky for Mary that her father had been winning at cards, as he
would otherwise, very probably, have been as much offended as her mother
seemed to be on hearing of her conduct. He now, however, good-humouredly
took her part—only saying—
"Pooh, pooh, my dear, the girl naturally likes officers, all girls
do—besides, if those young men are quicker at asking her than others,
how could she help dancing with them."
Mrs. Edwards looked very little pleased at an observation which was too
true to be contradicted, and observed, in a general way, that she had
always remarked girls could contrive to oblige their parents when they
had a mind to do so.
"I hope you had your share of officers, Miss Emma," said the old
gentleman.
"Thank you, sir, I had quite sufficient," said Emma, quietly.
"Oh, Miss Emma was almost above the officers, she got into the Osborne
Castle set, and her partner was no less than Mr. Howard. Did Lord
Osborne ask you?"
"No, ma'am," replied Emma.
"I am sure he looked at you enough," continued Mrs. Edwards; "I thought
he was going to eat you."
"I was not afraid of that," said Emma, smiling; "but I own I was rather
annoyed."
"I think Mr. Musgrove was more insufferable than ever," pursued Mrs.
Edwards; "I am glad you did not dance with him, Miss Emma; really that
young man is beyond bearing in his impertinence."
"Oh, you should not abuse him to Miss Emma; I dare say her sisters give
a very different account of him; he is a great favorite with all of
them, I know," said Mr. Edwards.
"I never heard anything of him which particularly prepossessed me in his
favour," replied Emma, very coolly. "Elizabeth mentioned him, and, from
what I have seen, I should think her description was very like the
truth."
Little more was said by any one, and the party, after many yawns,
separated for the night, to the great relief of their young guest, who
was exceedingly sleepy, and longing for darkness and silence.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v1ch03
CHAPTER III.
.sp 2
The next morning, as the ladies were quietly sitting together, and just
as Emma was beginning to expect the arrival of her sister to take her
home, a loud knock was heard at the door, which gave audible notice of a
far more masculine hand than that of Elizabeth Watson. There was hardly
time, however, for more than a brief wonder on the subject, when Mr.
Musgrove was announced. The stiffness of Mrs. Edwards' reception, and
the cold tranquillity of Mary's manners, seemed to make no impression on
him; at least, so Emma judged from there being no abatement of that air
of self-complacency which had early struck her as belonging to him.
After the opening compliments to the party, he turned to Emma herself,
and presenting a note, observed that this would, in part, explain and
excuse his intrusion. It was from Elizabeth to herself, to say, that as
her father had found himself better than usual, he had suddenly resolved
to go to the visitation which happened that day, and in consequence of
his thus employing the chaise, she could not come, as she had promised,
to bring her sister home. She added, that she did not, in the least,
know what Emma could do, only if the Edwardses asked her to remain, she
thought that was the best thing that could be contrived.
After pondering over this unwelcome note for several minutes, Emma was
just about to state the dilemma to Mrs. Edwards, when Tom Musgrove broke
in.
"I had an interest, Miss Emma, in bringing that note, and a message
besides, from your sister, which you must allow me to state. I met Miss
Watson in the village seeking for a messenger, and offered to do her
errand, as she told me the object of it, on condition that she would
sanction my bringing you home in my curricle. Believe me, it will be
with the greatest delight that I will drive you to Winston, and the
carriage is now at the door waiting for the honour of your occupation."
Emma looked a little distressed.
"Did Elizabeth really wish me to come home that way," said she,
hesitating.
"I assure you, my proposal had her full and unqualified consent, and you
have only to say the word, and now—in half an hour—an hour—two hours
time—any time—I am at your service."
"I am much obliged to you," replied Emma, embarrassed between her fear
lest she should be supposed intruding on her hostess, and her extreme
dislike of encouraging any appearance of intimacy with Mr. Musgrove;
"but I do not think it is in the least degree necessary that I should
give you the trouble. The walk is nothing, and I dare say I can easily
find a person to carry my few things."
"The trouble is nothing, Miss Emma," cried he, "but the walk
cannot be ranked in that way; three—four miles—what is it—five
perhaps—and such mud and dirt to get through—and after dancing all night
too: indeed it must be impossible. And there stand my
horses—useless—unemployed save by my unworthy self—indeed you
must accept my offer."
Emma would not yield; she was quite determined to encounter any
inconvenience rather than accept the offered seat; and the more pressing
he became the firmer her refusals grew.
Mrs. Edwards, who had been quietly listening to what was passing between
them, no sooner ascertained that the inclination of her young visitor
was decidedly opposed to an offer, which she would have deemed it
in the highest degree indecorous to accept, than with a very unusual
warmth of manner on her part, she interposed, and greatly relieved Emma
by saying:
"If Miss Watson can wait until after luncheon, I shall have great
pleasure in conveying her home in our coach."
This well-timed offer was gratefully and gladly accepted, but Tom loudly
interposed.
"But you know, Mrs. Edwards, that is contrary to all your rules—quite
impossible to have your horses out to-day, after their night-work.
Surely you cannot really and seriously mean such a thing—and my curricle
here to make it quite unnecessary."
"I do really mean it;" replied Mrs. Edwards steadily, "our carriage and
horses are quite at Miss Watson's service; and I am happy to relieve her
from the risk which she evidently apprehends in so dashing an equipage
as your curricle. She will, no doubt, feel much safer in our coach!"
The gentleman bit his lip, but was forced to yield; and turning to Emma,
enquired:
"How did it happen, Miss Emma, that none of your sisters were at the
ball?—I don't think I saw them there all the evening."
"My eldest sister," answered Emma coldly, "could not leave my father,
and she is the only one at home now."
"Oh, indeed; why how long have the others been away?" then without
waiting for an answer, he continued—"How did you like our ball last
night? I suppose you did not keep it up much after I was gone!"
"When did you leave the room?" enquired Emma, pleased to give him the
retort courteous, for his affected ignorance about her sisters.
"Oh, I did not stay after the Osbornes' party went away—I was tired and
bored."
"And we enjoyed ourselves nearly two hours after that," cried
Emma, "and as the room was less crowded with idlers who would not dance,
I think it was particularly pleasant."
"Upon my word, I wish I had known that, I really should have been
tempted to come back, after seeing Miss Carr to the carriage," said Tom,
"but you know, Mrs. Edwards, sometimes when one's particular friends are
gone, one fancies all the rest will be dull—so I went to my room."
"Possibly," replied Mrs. Edwards, "but I am used to judge for myself in
such matters, and therefore am not likely to be misled in the way you
are now regretting."
After remaining as long as he could without very great rudeness, and
receiving no invitation to stay and take luncheon, Mr. Musgrove drove
off in his curricle, exceedingly astonished at the fact of the offered
seat in it being so firmly rejected.
It was something quite new to him, for he had been used to consider the
other Miss Watsons as quite at his disposal, and could hardly imagine
that one of the family could have ideas and feelings so diametrically
opposed to her sisters'.
According to her promise, Mrs. Edwards' carriage safely conveyed Emma to
her father's house in the course of that afternoon, Mary Edwards
accompanying her, but not remaining many minutes, as she well knew their
dinner hour was approaching, and she did not wish to be in their way.
No sooner had she withdrawn, than Elizabeth began expressing her extreme
surprise at the fact of the Edwards' coach, coachman, and horses being
considered in a state fit for use the day after the ball, as they always
used to rest when they had been out at night.
"Only think of their sending you home, my dear Emma, I cannot tell you
how surprised I am—I never knew such a thing done before."
"I assure you, it was very kindly done, Elizabeth; and not only was the
carriage placed at my service, but Mrs. Edwards' manner became much more
friendly from that time."
"Well, I wonder you did not accept Tom Musgrove's offer—or did he not
make it—or did you get my note?"
"Yes; he brought the note; but, indeed, dear Elizabeth, I was so
unprepared for your proposing, or allowing him to propose such a thing,
that I thought you had, probably, known nothing about it; and that the
whole was a device on his part. How could you imagine, after what you
had yourself told me, that I would allow him to drive me about in that
way. I could not do such a thing."
"Indeed, I had some scruples, Emma, about it; I did not like throwing
you together in that way, but I could see no other means of your getting
home—and I did long for that. Who would have thought of the Edwardses
having out their coach? But I never, for a moment, expected you would
refuse him. I don't think I could have done such a thing—though, I dare
say, it was quite right; I should not have had the resolution to resist
such a temptation!"
"It was no temptation to me; and, therefore, required no extraordinary
resolution Elizabeth. I thought it wrong, besides,—but I certainly
should have disliked it."
"You do not mean to say you dislike Tom Musgrove!" cried Elizabeth, in
great surprise; "did you not dance with him? Did he not ask you?"
"He did ask me, and I did not accept him," replied Emma, smiling at her
sister's amazement, "but his manners do not please me; and I do not
think that, having accepted him last night as a partner, would have made
me wish for him to-day as a driver."
"Well, tell me all about it," cried Elizabeth, "I am longing to hear all
about the ball. Who did you dance with? How did you like it—give me the
whole history."
Emma complied, and related, as minutely as possible, all the events of
the preceding evening. Elizabeth's surprise on hearing it was extreme.
"Good gracious!" cried she, much agitated; "dance with Mr. Howard? Well,
Emma, how could you venture? were you not frightened out of your wits?
Dance with the man who plays at cards with old Lady Osborne!—whom she
seems so fond of—well, you are the boldest little thing possible! And
you say you were not afraid?"
"No, really," said Emma, "why should I be—he was quite the gentleman, I
assure you."
"Oh, yes!" said Miss Watson, "a gentleman, of course he is; but, why
should that prevent your being afraid? Did you talk to him? How did you
know what to say?"
"There was no difficulty about that," replied Emma, "he was very
agreeable and we had a great deal of conversation."
"Well, I am glad you were so noticed, Emma," said her sister, kindly; "I
knew you must be admired; and, really, am rejoiced that you have made so
good a beginning. Dance with Mr. Howard—refuse Tom Musgrove—and come
home in Mrs. Edwards' coach! I wonder what you will do next!"
"Come home in my own, we will hope," said Emma, laughing; "like a good
girl in a fairy story—very grand in a gilt coach and four."
Elizabeth then proceeded to enquire about Mary Edwards and Captain
Hunter; and the inference which she deduced from Emma's narrative, was
extremely unfavorable to her brother's prospects. She declared she would
write to Sam that evening, and tell him he had no hope.
"But here comes Jenny with the dinner. Poor Emma! you will not dine as
well as you did yesterday. There is only fried beef—for, as my father
was gone out, and I hardly expected you, I did not think it worth while
to get any thing more. If I had been sure of your coming, I would have
got you a chop."
"Quite unnecessary, dear Elizabeth, I do not care what I eat," replied
Emma, as she moved her chair to the table.
"That is so pleasant of you, Emma," said Elizabeth, "I must say, with
all your refinement, you are easier pleased than either Pen or Margaret.
How very comfortably we could live together."
Mr. Watson returned from the visitation and the dinner in very good
spirits.
"I am very glad I went," said he, "people were all very kind, and the
dinner was very good. I don't know how many people told me they were glad
to see me, and I had some capital venison—there was turbot too, and hare
soup—all excellent—and a very civil young clergyman, a very nice young man
indeed, would help me down to dinner, and took care I had a warm seat, and
saved me the trouble of calling for things. I thought it very kind of him,
I think his name is Howard. He asked after my daughter too—I don't know
which he meant at all—but I suppose you can tell amongst yourselves. I
really don't know when I passed a more pleasant afternoon!"
The next morning, however, brought a different story. The unusual
exertion combined with turbot and venison, brought on a violent fit of
the gout, and for a day or two the girls hardly left their father's
room, or had any other pursuit or occupation than attempting to relieve
his pain, or amuse his intervals of rest.
The third day after the ball, whilst Jenny was slowly preparing the
dinner-table in the parlour, with more noise than despatch, the two
girls standing over the fire looking at her movements, the door-bell was
heard following the tread of horses on the gravel at the entrance.
"Who can that possibly be?" cried Elizabeth, "run and let them in,
Jenny—no, stop, I think you had better not—just say your master is ill."
Jenny bustled off—leaving the knife-basket on the floor, and the cloth
half opened on the table. A moment of silent suspense followed, when in
reply to some mutterings of Jenny, they heard through the door which she
had left open Tom Musgrove's voice—
"Oh, never mind, we will go in all the same; we came to enquire for Mr.
Watson."
And another voice, laughing harshly, was heard, and steps along the
passage, which excited Elizabeth to such a degree, that she hastily
twitched off the unspread cloth, and threw it into a chair behind the
door—which she had just time to do, before the visitors presented
themselves unannounced; for Jenny was too much astonished at the event
to find tongue to utter the names of Lord Osborne and Mr. Musgrove; but
stood with her mouth open gazing in the passage. Elizabeth felt
excessive surprise at this unexpected visit, to a degree which almost
made her unconscious of what she was doing. Shame at being detected by
Lord Osborne in dining at three o'clock, and doubt how to behave to
him—an inclination to apologise for her homely appearance, plain
stuff-gown and untidy room, which, however, was fortunately checked by
her uncertainty how to express herself properly, all contended in her
mind; when the first gush of surprise was abated, it was quite a relief
to her, to shake hands with her old friend Tom Musgrove, and to see him
seat himself without ceremony. Emma, on the contrary, felt this
intrusion extremely impertinent and ill-bred; what excuse was there for
Lord Osborne calling in this way; there never had been any acquaintance
previously between the families, her father had never been noticed by
the inhabitants of the Castle, nor invited there as many of the
neighbouring gentry were; and now that he was ill, and they knew it, she
was indignant that they should thus force themselves on her sister and
herself.
Her own curtsey was as stiff and reserved, as if she had been taking
lessons of Mrs. Edwards; and she resumed her seat without feeling the
slightest inclination to converse herself, and being almost displeased
with Elizabeth for the easy manner in which she allowed, or perhaps
encouraged, Tom Musgrove to address her. Lord Osborne's visit was
certainly meant for Emma, for he placed himself near her, and sat some
minutes with his eyes fixed on her countenance, until she began to think
he meant to preserve the same conduct in her father's house, as he had
done at the ball.
At length, however, he spoke:
"It's a beautiful morning; ain't you going to walk to-day?"
"No, my Lord," replied she quietly, raising her eyes from her work, "I
think it is too dirty!"
"You should wear boots," said he, "nankeen with block tops, look very
nice, when a woman has a pretty ankle."
She had nothing to object to his taste, and did not reply.
"Do you ride?" continued he.
"No, my lord."
"Why not? every woman should ride; a woman never looks so well as on
horse-back, well mounted, and in a handsome habit—you should
ride—don't you like it?"
"There are, sometimes, other impediments, my lord, besides want of
taste, even to so becoming an amusement," replied Emma, gravely.
"Eh? I don't understand," resumed he, "what prevents you?"
"I have no horse," replied Emma, thinking that the shortest way
of finishing the subject, and reducing it to the level of his capacity.
"Then your father should keep one for you," observed he.
"My father cannot afford it," said Emma, decidedly; "and I have no wish to
act in a way inconsistent with our circumstances."
"Poor is he? how uncomfortable!" said Lord Osborne, "why, what's his
income, do you suppose?" continuing in the tone in which he would have
questioned a day labourer as to his wages.
"It is a point upon which I never thought myself entitled to enquire,"
she replied, drawing herself proudly up, and speaking in a tone not to
be misunderstood.
Lord Osborne looked at her with surprise, which was gradually converted
into admiration at the beautiful effect of the colour which dyed her
cheek as she spoke. An idea crossed his mind that, perhaps, he had not
been sufficiently civil, and he tried to soften his voice, and put on a
more winning manner.
"The hounds meet next Monday about a mile from here, at Upham—will you
not come and see them throw off. It's a pretty sight."
"I do not think it will be in my power, my lord."
"I wish you could—did you ever see it?"
"Never."
"Well, you cannot imagine how gay it is; we have such a capital
breakfast always at Upham Lodge; then the scarlet coats round the edge
of the cover; the horses—the talking and laughing, the ladies who drive
over to see us—though I often think them rather a bore—then the great
burst when the dogs do find; and off they go away, and we after them,
and forget every thing in the world, except one wish, to be in at the
death. You cannot think how exciting it is. Do come."
"Thank you, my lord; but I must be satisfied with your description. I
cannot accept your invitation."
"Perhaps you are afraid of the cold; my sister caught a dreadful cold
one day, when she came in an open carriage, and it was wet; are you
thinking of that?"
"No, for I did not know it before."
"Didn't you? She was ill a month; I was monstrous sorry for her—for you
see it was partly my fault; I persuaded her to come; I don't know how it
is. I rather like to have her with me—some men don't."
Emma could hardly suppress a smile at this eloquent demonstration of his
fraternal affection. She began, however, to think that if Lord Osborne
liked his sister there might be some good in him; which, before, she had
been inclined to question. The gentlemen sat long, although Tom
Musgrove, at least, must have been perfectly aware that he was
encroaching on their dinner hour; and Emma was growing exceedingly weary
of the looks of Lord Osborne, who sunk into repeated fits of silence,
which were interrupted by abrupt and disconnected questions or
observations. At length, they were all roused by the maid servant, who,
putting her head into the half-opened door-way, called out:
"Please ma'am, Master wants to know why he beant to have any dinner
to-day!"
This very unmistakeable announcement, brought a deep blush to
Elizabeth's cheek, who, interrupting her chat with Tom Musgrove, said:
"Very well, Jenny, I hear."
The gentlemen now rose to go, and, to Emma's great relief, took leave;
Elizabeth calling briskly after the maid, as she was shewing them out,
to tell Nanny to take up the fowls immediately.
"Well," said she, drawing a long breath when the room was once more
quiet, "what are we to think of this? I wonder whether Lord Osborne saw
the knife-tray? I hope he did not notice, or what he thinks of us dining
at this hour!"
"I must say, I think it was taking an unwarrantable liberty," cried
Emma, "calling in this way—very impertinent and disagreeable—though he
is a lord, what right has he to intrude on us?"
"Do you think so, Emma? well, it did not strike me so—I was only hoping
he would not notice the table-cloth or the steel forks. I know they have
silver ones every day at Osborne Castle. I wish Jenny had not began
putting out the things, or had not brought that tiresome message."
"He never called here before, why should he come now without excuse or
apology?" persisted Emma.
"Why, to see you to be sure—and very good use he made of his eyes. Now
really, Emma, you ought not to quarrel with him, for it is evidently
admiration of you that brings him here."
"I do not care for admiration without respect, Elizabeth, and I hope the
visit will not be repeated."
Her father's opinion quite coincided with hers, when he came to hear of
the visit in question. There had been no acquaintance between old Lord
Osborne and himself, he observed, and he would have none with his son,
of whom he had formed a very moderate opinion; and as to Tom Musgrove,
he was always coming when he was not wanted, and scampering after Lord
Osborne in an absurd way: what right had such a Tom Fool as he to
interfere with his dinner hour, or cause the roast fowls to be overdone.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v1ch04
CHAPTER IV.
.sp 2
The approach of Christmas week, was to bring the great event of
Elizabeth's year—namely, a visit from her eldest brother and his wife,
who were to return with Margaret and spend a few days at Winston.
Elizabeth evidently looked up very much to Mrs. Robert Watson, who, she
assured Emma, had been educated in a very superior way—a London
boarding-school—her father had been very wealthy, and her mother most
genteel; she had, too, an uncle, who was a knight, in London, and quite
a distinguished person there—so that altogether, Jane was an honor to
the family, whilst her talents and taste alone were sufficient to
procure distinction in the first circles.
Emma was uncertain, but most anxious to like her sister-in-law; she felt
half amused and half doubtful, whilst Elizabeth enumerated all the
advantages of Robert's grand marriage. However, she exerted herself with
the greatest good-will, to assist in the numerous preparations necessary
on such an occasion. Nothing was too good for Jane—though Emma could
hardly help wondering to see that the drawing-room was to be used—the
furniture and mirror uncovered—the best china produced, and all the
plate had out to grace their visitors. For a brother and sister, she
fancied this would have been unnecessary; and she wished, with a sigh,
that there had been more consistency between their every-day life, and
the appearance they were now expected to make.
Elizabeth was one of the worst housekeepers possible; with a little more
system and management, her father's income might have produced a
respectable appearance at all times; but as there was not the smallest
attention given by Mr. Watson to his household affairs, beyond paying
the bills, and finding fault with the dinners, everything was in
confusion from one week to another. Elizabeth had much of the easy,
good-natured indolence of her father, but was spurred up by necessity to
unwilling exertions; and ill seconded by her untidy maid servants, who
knew she was too good-natured to scold; she was always excessively put
out of her way by preparations for company. Her total want of
arrangement, and the facility with which she was diverted from one
object to another, made her twice as long as necessary in every
occupation. Thus, for instance, it was in vain that she had promised
Emma to return to the china closet, and tell her which articles would be
wanted from thence; for happening to see Jenny awkwardly attempting to
clean some plate, she stayed so long to show her how to do it, that
Emma, in despair of her return, was induced to seek her, and with
difficulty persuaded her to resume her occupation up stairs.
Such was her ordinary mode of proceeding. In spite, however, of these
delays, and the loss of time incurred, the preparations were at length
complete; and Elizabeth having surveyed the dinner-table with much
satisfaction, and wished, with a sigh, that they could keep a foot boy,
returned to the drawing-room to wait the arrival of her visitors.
The happy moment shortly arrived, and with much noise and bustle Mr. and
Mrs. Robert Watson, Margaret, and all their luggage were safely lodged
in the family residence. Emma looked with much anxiety at both her
unknown sisters, but at Mrs. Watson first, of course; indeed, few could
have helped that, from the prominence which she assumed. She was a tall,
showy-looking woman, with a high nose, a high colour, and very high
feathers in her bonnet. She seemed much inclined to talk, and received
Emma very cordially. Margaret was excessively affectionate in her
manners, clung round her, called her "her dear new sister," her "darling
Emma," pushed back the curls from her cheeks to kiss her, and spoke in
the fondest, most caressing tone.
"Well you see, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Robert, "I have brought Margaret
back; but she is a naughty girl, and I am much displeased with her, for
I want to take her home again to Croydon on Saturday, and she says she
will not go."
This was said as Mrs. Robert was stroking down her long fur tippet, and
spreading out her hands at the fire, and concluded with a playful tap on
Margaret's cheek.
"Ah, dear Jane," said Margaret, "you know how I like being with you, but
indeed I cannot tear myself from sweet Emma immediately."
"Saturday!" cried Elizabeth; "you surely do not think of leaving us on
Saturday! That will be only three days—only half a visit; you promised
us a week."
"Did I?—no, sure I could not have done so: you know I cannot be so long
from my little girl, and she would break her heart without me."
"I wish you could have brought her," said Elizabeth.
"Quite impossible, my dear child, for I never like to take her out
without her own maid, and I know you could not give her a room to
herself as she has been used to. I am excessively particular about her,"
she continued, turning to Emma, "too particular, perhaps, but it was the
way we were brought up—so you must not blame me."
"Of course not," replied Emma; "for doing what you think right, who
could?"
"I am sure," continued this anxious mother, in a tone of great
complacency, "I don't know how the poor little darling will get on
without me; she almost cried her eyes out when she found she was not
coming in the chaise, and I was obliged to pretend I was only going to
church, and should be home again very soon."
"Oh, sweet little darling!" cried Margaret; "I do so dote on that
child—little angel!"
Just at this moment, the brother entered the room.
"I say, Jane," cried he, "that confounded band-box of yours is squeezed
as flat as a pancake, and your new trunk is too wide to go up these
wretched narrow stairs; so what you are to do I am sure I don't
know—dress in the hall, I suppose."
"My band-box squeezed!" cried the lady, in dismay. "I have no doubt my
caps are all ruined absolutely: what shall I do!—how could it happen to
my band-box!"
"Do anything but bother me about it, that's all. Ah, Emma," holding out
his hand to his sister, "how do you do. It's a good while since we met,
isn't it? I suppose, Elizabeth, I may go up at once and see my father
before dinner?"
Elizabeth assented, and the whole party seemed about to separate.
"I suppose, Elizabeth," said Margaret, in a tone whose sharpness jarred
on Emma's ear and contrasted with the softness of her voice to herself,
"there's no letter for me from Kew, is there? But I dare say if there
were, you would not think of giving it to me for an hour."
Elizabeth assured her there was none, and then quitted the room, to
accompany her sister-in-law, and assist her toilette.
"Well, Emma," said Margaret, resuming her fondling tone, "how do you
like Winston? I am sure, but for one thing, I should never wish to see
it again," looking down, and trying to blush as she spoke; "one
attraction it has: have you seen any of the neighbours?—did you not go
to the ball?—do tell me all about it!"
"I think we must go and dress for dinner, Margaret," said Emma.
"Well, you can tell me then, for I suppose," added she, in an injured
tone, "you and I are to have one room—Elizabeth always takes care of
herself, and will be sure to put you upon me."
"No," said Emma, "Elizabeth has agreed that I should share her room."
"Oh," said Margaret—then paused a moment—"well, I was in hopes we
should have slept together—I am sure I shall love you so much, Emma."
"I am sure it will give me great pleasure if you do," replied her
sister; "but Margaret, if I cannot be of use to you, I must go and get
ready for dinner myself;" and she hastily escaped to her own room.
When Emma descended again, she found her brother alone in the
drawing-room, leaning over the fire-place, looking at a number of the
"Gentleman's Magazine," which, however, he tossed on the table when Emma
approached.
"Well, Emma," said he, lifting his coat-tails, and turning his back to
the fire, "so your aunt has thrown you off, and herself away, has she? A
pretty mess she has made of it with her marriage. Upon my word, women
are entirely unfit to be trusted with money in any shape, and there
ought to be a law against old fools of widows marrying again. How our
uncle could be such a confounded ass as to leave everything in her
power, I can not conceive! Any one could have foreseen what has
happened. I hope the young husband will plague her heart out—no doubt he
will lead her a wretched life—she deserves it. But I think the old
gentleman might have given you something—a thousand pounds or so would
have done very well for you, and the rest would have been most
particularly acceptable to me just now. There was an investment offered
itself, a month or two ago, in which I could have, beyond a doubt,
doubled five thousand pounds in a very short time, and it was
particularly cutting to be obliged to let it pass me, because that old
man had behaved so shabbily. Upon my life, it makes me quite angry when
I think of it—and just to throw you back upon my father's hands, without
a sixpence—a burden—a useless burden upon the family—what could he be
thinking of!"
Emma was too much overcome by the many bitter feelings this speech
raised, to be able to reply; and her brother, seeing her tears, said:
"Well, I did not mean to make you cry, Emma; there's no good in
that—though I do not wonder that you should be mortified and
disappointed too. Girls are nothing without money—no one can manage them
but you shall come and try your luck at Croydon. Perhaps, with your
face, and the idea that you have still expectations, you might get off
our hands altogether. There was a young man at Croydon who was very near
taking Margaret. I really believe, would have had her, if she had only a
couple of thousand pounds, but you can but do your best, so there, don't
cry."
Before Emma had time to do more than wipe her eyes, her sister-in-law
entered the room very smart, and in high spirits, to find herself more
handsomely dressed than either of the Miss Watsons. She was much
discomposed, however, to find that her husband had not changed his coat,
or dressed his hair.
"My dear Mr. Watson," cried she, "how comes this about? Don't you mean
to make yourself tidy before dinner?"
"Do let me alone, Jane," said he, impatiently shaking off her hand; "I
trust I am tidy enough for my wife and sisters."
"Oh! but do come up, for my sake, and put just a sprinkle of powder on
your hair? I will do it in a moment for you. You really look quite
undressed; upon my word, I am ashamed of you. Your coat all dirty, and
quite unfit to be seen—do come."
"Do go! For goodness sake, do let me alone," said he, shrugging his
shoulders. "You women, who think of nothing but bedizening yourselves
out, fancy we have nothing else to do either. You are fine enough for us
both, so pray let me alone."
Mrs. Watson covered her mortification by an affected laugh, and
retreating to the sofa, cried out:
"Emma, do come, and let me have a little conversation with you, there's
a good girl."
Emma coloured, but obeyed the summons; and her sister, after surveying
her dress with satisfaction, seemed, for a moment, to hesitate how to
begin.
"You do not dress your hair, Emma, quite en
règle—you understand French, I suppose, now look at mine—your
curls are too long—really, it's a pity, for you have pretty hair—a nice
color—very much the same as mine. How odd," laughing, "that you should
be so dark—like me—all your sisters quite fair—you should not put your
tucker so high—mine is quite the ton—you see how the lace is
arranged—how do you like Winston? I suppose you have not much company? I
dare say, it is dull; you shall come to Croydon, as Margaret will not go
back, and I will shew you a little of the world. Have you been used to
much company?"
"Not much," replied Emma.
"Well, then, Croydon will be a pleasant change. I wonder at that,
however, I thought your uncle was a man of wealth. My father saw so much
society; and, at my uncle's, Sir Thomas, I am sure I have met the best
company in London."
"Indeed," said Emma, not very well knowing what else to say.
"In consequence, I am quite accustomed to move in a gay circle—though my
friends there, tell me, indeed, I am quite the Queen of Croydon. I
believe I am rather looked up to—one is, you know, when one has high
relations, and goes to town, and gets patterns and books from London;
now, it's something quite remarkable the number of houses we visit—and
the white gloves I wear out in the year—I am excessively particular
about my gloves; and Margaret, whose hand is small, was quite glad to
take some of mine; and, really, when she had cleaned them a little, they
did very well for her. I seldom wear them a second time. You will
come to Croydon—will you not?"
"Thank you, not this winter; you are very kind in asking me; but I have
been so short a time at home."
"Oh! but you must: I assure you, you will have much the best chance in
the winter, there are so many more young men in the country then. But,
perhaps, you have left your heart in Shropshire. Have you any little
charming love story to confide to me. Ah! you may trust me—I assure you
I am very discreet—I never betrayed Margaret the least in the world."
Emma again declined the proposed visit to Croydon. Her sister-in-law
looked much surprised, and not quite pleased.
"Well I should have thought our house might have some attractions for a
young lady of your age; however, of course you know best, I hope you
will find something more pleasing here."
Emma was spared the trouble of replying by the entrance of Margaret and
Elizabeth, who were immediately engrossed by attentions to Mrs. Robert,
which soothed her into complacency again. Dinner speedily followed; the
early hour was a subject of comment on the part of the visitors.
"Dear me, I wonder when I dined at three o'clock before—really a little
change is quite amusing, I am so glad you did not think it necessary to
alter your hour for me."
"I certainly would have fixed on any hour agreeable to you, Jane,"
replied Miss Watson good humouredly, "but my father has so long been
used to this time, that it would be very unpleasant to him to alter it.
But I dare say it seems very gothic to you."
"Oh, pray do not think any apology necessary, my dear child; you know
what an accommodating creature I am. There is nothing I hate half so
much as having a fuss made about me. Now really in some places where I
go, they will make me of so much importance, treat me so much as a
visitor—in short, I may say, look up so much to me, that upon my word it
is quite overpowering."
"I know you are very good-natured, to put up with our deficiencies as
you do, Jane," replied Elizabeth simply and sincerely, "and no doubt
they must strike you forcibly. I wish we could treat you better, but I
hope you can make a good meal even at three o'clock; you see your
dinner, all except a roast turkey which is coming presently."
"A roast turkey, Elizabeth!" said her sister-in-law, "after all this
profusion which I see around me. Upon my word, I am ashamed of giving so
much trouble; positively ashamed: such a dinner, and all for me. Really
I must forbid the roast turkey—I insist on that not being brought. I
cannot hear that you should be so put out of your way."
"But, my dear Jane," observed Elizabeth, "since the turkey is roasted,
it may as well come in here, as remain in the kitchen. Besides, I am in
hopes my father may be tempted to take some, as it is a favorite dish of
his—so the roast turkey we must have."
"Well, as you please," said the other lady, "only I hope you will not
expect me to take any of it; I must protest against partaking any
of it at all."
"Do as you please, Jane," said her husband, interposing, "but because
you reject the turkey, I see no reason why I should be deprived
of it, so I must beg Elizabeth not to mind your nonsense."
The party, after leaving the dining-room, were sitting amicably in the
best parlour, Robert Watson apparently asleep in an easy-chair, and his
lady holding forth to her sisters-in-law about her parties, her
acquaintance, and her manner of living at Croydon, when the sound of
carriage wheels on the gravel under the window, followed by the
house-bell, drew their attention and aroused their curiosity; who could
it be? perhaps Penelope, returned suddenly from Chichester—it was just
like her to come without giving notice; perhaps Sam, but he was so
unlikely to come at all—nobody could decide—but the opening door
seconding Jenny's voice, revealed the mystery, and shewed Tom Musgrove!
Mr. Musgrove's share of the surprise was great—quite as great as what he
intended to occasion—when instead of being shewn into the little dingy
sitting-room as usual, and finding the two Miss Watsons sitting, as he
expected, by the melancholy light of a pair of sixes—he was ushered into
the best drawing-room, graced by the uncovered chandelier and best sofa;
and encountered in a blaze of wax candles, which almost dazzled him, a
group of ladies dressed for company. He really hardly knew where he was,
and glanced round with excessive astonishment.
"Really, Miss Watson," cried he, whilst shaking hands with her, "I must
apologise for this intrusion; I did not know you had company."
"You are exceedingly welcome," replied Elizabeth, with much more
good-nature than Emma approved. "It is my brother and sister: they only
arrived to-day."
"Yes," said Robert, who, on surveying Tom's appearance, so elegant and
finished as it appeared to him, in point of dress, felt much
mortification on remembering his own unpowdered hair, and morning coat;
"yes, we have not been long in the house—not long enough, you see, to
change our travelling costume: but just in time to sit down to dinner."
Emma's cheeks glowed in spite of her wishes, at this speech, and she
stole a glance at the wife to see how she bore it. That lady's eyes
seemed merely to speak an internal triumph as she looked at her husband,
as if she meant, at the first convenient opportunity, to enforce the
propriety of Robert's taking her advice in future.
"Never apologise for your dress, my good sir," cried Tom, shaking hands
with him; "at least, not to me, for I shall consider it a reflection on
my own vile dishabille. But the fact is, I was passing this way, being
on my return from Osborne Castle, where I have been spending a few days,
and I could not go so near, without just stopping to enquire how Mr.
Watson goes on."
Margaret, who ever since his entrance, had been trying to attract his
attention, could now be repulsed no longer. She would speak, and be
spoken to; and the tone and manner in which she addressed Mr. Musgrove,
together with the pains she took to secure his having a chair next her
when they all sat down, showed Emma that she was by no means reduced to
despair about his supposed attachment.
"It is long since we have met," said she, in a soft, whispering voice,
looking up in his face with what was intended for an endearing smile.
"A week or two," said he, carelessly.
"Fie, naughty man—it is a month—a whole month—you ought not to be a
worse reckoner of time than myself—it was very kind of you to come and
welcome me home."
"Don't thank me for that: I did not know you were here, I assure you; I
knew you were not at the ball; but I thought it was a sore throat, or
something of that sort kept you away: have you really been gone a
month!—I could have sworn I saw you a week ago. Your sister has come, I
suppose, since you left?"
"Emma! oh yes, charming Emma—imagine my feelings at meeting her—I was so
anxious, but so fearful—timid as I am, you can fancy how afraid I should
feel at meeting a new sister. Can you not understand the feeling?"
"Not the least in the world," cried Tom aloud; "I cannot fancy any one
afraid of meeting Miss Emma Watson."
"Is she not lovely—I think her quite beautiful—but, perhaps, you do not
admire dark complexions—tell me, which do you like best—brunette or
blonde."
Tom hesitated. Margaret herself was fair, which would alone have been a
sufficient reason for his asserting a preference for an olive skin—but
then Miss Carr was fair likewise—and he was a great admirer of Miss
Carr's. He, therefore, replied evasively—
"Your sister's is, no doubt, a very lovely complexion—I like dark beauties
excessively—but now and then one sees a blonde, whose tint is relieved from
the insipidity which usually attends it—Miss Carr, for instance—did you
ever see Fanny Carr?"
"No," said Margaret, almost pouting.
"She has the loveliest skin I ever saw—and a very nice little thing is
Fanny Carr, independent of her complexion—a very nice, lively,
bewitching little fairy, with those she likes—though, to be sure, she
can be disagreeable enough, I am told—but, Miss Watson," continued he,
jumping up to put an end to Margaret's whispers, "do let me help you at
the tea-table—why will you not make me of use—pray don't scruple to call
on me—I love to be of use to the fair."
"I know no way in which you can possibly assist me," replied Elizabeth,
"until the tea is ready to be handed round—unless you will talk to and
amuse my sister, Mrs. Robert, whilst I am obliged to sit here."
This was a task which exactly suited Tom, as to a married woman, he
might be as gallant as he chose with perfect safety, and he devoted
himself with great zeal to this object. Nothing could prevail upon him
to take tea yet—as he had not dined, and he could not drink tea first.
"I dare say you dined three hours ago," said he, "but I, you know, keep
bachelor's hours, and at Osborne Castle we never sat down to dinner
until six or seven o'clock."
"Indeed," said Mrs. Robert, "but you must not suppose that I am used to
such early hours; at Croydon, I dare say it is nearer five than four
when we dine."
"That would be too early for me," cried he, with a smile of superiority,
"I would as soon it were three as five—seven, or indeed eight, suits me
better; and I must get home to dinner to-night."
It was evident that the fact of his not having dined, gave him a happy
consciousness of vast mental superiority over his companions. But Emma
found herself sadly deceived in the hopes which she had ventured fondly
to cherish, that the dinner awaiting him would hasten his departure. On
the contrary, when the tea-things were removed, and the card-table
produced, a very slight hint from Mrs. Watson was quite sufficient to
draw from him a speech, which beginning with a statement of the
necessity of quitting them, ended, of course, with an assertion of the
impossibility of tearing himself away: and he was then quite ready to
join their party; keeping his dinner still in waiting, as a subject to
be reverted to whenever other topics failed him.
"Well, ladies," cried he, "what are we to play—what's your favorite
game, Mrs. Watson."
"Oh, we play nothing but Vingt'un at Croydon," said she, "all the best
circles play Vingt'un—it is decidedly the most genteel."
"Vingt'un—hum—very well—let it be vingt'un then," said Tom; "it's a long
time since I played it; Lady Osborne likes loo best—indeed, I believe
amongst people of at certain rank, loo is all the rage—but, however,
since you are bent on—commerce, was that what you said, Mrs. Watson?"
"Oh, dear no," cried she, colouring, and overawed by the superiority of
his tone, "I merely mentioned vingt'un, but I quite agree with you, it
is rather a stupid game, and I am quite tired of it. Suppose we
try loo to-night?" And she privately resolved to store up in her memory
the important fact, that Lady Osborne preferred loo to vingt'un, and on
her return to Croydon, astonish her former acquaintance with her
intimate knowledge of her ladyship's taste and habits.
"As I happen to prefer loo to vingt'un," said Robert Watson, ashamed of
being supposed to following any one's fashions, yet, from habitual
servility to the great, afraid of asserting a difference of opinion; "I
see no harm in playing it, otherwise, had I liked any other game better,
I should certainly have seen Lady Osborne at Jericho before I would have
allowed her to interfere."
An idea crossed Emma's mind, that in all probability nothing could be
farther from Lady Osborne's wishes or notions, than influencing their
choice of a game; and that if their debate could possibly be revealed to
her, she would, perhaps, consider it impertinent in them, to make her
diversions a pattern for theirs. Loo, however, they were fated to play;
and Emma, who hated cards, thought with regret of the quiet evenings she
had formerly enjoyed so much, when chatting over her needle-work with
Elizabeth, or reading at intervals to her father some favourite author.
Their party did not break up until supper-time, of which, of course, Tom
Musgrove was pressed to stay and partake. But he, who was determined to
call his next meal a dinner, felt himself forced to refuse, although, in
truth, he would much rather have accepted the offer, could his vanity
have allowed him to follow his inclination.
Mrs. Watson whispered to her sister, to ask him to join them at dinner
the next day, which Elizabeth acceded to with great cordiality. They
were to have a few friends to dinner, and if he could condescend to eat
at five o'clock, perhaps he might find it in other respects agreeable,
and they would be happy to see him. He hesitated and demurred, not from
any doubt as to his final determination, but because he meant to give
his acceptance a greater grace.
"As I am well aware of Mr. Musgrove's habits of intimacy with my
sister," said Mrs. Watson, simpering; "I shall conclude, if he refuses
now, it is poor unfortunate me, whom he despises and avoids."
"My dear Mrs. Watson," cried he, "you prevent my saying another word;
everything must give way before such an accusation. Even if Lord Osborne
himself sends for me—which is not unlikely—I shall refuse to attend on
him for your sake. Only do not expect me, Miss Watson, to make any
figure at your hospitable board. I shall be happy to look on, as a
spectator, but eating indeed must be quite out of the question."
"Very well; you shall do as you please, remember five o'clock."
"What a very delightful young man," cried Mrs. Watson, as soon as he
left the room. "Upon my word, I do not know when I have met one more
perfectly well bred and gentleman-like. I look upon myself to be a
pretty good judge—having had much opportunity of judging—more than most
young women, both at my dear father's, and my uncle Sir Thomas's; and,
really, in my poor taste, he is quite the thing. Such charming vivacity,
and yet, such attention when one speaks—and he really seems to
understand and appreciate one's feelings and sentiments so
thoroughly—and such a graceful bow; I assure you I am quite delighted."
Elizabeth cast a triumphant look at Emma, as much as to say:
"Now, what do you say?" but Emma's judgment was not to be lightly
shaken. Margaret looked down amiably modest and tried to blush, whilst
she whispered:
"I am so glad you liked him. I knew you would! Was it not
attentive to call to-day!" from which Emma inferred, that she took the
compliment of his call entirely to herself.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v1ch05
CHAPTER V.
.sp 2
It was to be a very grand thing, indeed, the next day; and Elizabeth,
seldom entertaining company, was quite in a fidget about the dinner, and
tormented Emma all the time she was undressing, with questions, which
could not be answered, and fears which could not be dispelled.
"Suppose Mr. Robinson were to be very cross, Emma, you cannot imagine
how disagreeable he is then—or only fancy if the soup turns out ill,
what shall I do? Do you really think my black satin gown good enough; I
think nobody will see, by candle-light, where the cream was spilt; and
it does not look ill—how tired you look, Emma; well, I will not tease
you, only I want to know how did my aunt manage about—oh! by-the-bye,
I'll ask Jane that." So Emma never learnt what it was, being too weary
to ask.
A short silence followed.
"Now you see," burst out Elizabeth afresh, "you see, Emma, what Jane
thinks of Tom Musgrove—you must change your mind."
"No, indeed; her liking him can make no difference to me," replied Emma,
quietly.
"Oh, Emma! I did not think you so conceited, to think of your setting up
your opinion against Jane's, a married woman, and so much older and more
experienced; I could not have expected it."
"I do not set up my opinion against her, I only differ in taste," said
her sister meekly, being very anxious to be allowed to go to sleep.
"You are quite impracticable, and, I fear, very obstinate," returned
Elizabeth, with a gravity which made Emma smile in spite of her
weariness. Then followed another long silence, and she was dropping into
a comfortable slumber, when she was startled by Elizabeth springing up,
and exclaiming: "Oh! I quite forgot—what shall I do?"
"What is the matter?" enquired Emma, quite alarmed.
"Why, I forgot to tell Nanny to be sure and put the custards into the
safe, for there's a hole in the corner of the larder, where the cat gets
in, and she will be certain to eat them all before morning."
"Oh," said Emma, as her eyes again closed irresistibly, and whether or
not her sister quitted her bed to go down and rectify her error, she
could not tell, for she, at length, dropped fast asleep.
Emma spent the greater part of the next day in her father's room. It was
much more agreeable to her than the drawing-room; and Elizabeth, with
all her good qualities, was not equal to her as a nurse, and really
loved society and conversation, or rather chit-chat, so much as to be
very glad to believe her sister's assertion, that she took pleasure in
attending on her father. Mr. Watson, though indolent and self-indulgent,
was a scholar, and enjoyed the pursuits of literature when not attended
by too much labour. Emma found, as he recovered, that there was much to
be gained by intercourse with him: she read to him both in English and
French, and only regretted that she could not also assist him in Latin
or Greek. Hour after hour she had devoted to amusing him, and felt
herself well repaid by the affection he manifested in return; and now
that the society down stairs, of course, compelled Elizabeth to absent
herself, she rejoiced that it made her presence doubly necessary. She
could not like her sister-in-law—she saw so much of peevishness in
Margaret's general manner as to expect the same would be manifested to
her, and Robert had so pained and shocked her by their first
tête-à-tête, that she never approached him
without dread lest he should renew so painful a subject.
A proposal to remain with her father all the evening, instead of
appearing at dinner was negatived. He would not permit her to do so, as
it really was not necessary for his comfort, and he expected amusement
from her description of the dinner-party after it was over.
It was not a very large one; the size of their dining-parlour forbade
that—besides their own party of five, there made their appearance Mr.
and Mrs. Robinson, the country apothecary and his wife; Mrs. Steady, the
widow of a former curate, who lived in the village, and Mr. Martin, who
was doing duty for their father during his illness. To these had been
added, as we already know, Tom Musgrove; and happy would it have been
for the others had he been omitted, as it was impossible for so
fashionable a young man to be guilty of such rustic simplicity as to be
punctual. The guests whose appetites were set to that particular hour,
displayed sundry symptoms of extreme impatience, and Robert Watson
vented certain unintelligible ejaculations which were commonly supposed
to be murmurs at his tardiness. Mr. Martin, a very absent individual,
not having his wife at hand to remind him where he was, leant his head
on his hand, and fell into a fit of abstraction. Mr. Robinson, who was
making himself agreeable to Mrs. Watson, internally comforted himself
with the hope that this long fast would be productive of evil to their
digestive faculties, which he should be called in to set to rights.
Mrs. Steady was condoling with Elizabeth on the expected consequences of
this delay, anticipating that the beef would be over roasted, and the
chickens boiled to rags, and comparing this ill-bred fashionable
behaviour with the regularity and decorum of her late lamented Steady.
Emma was laboriously trying to talk to Mrs. Robinson, who looked all the
while as if she thought that somehow the delay was all her fault, and
feared to drop out a syllable, lest she should be punished for it;
whilst Margaret who had dressed herself with unusual care, sat in a
state of feverish impatience by the side of her sister-in-law,
whispering to her, every few minutes, that she was sure some shocking
accident had happened to him—he little knew the misery he
caused her—and other ejaculations of a similar character.
Half an hour passed in this manner, when Robert approached his sister,
in a glow of indignant hunger that could be no longer suppressed.
"Really, Elizabeth, I think this is too bad—there's no occasion that we
should all starve, because that young fellow is not hungry—ten to one
but he has forgotten his engagement, and we may wait till supper time
for our meal, and he none the better. Do order dinner, I say, and leave
him in the lurch for his inattention."
"Oh fie, my dear Mr. Watson!" cried his wife, quite shocked to think her
husband should be guilty of the vulgarity of having an appetite; "Oh
fie—sit down to dinner without our guest—you cannot really think of such
a thing; you cannot possibly mean it—what does it matter if we dine now,
or an hour hence? I am sure we do not keep such early hours
ourselves. I have seen too much of fashionable life to be much surprised
at his tardiness. You cannot expect punctuality from such a very
agreeable, pleasant young man!"
"Pooh, pooh, Jane, I tell you, you know nothing about it. I cannot
expect pleasure from such a very unpunctual young man—that's what you
should say—it's very rude,—and he is very ill bred—and would never do
for business."
"Business! Tom Musgrove do for business!" cried Margaret, indignantly,
"I should think not—whoever thought of business and Tom Musgrove in the
same breath?"
"Not many, I dare say," observed Robert, contemptuously, "but if he has
no business to occupy him, the less excuse is there for his preposterous
conduct."
"My dear," said Mrs. Watson, with decision; "he is very genteel—and
genteel people, when they have an independent fortune, are not obliged
to be so regular as others—Tom Musgrove is very genteel."
"You know nothing about it," cried Robert, snappishly—for when a man is
hungry, he not only dislikes contradiction himself, but, invariably, is
liberal with it to others. "If a man simpers and whispers, and makes a
few pretty—pretty speeches to you women, you set him down,
forsooth, as very genteel—though he never pays a bill—if he can help
it—is supercilious to his equals—and keeps a whole party waiting for
dinner. Plague take such gentility, say I. Elizabeth, I shall ring the
bell for dinner."
He did as he said, whilst his wife sat ruffling up and swelling with
indignation at his retort. Determined not to hear her he walked away and
stationed himself at the window, which commanded a view of the road.
She, not able to address him, and resolved he should know her opinion,
audibly exclaimed—to her neighbour—that she did know what
gentility was, for she had seen a great of genteel company at Sir
Thomas's—and that great allowances were to be made for young men who
were always wild and eccentric creatures.
Emma, who heard all this, could not help mentally considering where
those allowances were to cease, since Mrs. Watson did not seem disposed
to make them for her husband—though, in her judgment he seemed the
person most entitled to claim them. Perhaps he had outgrown his right—or
exhausted his share—possibly, the title to them ceased at marriage—or,
may be, his wife alone was not called on to accommodate him in that way.
In the present instance, as she was remarkably hungry, she was glad
Robert carried his point, and she walked into dinner with not one degree
less of pleasure, because Mr. Musgrove was not there.
A dinner party, like the present, was not likely to be productive of
much that could be called conversation. Mr. Robinson contradicted Mr.
Martin about the laws concerning poor-rates; and, after being meekly
yielded to by that worthy divine, found himself in his turn, pronounced
perfectly misinformed, and laboring under an erroneous impression by his
good friend, Robert Watson—who just allowed him to go on long enough on
a subject of which he was ignorant, to give himself an opportunity of
triumphing over him.
Just as Mr. Robinson was beginning to look very purple and red, and to
glance at his wife to see how she looked—and just as poor,
humble, meek, Mrs. Robinson was hurriedly talking nonsense to Emma about
green peas, in order to shew that she did not notice her master's
defeat, the door opened and Tom Musgrove bustled into the room.
"Beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Watson," cried he, ostentatiously
parading up to her, "But, upon my word and honor, I could not get
here sooner."
("Whose fault was that?" muttered Robert.)
"Can't think how it happened."
("Only because you started too late.")
"I am excessively sorry—glad you didn't think it necessary to wait."
("Confound the puppy—does he think we are an hour eating our soup.")
"Pray don't make any difference for me. I dare say I can make a dinner
of what I see. The mutton, no doubt, as good cold as hot."
("Good enough for you, any way.")
"Pray don't send for the soup again! It is not in the least necessary."
"Well, since you are so kind as to say so," said Elizabeth, simply, "I
will let you do as you please—I dare say the soup will not be very good
now—and it's not pleasant, I know, to have it back! Simson is handing
you a chair—pray sit down;" and as she spoke—the waiter, who was no
other than the parish clerk, acting for the night in this capacity,
thrust a chair against Mr. Musgrove's legs with such zeal, as very
nearly upset him, and quite caused him to jog Mrs. Steady's elbow as she
was in the act of lifting a glass to her lips, much to the damage of her
respectable grey silk gown. When things come to the worst, they must
mend—so says the proverb—and the company found it true on this occasion,
so far as the disagreeable noise and bustle of his entrance was
concerned. But this was not the case with Tom himself—who, really
chilled and hungry, sat down to only half a dinner, more than half
cold—and whose vanity compelled him to abstain even from what was yet
before him, lest he should be supposed guilty of the vulgarity of having
an appetite. Had the struggles of his mind been exposed, perhaps, even
Emma might have pitied him—or, at least, have admired the heroic
constancy with which he sacrificed himself at the shrine of fashionable
indifference. Unknown and unnoticed, however, were the efforts of his
self-denial, and like modest worth, or unpatronised genius, they found
their only reward in the internal satisfaction of his mind. As, however,
he was a talker by profession, and always inclined to lead in
conversation, their party gained much in liveliness, by the addition of
his society. He flattered Mr. Watson—joked with Elizabeth—quizzed Mrs.
Steady—and threw admiring glances at Emma, with laudable mirth and
perseverance. Mrs. Robinson was soothed—Robert Watson silenced—and Mr.
Martin aroused by his jocularity—whilst poor Mrs. Robinson was actually
able to finish her dinner in tolerable comfort, so much was her
husband's brow cleared from the threatened storm, which had before
alarmed her.
With secret weariness, Emma watched for the signal to withdraw from the
dinner-table, but Elizabeth was too much entertained to be at all in a
hurry to rise, and it was, at length, to Mrs. Robert Watson that her
thanks for a release were due.
Emma almost forgave her assumption on the occasion, in consideration of
the beneficial effects arising from it. It was in vain, however, to hope
that release from weariness would follow a secession from the
dinner-table; everything seemed so intolerably dull, that she was
enraged with herself for her own stupidity, feeling convinced that the
want of interest in all around her must arise from too much
self-engrossment; she tried accordingly to school herself into listening
to the platitudes of Mrs. Steady, or the boastings of her sister-in-law
with something like attention; but she tried in vain; her mind was
continually wandering away to some distant subject, or was only recalled
to the objects present, to calculate the number of minutes before the
probable time of their departure. She did not doubt their being all
amiable and excellent persons; but they certainly were not interesting
characters; Mrs. Steady, in particular, next whom she was seated, seemed
much fitter to knit stockings or make jam, than to keep up an
intellectual conversation.
The weariest evenings, however, have an end: and this, like all others,
terminated at last. Whist and loo—even the supper itself—were all
finished; and when Mr. Martin had succeeded in putting on Robert's great
coat; and secured, instead of his own, the old clerk's hat, which had
been carefully hidden behind the door, he, the last of the party,
disappeared, and Emma stole away without waiting to hear her brother
Robert's animadversions on the dinner.
The succeeding day was much too wet and stormy to allow any of the
females the relief of change of air and scene; but Emma, in the
stronghold of her father's apartment, felt less disturbed than she could
have expected. If there was storm abroad, there was anything but fair
weather within the house. Mrs. Watson was affronted with her husband,
and revenged herself by praising Tom Musgrove, and indulging in severe
strictures on those whose birth and early education incapacitated them
from judging of manners and fashion. These refined and elegant inuendos
had all the effect she could desire—irritating her husband the more,
because he could not treat them as personal and offensive, without at
the same time admitting the implied inferiority of his situation in
life, and opportunities of information and improvement. Accordingly, he
could only testify his extreme displeasure by a general crossness to all
around him, never speaking except when an opportunity to say something
disagreeable presented itself. The novelty of such a domestic scene, by
no means gave it any charms in Emma's eyes, and she could not help
considering that if Jane was annoyed by her husband's temper, it would,
at least, be wiser to try to soothe and amend it, than, by irritating
his infirmity, encrease the source of her own discomfort. The pleasure
of fretting and galling any one, was beyond her comprehension, requiring
abilities and understanding, similar to those of her sister-in-law,
properly to appreciate.
Compared with this scene of strife, her father's company was perfect
happiness, and she delighted in burying her own discomforts in a volume
of Shakespeare, or Boswell's delightful reminiscences of his idol.
Yet Elizabeth seemed really to regret that the visit was so short, and
tried, though vainly, to persuade both her brother and wife to prolong
their stay.
Robert was determined to go on Saturday; and Jane, who knew it would be
vain to oppose him, wisely took her part with a good grace, and resolved
to make it appear to be her own free will likewise.
"It is not the slightest use to press me, Elizabeth," he said, with more
truth than graciousness; "you know I can be a very determined character
when I please. I flatter myself, I have as much firmness and decision of
mind, as any woman in England. When I have taken a resolution, I
have taken it."
"But why take this resolution, Jane; if Robert must go to business, why
not stay here by yourself, and let us have a little time to enjoy your
society."
"It is very strange," said the lady, affecting to laugh, and turning to
Emma. "I always have such extreme difficulty in getting away from this
sister of yours. Indeed, I may say the same of all, or most of my
friends. 'My dear Mrs. Watson, do come!' writes one. 'My dearest friend,
you must stay' cries another. I am positively torn to pieces between
them all. My sweet friend Lady Browning was just the same when I was
with her at Clifton—upon my word, it's quite distressing."
Emma was saved the trouble of answering by Elizabeth again interposing.
"You would have no trouble at all if you would only yield now—there is
nothing to prevent you."
"My dear Elizabeth, you who are not a wife and a mother can little
understand the feelings of one filling such a doubly responsible
situation. I am absolutely dying to get back to my little darling
Marianne."
"What a pity that you could not bring her," said Elizabeth; "but still,
I dare say, she could do very well without you for a day or two more."
Before Mrs. Watson had time to answer, her husband returned to the
parlour.
"I have been trying to persuade Jane to prolong her visit, Robert; I do
so wish you could both remain."
"It's no use to bother, Elizabeth," replied he, roughly; "I cannot stay,
and Jane shall not, and there's an end of it."
"Well, I can only say I am very sorry; I am sure we shall be dreadfully
dull when you are gone."
Even this prospect caused no relenting in the heart of the obdurate
Robert, who still persisted in his plan, perhaps, with the more zest
because he delighted in tormenting both his wife and sisters.
"When shall you come and see us at Croydon, Elizabeth?" said her
sister-in-law, after a short pause; "there are several things I want
very much to show you. You should see the curtains—the new curtains in
the drawing-room—they look so handsome—all my choice: it is not
everybody who can choose curtains to advantage—requires great tact and
judgment."
"It does not require any marvellous judgment to empty a husband's purse,
guessing from the wonderful facility some ladies of my acquaintance
display," growled Robert, from behind the Weekly London Newspaper, which
his father took in second-hand. "Positively, this paper is a fortnight
old: what a place—I saw it before I left Croydon—one might as well be
buried alive!"
During this soliloquy, Elizabeth without listening in the least to her
brother, was eagerly replying to Mrs. Robert's offer.
"You are extremely kind Jane, to give me such pleasure; you know there
is nothing I should like better, but I must not think of it—indeed I
must not. I do not think my father would like my leaving home whilst he
is so ill. Margaret is so useless a housekeeper, and hates the trouble
so much—and Emma being the youngest, perhaps it would not do: if Pen
were at home, it would be different: she makes a capital housekeeper,
and she amuses my father when he is well too—I think when Pen comes
back, I think I might be tempted."
"I should think our house might offer a very pleasant change to any
young lady shut up so much as you are in this miserable place. I am sure
most of my friends are more anxious to stay than go."
"Oh, it is not that I doubt the pleasure," replied Elizabeth; "it would
be a great treat to me, I am sure. But you must not be angry at my
refusing now."
"Angry! I am not a person to be angry about trifles—it is not my way to
fret or take on, I leave that for those who have no other way of showing
their dignity but by growling at everything. People blessed with my
birth and education need not resort to such pitiful means to look grand
and important."
Emma sighed many times to see the temper of her brother so uncomfortably
irritable, and grieved again and again in secret, over the destruction
of some of her most fondly cherished hopes. All her life she had wished
for fraternal affection; much as she had loved her uncle and aunt, she
had always wished to know and love her brothers and sisters. The vain
wishes she had expended on this subject now rose up to haunt her memory
with the thought that she had been ungratefully slighting the good she
had enjoyed, for the sake of unknown objects which still evaded her.
True she was now acquainted with five members of her family; but of
these how little there was to attach, in the three last met, she hardly
liked to own even to herself. Robert was surly; Jane conceited, Margaret
fretful—and all seemed self-occupied. She tried to check these thoughts,
she was shocked at her own wickedness in conceiving such things, but the
feeling was there, even when not clothed in words, and she could not
eradicate it.
Elizabeth she dearly loved already, but from what she heard, she fancied
Penelope would not be very agreeable—and her last hope was in Sam. If he
would only love her—be a friend, a companion to her—she still flattered
herself this was possible, for Elizabeth certainly seemed to like him,
and one letter of his, which Emma had heard, gave her a favorable
impression of his character. With the fond idea of being loved by one
brother at least, at some future time, Emma saw her eldest brother and
his wife depart without any of the regret which afflicted both her other
sisters, having strong internal convictions that the house would be now
more peaceable.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v1ch06
CHAPTER VI.
.sp 2
"What are you going to do this morning, Elizabeth?" inquired Margaret in
a voice between langour and peevishness.
"Oh, I have a hundred things to do," cried Miss Watson, turning from the
window where she had watched her brother and his wife drive off. "I must
go and see about helping Nanny put away the best china and glass, and I
must pin up the curtains, and put by all the things in the best
bed-room—which were had out for Jane's use; and I want to try that
receipt she gave me for a pudding for my father—and fifty other things
beside."
"Then you will not think of walking, I presume; shall you Emma?"
"I am not sure," replied she, "is it not very dirty!"
"Good gracious, Emma!" cried Margaret sharply, "I hope you are not such
a fine lady as to mind stepping out in a little mud, or what is to
become of me—I cannot bear walking alone, and Elizabeth is sure to be
busy when I want her company."
"Perhaps," said Emma gently, rather afraid of giving offence by
suggesting so evident a duty, "if we were to help Elizabeth, she would
have done in time to join you and enjoy the fine weather."
"I don't suppose she wants us a bit," cried Margaret again.
"Thank you, Emma," replied her eldest sister, without listening to
Margaret, "but do not put off your walk on my account, I am used to
these things, and mind the trouble no more than you do threading your
needle, or finding your place in a book," and taking her key-basket from
the table, she left the room.
"There, I told you so," said Margaret immediately, "I knew Elizabeth
disdains all assistance, and hates to be interfered with in her
housekeeping: she is as jealous of her authority as possible, and I
believe would rather go through any trouble herself, than allow us to
share it for half an hour. Now just make haste, do, and put your pelisse
on; I like the finest part of the day."
Emma still hesitated—
"I am not sure that I can go with you—perhaps my father may want me."
"My father want you!" repeated Margaret in a tone of astonishment, and
with a look of surprise and incredulity, which Emma thought the
announcement did not justify, "why what in all the world should he want
you for?"
"I read to him a great deal," replied Emma colouring, lest her sister
should suppose she meant to suggest a comparison between their relative
conduct; for Margaret in general acted as if her father and his comfort
were the objects of the slightest importance to her.
"What a bore that must be," continued Margaret; "at least it is to me,
if not to you," added she, as Emma exclaimed at the idea—"for now you
have that as an excuse for not walking with me. I know what it is, you
don't want to come—and you might just as well say so at once, and not
worry me by all these put offs."
"Indeed I shall be very happy to walk with you," said Emma, in a
soothing tone, "if I my father can spare me; I will just run up and see,
and if so, we can go directly."
Mr. Watson happened to be occupied by letters of business; in which he
did not need Emma's help, and accordingly the sisters set off together.
They took the road towards the town, Margaret saying nothing as to their
object, and Emma making no enquiries. Indeed it did not occur to her
that her sister had any other motive for walking than the desire of air
and exercise.
"I have hardly had time to talk to you, Emma, since I came home; but the
fact is, Jane is so fond of me, that when we are together she seldom can
spare me ten minutes. She is an amazingly clever woman, I assure you,
and one of the best judges of character and manners I ever saw."
This assertion, though Emma believed it might be perfectly true, did not
convey to her mind precisely the idea which Margaret expected; and it
rather convinced her of the narrow circle in which her sister had always
moved, than the depth of Mrs. Robert's penetration, or the extent of
Margaret's own virtues. She did not, however, dissent from the praise,
and her sister went on complacently.
"I am sure, Emma you must be struck with Tom Musgrove's manners—is he
not delightful?" enquired she, when her dissertation on Croydon was
ended.
"I cannot say that I admire him at all," replied Emma firmly.
"Not admire him!" cried Margaret, for a moment aghast at such
heresy—then recollecting herself, she added, "ah, I suppose you mean he
did not admire you—he did not dance with you at the ball I know;
I dare say, too, he was not in spirits—if I had been there it would have
been different; if you knew him as well as I and had received as much
attention from him, and knew what he thought of yourself as I do, you
would see him with very different eyes."
"I shall be quite satisfied to view him always with as much indifference
as I do now," said Emma, "and I trust, even if his manners should
improve, or my taste alter, I shall be able to look on him without
causing you any anxiety by excessive admiration. Elizabeth tells me he
has made sad inroads on the peace of most young ladies hereabouts; I
hope he will spare me, as I suppose I must not flatter myself with being
wiser or steadier than other girls."
"Elizabeth only says so from jealousy," cried Margaret indignantly, "he
never paid her any attentions, and so—but good gracious, Emma," added
she, interrupting herself and looking behind, "there he is coming, and
some others with him—who can they be, only one wears a red coat—I did
not expect them so soon."
"Did you expect him at all?" said Emma, colouring with astonishment—"Is
it possible you walked here to meet him?"
"Well, and where's the harm if I did—I wish you would just look at those
other two gentlemen, and tell me if you know who they are!"
"Indeed," replied Emma, vexed and embarrassed, "I do not like to look
round in that way; it does not seem—at least I have been told it is not
lady-like to turn round and stare at people—but, Margaret, is it really
the case, that you came here with this view?"
"Pooh, pooh, how can you be so tiresome, didn't you know as well as me,
that the hounds were to meet at Ashley Lodge—I thought most likely Tom
Musgrove would come this way, it is his direct road; but I wish I could
make out who it is with him; they are just putting their horses into a
trot,—I declare I believe it is Lord Osborne and Mr. Howard—how tiresome
now—for Tom will not stop when Lord Osborne is there—how very
provoking!"
"If I had known this," said Emma blushing painfully, "nothing would have
persuaded me to come this way—they will think we did it to meet them—"
The gentlemen were now come so near, that Emma's concluding words were
lost in the noise produced by the sharp trot of several horses. She was
thinking rather uncomfortably about what Mr. Howard would think, and
whether he would suppose she had walked out to throw herself in
Lord Osborne's way, when the gentlemen suddenly drew up beside the high,
narrow foot-path on which the sisters were walking.
"Miss Emma Watson," cried Lord Osborne, as he threw himself from his
horse, which he hastily resigned to the groom, "by Jove! how lucky I am
to have come this way—so you are come out to see the hounds throw off? I
am so glad to have met you."
Tom Musgrove dismounted in imitation of his noble friend; but, as the path
only admitted two, he was obliged to draw back—and, whilst Lord Osborne
walked by the side of Emma, Tom was exposed, without defence, to the
appealing glances and soft whispers of Margaret. Emma saw, with a sort of
concern, which she could not exactly analyse, that Mr. Howard remained on
horseback, and only acknowledged his former partner by a bow, much colder
and more formal than his reminiscences at the visitation had led her to
expect. Whilst she was wondering at the change, her companion was trying to
be as agreeable as nature would allow him, and she could almost have
laughed outright at the air of deference and attention with which the
dashing Tom Musgrove listened to his lordship's remarks, and confirmed any
of his statements which required support. Thus they had walked for more
than five minutes, when they reached a bend of the road, where another
branch of the lane opened to them, which Emma knew would lead them almost
directly home.
"Margaret," said she, turning to her sister, "I think we had better
return this way, we may, perhaps, be wanted at home before we can reach
it."
"I am sure I am quite ready to go," said Margaret, apparently on the
point of bursting into tears of spite and envy at finding it useless to
attempt to fix Tom's attention on herself.
"I thought you were come here on purpose to see the hounds throw off,"
said Lord Osborne to Emma, "and what's the use of going home before you
reach the cover."
"Indeed you were mistaken, my lord," replied Emma calmly, but decidedly;
"for I was not aware till we saw you, that the hounds met in this
neighbourhood!"
"Well, but do come on now, you are so near—my sister and Miss Carr are
to be there, and I want to introduce you to them."
"Your lordship must be perfectly aware that what you propose is
impossible," replied Emma, "I have no claim to intrude on Miss Osborne's
notice, and she would, probably, be far more surprised than pleased by
such an extraordinary step."
"No, indeed, on my honor, my sister wishes to know you—Tom Musgrove
knows what she said about it last night—" looking over his shoulder at
his friend, but going on speaking too eagerly to allow time for more
than a simple assent from Tom. "I believe I was wrong in what I said,
which, I suppose, is what you mean, I want to introduce my sister to
you—is that right?" Emma could not quite control a smile; "so now you
will just come on with us, without stopping here any longer."
"I am much obliged to you, my lord; but, indeed, I cannot comply with
your request; and as Miss Osborne would not be expecting to meet us
to-day, she will experience no disappointment."
Very reluctantly the young nobleman was obliged to give up his
proposition; and, as they rode way, he suddenly turned towards Tom
Musgrove, after some minutes' silence, and exclaimed:
"I say, Musgrove, how is it you manage with women to make them worship
you so—Emma Watson is the only girl I ever tried to please, and
she seems to delight in refusing everything I propose. I can make no way
with her."
Tom's self-complacency was very near betraying him into a serious
blunder at this speech; for he was on the point of assenting to the
proposition that he was more successful in making fools of young women
than Lord Osborne. Fortunately, he recollected in time, that however
agreeable a strenuous support to his lordship's opinions might be under
ordinary circumstances, there were occasions when a well turned negative
was far more flattering. Lord Osborne, like many other people, might
depreciate himself—but he could not wish his friends to take the same
view of the subject; Musgrove, therefore, judiciously replied, that Miss
Emma Watson had treated him precisely the same, from which he concluded
it was her way.
The sisters, in the meantime, were pursuing their path homewards, whilst
Margaret was raining questions on Emma as to the commencement and
progress of her acquaintance with Lord Osborne,—an event which seemed to
her so very astonishing, as only to be surpassed by the cool and
composed manner with which Emma treated the affair.
Tom Musgrove's intimacy at Osborne Castle, had always greatly elevated his
importance in her eyes; yet here was her own sister, who not only had
walked side by side with the peer himself, but had positively refused to
accompany him farther, in spite of his entreaties; and she now wound it all
up by coolly declaring, that she thought Lord Osborne very far from an
agreeable young man, and had no wish to see more of him. Emma was a perfect
enigma to her sister, and but for a feeling of awe, which such exalted
acquaintance had impressed on her mind, Margaret would have railed at her
for her refusal to walk further. She was silently pondering on these
extraordinary circumstances, when she was roused by the angry bark of a
fierce dog—which rushing from the farm-yard, took up a position in the
centre of the way, and seemed determined to dispute the passage. Margaret,
screaming aloud, turned to run away, and Emma's first impulse was to follow
her example; but a moment's consideration checked her, and she attempted to
soothe or overcome the animal by speaking gently, and looking fixedly at
him. She was so far successful, that his bark sunk into a low irritable
growl, and Emma profited by the comparative silence to address a man in the
farm-yard, and beg him to call back the dog.
"He woant hurt thee, Missus," was the reply of the countryman, who
seemed, in reality, rather amused at the fright of the young ladies.
"But my sister is afraid to pass him," said Emma, imploringly, looking
round at Margaret who was standing at the distance of a hundred yards,
and evidently prepared again to take flight at the smallest aggressive
movement of the enemy.
"Thy sister must jist make up her moinde to pass as other foalk
do—unless you chose to go athert the field yonder, to get out of him's
way."
"Athert the field," Emma concluded they must go, as Margaret would not
advance; and she was about reluctantly to turn back, when the sound of
horse's hoofs was heard, and the next moment Mr. Howard appeared
advancing towards them. A glance shewed him the dilemma in which the
ladies were placed, and he was as quick in overcoming as in
comprehending their difficulties. A well aimed blow of his whip sent the
aggressor yelping to his kennel, and a sharp reproof to his master
followed, for not interfering in their favour, accompanied with a hint
about the necessity of confining his dog, if he did not wish to have it
indicted.
Mr. Howard was too well known for his word to be disputed or his
reproofs resented; the farmer promised it should not happen again—peace
was restored, and under Mr. Howard's protection, even Margaret ventured
to pass.
"I thought you were going to hunt," said Emma, in reply to his offer to
see them safely out of reach of their terrible foe. Mr. Howard said he
had only ridden out for pleasure, not for so important and imperative a
business as fox-hunting: it was evident, however, that he considered
walking with the Miss Watsons quite as pleasant as riding, and that he
was in no hurry to remount.
"Would you allow my sister to do herself the honour of calling on you?"
said he, presently; "your kindness to her little boy has quite
captivated her, and Charles is as anxious as herself to carry on the
acquaintance so happily begun. She has been ill since the assembly or
the offer would have been made sooner."
Emma coloured highly, but from very pleasurable feelings at this speech,
and readily professed that it would give her great pleasure to become
better acquainted both with Charles and his mother.
"I was almost afraid to propose it," said Mr. Howard, "when I heard the
bad success of Lord Osborne's negotiation for a similar point: you do
not really mean to refuse Miss Osborne's overtures."
"They must be made in a different way," said Emma, "before I am tempted
to accept them; or, indeed, to believe that anything more is intended
than to make me look ridiculous."
"You do less than justice both to yourself and to my friends," said Mr.
Howard, gently, "I assure you, the wish was really expressed by Miss
Osborne; and though my pupil blundered in making it known, I am certain
it was entirely from want of self-possession, not from want of respect."
Emma did not answer; she was trying to ascertain whether the gratified
feeling she experienced, at the moment, arose from the wish ascribed to
Miss Osborne, or the anxiety shown by Mr. Howard to set those wishes in
a proper light.
A pause soon afterwards occurring in the conversation, Margaret seized
the opportunity, and leaning past her sister, addressed Mr. Howard in an
earnest and anxious manner—
"Is it really true, Mr. Howard, that Miss Carr is so very beautifully
fair?"
"She is certainly very fair," replied he, rather astonished at the
question, "I do not know that I ever saw a whiter skin; but is it
possible that her complexion can be a subject of discussion or interest
in your village?"
"I do not know," replied Margaret, not at all understanding him; "Mr.
Musgrove is a great deal at the castle, is he not?"
"Yes often, I believe," said Mr. Howard, quietly.
"I do not wonder at it—he must be a great favorite with the ladies, no
doubt," continued she; "I should think his manners must recommend him
everywhere."
"I fancy his intimacy at the castle is more owing to Lord Osborne's
partiality than that of his mother or sister," said he, still in a
reserved tone of voice, as if not wishing to discuss the domestic circle
of the Osbornes; yet there was a suppressed smile on his mouth, which
Emma construed into amusement at the idea of Miss Osborne's admiring her
brother's hanger-on; and she silently diverted herself with fancying the
probable degree of esteem which his complaisance and flattery would win
for him.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v1ch07
CHAPTER VII.
.sp 2
Mr. Howard did not leave the girls until they had reached their own
gate, and then with a quiet but decided assurance that he would soon
bring his sister, he mounted his horse, and rode homewards.
"Well, Emma," said Margaret, as they entered the parlour together, "I
wish every body had your luck; I cannot see why I should not have such
great friends, yet I dare say, I have been to fifty assemblies, and
never was a bit the nearer knowing Lord Osborne or any of his set—how
you managed it, I am sure I cannot guess."
"It was only because Emma is both good-natured and pretty," said
Elizabeth, looking up from the sofa-cover she was assiduously mending.
"Emma is not the first pretty girl who has been seen in those rooms, I
believe," said Margaret sharply; "and I should like to know what being
good-natured has to do with it!"
"It made her offer to dance with little Charles Willis—and by that means
please his uncle and mother; it was her kindness and good-nature did
that."
"No it was not; it was because she was so lucky as to sit next the boy;
if she had been at the other end of the room, all the good-nature in the
world would have been of no use—it was all her good luck."
"And if you had sat next to him the whole evening, should you have
thought of offering to be his partner, Margaret?" enquired Elizabeth.
"Very likely not—I hate dancing with boys. But I don't understand how
Emma got acquainted with Lord Osborne."
"And I cannot at all comprehend what makes your head so full of the
Osbornes this morning," replied Elizabeth.
"Why we met them all this morning, and first there was Lord Osborne
walking and talking with Emma, and then Mr. Howard—there never was
anything like it—he came right up to the garden-gate before he left us."
"Did he indeed!" cried Elizabeth. "Do you mean Lord Osborne?"
Margaret explained, but her account was so tinctured with jealousy that
Elizabeth, curious and unsatisfied, ran up after Emma who had left the
room at the commencement of this discussion, to ascertain the truth from
her.
Even when Emma had related everything to her sister, it seemed almost
incredible—that Lord Osborne should have proposed such an introduction,
and Mr. Howard promised a visit from his sister, appeared more like
events in a fairy tale than the sober realities of their every-day life.
"But why did you refuse the introduction, Emma?"
"What to Miss Osborne? Because I think such unequal acquaintances are
very undesirable and not likely to compensate for the trouble which
accompanies them, by any pleasure they can afford."
"I believe in my heart, Emma, you are very proud," said Elizabeth in a
doubting, puzzled tone that almost made her sister laugh.
"Too proud to become a hanger-on of Miss Osborne's, certainly," answered
she; "much too proud to be condescended to, and encouraged, or
patronised, or anything of the sort."
"Well if I had been you, I would have just seen what his lordship would
do: suppose they had asked you up to the Castle—would you not have liked
that?"
"No," said Emma; "I should only indulge in luxuries which would make my
home uncomfortable from the contrast, or perhaps become envious from
comparing their state with my own. But I cannot imagine the option will
be given me: unless Miss Osborne seeks me, we shall not meet, for I
shall certainly not throw myself in her way."
"Well I am less proud and less philosophical than you, Emma, and I own I
would accept such an offer if it were made me, and be thankful for the
respite from the disagreeables of home, however temporary it might be. I
wonder whether Miss Osborne wishes it very much. But after all Emma, you
mean to let Mrs. Willis visit you—where's your pride in that case?"
"Surely Elizabeth, you must see the difference," said Emma, coloring.
"Mr. Howard and his sister are in our rank of life, though their
intimacy at the castle gives them artificial consequence. There would be
no condescension on their part, and no obligation incurred by me, which
a return visit would not fairly pay."
"Well, I wish I knew what day they would come," said Miss Watson, "for
we could sit in the drawing-room, and not cover the sofa and carpets."
"Pray do not do anything of the sort," said Emma, in alarm; "I hope it
will not be the only visit they will pay—and we cannot always sit
in state to receive them; make friends of them, and receive them in
parlour."
Elizabeth shook her head.
"You are very odd, Emma—what notions you have. I don't at all understand
you yet."
It was very evident by the result, that Mr. Howard had not overstated
his sister's anxiety to place her acquaintance with Emma on a footing
which would secure its permanence and authorise an increase of intimacy;
for the next Monday after making the request, the visitors arrived.
Elizabeth and Margaret were sitting together when they were
announced—but the former immediately left the room to seek for
Emma—although she would have been very glad if Margaret would have saved
her the trouble. Margaret, however, was determined to see as much of
these strangers from an unknown world, as she could, and consequently,
would not stir. She was very anxious to improve the opportunity by
immediately entering into conversation with Mr. Howard, but she could
think of nothing to say, and it was to the sister that they were
indebted for the introduction of a subject. Margaret, who had taken
little notice of her at first—for she always found a difficulty in
conversing with women, could not help feeling, in some degree, obliged
by the well-bred manner in which she commenced some common topics of
conversation.
"My brother has been telling me of your adventures on Saturday with the
dog," said Mrs. Willis presently, "I hope you suffered no further
inconvenience from it."
"Oh," said Margaret, "I was dreadfully frightened; I believe, but for
Mr. Howard's interference, I should have fainted; I am very nervous, and
I declare I would rather have remained there the whole night, than have
ventured past the horrid animal."
"My arrival there must be esteemed most fortunate," said he, "but I own
I am astonished at the rudeness of the man in the farm-yard, who
contented himself with looking on."
"Oh. he was a brute," cried Margaret, "no better than the dog—but what
else can you expect from boors like him. They have no sentiment or
feeling."
"I do not agree with you," replied Mr. Howard, "I assure you, I have
often been struck with instances of disinterested kindness and
generosity amongst the labouring classes, which prove that they are
endowed with excellent feelings."
"They have no delicacy or sentiment," said Margaret, "and without that
they are uninteresting to me. I own my partiality for the favorites of
nature, the gentle and elegant in manner, the aristocratic in birth and
breeding."
"Still I think you do our peasantry injustice, if you suppose them
destitute of delicacy of feeling, because they have not a refined way of
expressing their thoughts in words," replied Mr. Howard. "Their manners
of course are uncultivated, and their habits are what you would call
unrefined—and no one would wish they should be cursed with the desire
for elegancies, which habit has rendered indispensable with us, but
which must be unattainable to them; but the germs of generosity,
gratitude, and self-sacrifice for the good of others, may be found in
many a one who would be puzzled to express his ideas in words."
"I dare say that is very true," replied Margaret; "but I must say I
think them very coarse and clownish; now and then one sees a pretty
looking girl; but the men are all detestable."
"I have little to say for their manners or persons," said Mr. Howard;
"but, I assure you, I have met with poetical though uncultivated minds
amongst labouring men—the true poetry of nature."
"It must be very odd poetry expressed in such gothic language," said
Margaret, laughing: as she had not the smallest poetical feeling
herself, she could not comprehend what he meant when he talked of it,
and concluded that the peasantry spoke in rhyme, or, at least, blank
verse.
At this moment the entrance of the other young ladies cut short the
discussion, and introduced a new subject. Charles, who had been standing by
his mother, earnestly contemplating the crown of his hat, and drawing
figures with his finger on the beaver, now looked up, all animation, as
Emma kindly greeted him as her "first partner at her first ball." His
mother's eyes sparkled almost as much as the little boy's, at her
good-natured notice. Mr. Howard's admiration of her was less obvious, but,
perhaps, not less sincere than the others. A moment after, Mr. Watson
entered the room: his gout was better, and allowed him to come down stairs.
Mr. Howard noticed that it was Emma who rolled his easy chair into the
proper position, Emma, who arranged his footstool, who drew the curtain
to exclude the glare of the wintry sun, placed the screen to ward off
the draught from the door, and laid his spectacles, snuff-box, and
writing-case on precisely the proper spots of the proper table next him.
Elizabeth was conversing with her visitor, and Margaret never stirred on
such occasions. Certainly Emma's exertions, at this time, were almost
rendered useless by the zeal with which Mr. Howard seconded her
movements. Mr. Watson's comforts were soon arranged in the most
satisfactory manner, such as long habit had rendered indispensable to
him, and when he had carefully adjusted his spectacles, and taken a
survey of the room, he turned to Mr. Howard, and enquired, who was that
nice young woman talking to Elizabeth.
On being answered that it was his sister, he civilly apologised for not
having known her, which, as he had never seen her before, he remarked,
was not wonderful; but Elizabeth ought to have introduced him before he
sat down, as really the gout made it extremely difficult to move across
the room. Elizabeth did not think it necessary to justify herself by
informing him, that it was only owing to the self-engrossment and bustle
attending his progress and settlement in his arm-chair, that her attempt
at an introduction had been thwarted; indeed, Miss Watson was so little
used to such ceremonies as to have seized precisely the most
inauspicious moment for speaking, and having been foiled in her first
essay, sat down without trying again.
Mrs. Willis, however, made it all easy, and soothed Mr. Watson's
discomposure at such a breach of etiquette, by the good-natured and
respectful manner in which she now addressed him.
Whilst they were sitting in pleasant chat, Tom Musgrove again appeared
amongst them. Emma really began to hate the sight of him on Margaret's
account, as her sister's manners whilst in his company, cost her many
blushes; and her increase of fretfulness after his departure occasioned
discomfort to the whole party. It was a great gratification to her to
discover from Mr. Watson's manner, that he was very far from looking on
Tom Musgrove as the amiable and elegant gentleman that he aspired to be
considered, and she even fancied that her father did not receive him
simply as an inoffensive guest; on the contrary, he seemed annoyed at
his visit, and inclined to regard it as an intrusion.
"Well master Tom," said he, "what foolish thing have you been doing
lately?—breaking any more horses' knees or dinner-engagements—your
genius cannot have been idle since I saw you last—let's hear all about
it."
"No indeed sir," replied Tom; "I have been doing nothing worth
chronicling, at least to such a judge as you. I have had my own
little amusements, but they are not worth detailing. By the bye Howard,
I dare say Osborne did not tell you how completely I beat him at Fives
the other day: he's a good player too—but didn't I astonish him."
"Lord Osborne seldom entertains me with accounts of his sports, whether
defeated or victorious," replied Mr. Howard, coolly.
"When you have the gout in your foot even twice as bad as I have,"
observed Mr. Watson, "it will be consolatory to you to remember that you
could once beat Lord Osborne at Fives."
"Aye sir, I dare say I shall have my turn by-and-bye, I expect to have
it early—Osborne tells me his father had it at five-and-twenty.
It's an aristocratic complaint."
"Unless you have reason to suppose the late Lord Osborne was your
father likewise," resumed Mr. Watson drily, "I don't see what either his
gout or his aristocracy have to do with you."
"Do you feel any symptoms already?" whispered Margaret; "you really
ought to take care of yourself—who would be so much missed if you were
laid up with that dreadful disorder! and who would you get to nurse you
in your hours of suffering?"
"Oh I'll take care of myself, Miss Margaret," said he pointedly; "gout
makes one a prisoner, which is bad—I hate all confinement, and bonds of
every kind, especially fire-side bonds: freedom for me—freedom at home
and abroad—perfect freedom. By the bye, Howard," continued he, breaking
in upon a very agreeable conversation which that gentleman was carrying
on aside with Emma, "I knew you were here when I came in, by that
curious vehicle standing at the door. Positively it must have belonged
to your great grandfather—nobody more modern could have built such a
conveyance!"
"One thing is certain," said Mr. Watson, "Mr. Howard had a great
grandfather to whom it might have belonged—it is more than every one can
say!"
Tom rather winced at this observation, for as it was known, to those who
possessed good memories, that his grandfather had ridden about the
country on a donkey, whilst carrying on the lucrative business of a
rag-merchant, it was no very great stretch of the imagination to
conclude that his more remote ancestor had been equally humble in his
means of travelling.
"Perhaps it is not the most elegant conveyance in the world," replied
its owner good-humouredly; "but it carries us very safely, and the most
fashionable curricle would do no more."
"Upon my word I must beg to have the refusal of it, if you can be
tempted to part with it, Howard, and I will send it to a museum
somewhere, labelled the car of Cybele; I protest it puts me in mind of
an old print of that machine, which belonged to an aunt of mine."
"Lord Osborne has promised to give me a new carriage when either he or I
marry," said Mr. Howard; "and I mean to make mine serve till that
event."
"And are you come wooing now in person or as proxy?" whispered Tom,
quite loud enough for Emma to hear. "A good place this—one need not ask
twice, I fancy."
"Mr. Musgrove," said Howard in his particularly quiet but decisive way,
"you are as welcome to laugh at my carriage as you should be to use it,
if it were necessary; but remember there are subjects on which jesting
is indelicate, and places where it is insulting." He turned away as he
spoke and addressed Mr. Watson, to give Emma's cheeks time to recover
from the glow which betrayed that she had heard more than was pleasant.
Tom looked a little foolish, and after a moment's hesitation, addressed
an enquiry to Emma as to whether she had been walking that forenoon. He
only gained a mono-syllable in reply, and then Emma drawing little
Charles towards her, began a confidential conversation with him on the
subject of his garden and companions at school, and the comparative
merits of base-ball and cricket. Tom was repulsed, so turning to
Elizabeth, he cried:
"Well I must be going, Miss Watson, for I have an engagement. I promised
to meet Fred Simpson and Beauclerc and another fellow presently—so I
must be off. They want my opinion about some greyhounds Beauclerc has
taken a fancy to but wouldn't buy till I had had time to see them. They
are monstrous good fellows, and must not be kept waiting. Great friends
of Osborne's, I assure you."
Nobody opposed his design: then turning with a softer tone and manner to
Emma, he said,
"Really I must go to school again and take lessons from my little
friend, to learn from him the art of finding agreeable conversation.
What is the secret, Charles?"
"It is more easily explained than taught," replied Emma, "unaffected
good-humour, sincerity, and simplicity. That is all!"
Tom took himself off, and as the sound of his curricle wheels died away
in the distance, Mr. Watson observed:
"There goes a young man, who if he had had to work for his bread might
have been a useful member of society. But unfortunately the father made
a fortune, so the son can only make a fool of himself."
.sp 4
.h2 id=v1ch08
CHAPTER VIII.
.sp 2
"I suppose some of you girls will be for going over to return Mrs.
Willis's visit," said Mr. Watson to his daughters, the next day; "she's
a nice little woman so far as I saw, and I have no objection to your
visiting her; but you must go to-morrow, if you go at all this week, for
I cannot spare the horse after that day."
"Well, Emma," said Margaret directly, "I will drive you over to-morrow
if you like—you don't drive, I dare say!"
"I think," said Emma, "that Elizabeth ought to go, because as it is a
first visit, and she is the eldest—it will seem more complimentary."
"Certainly," cried Elizabeth, who was quite as anxious as Margaret to
pay the visit, "you and I, Emma, must go at all events."
"But then I can't," exclaimed Margaret, "and why am I to
be left out? if Elizabeth goes, because she is eldest, I have the
best right to go too, when Pen is away, for I am older than Emma, at all
events."
"But as the visit was paid especially to Emma," rejoined Elizabeth, "it
is quite impossible that she should give up to you. She must go."
"Oh, yes, every body must go but me, that is always the way, it's very
hard."
"Would not the chaise hold three?" suggested Emma, anxious for a
compromise, "Margaret is so slight, and I am not large, I am sure we
could sit so."
"I dare say you could," replied her father, "but I can tell you, you
would have to sit in the stable-yard if you did, for the old horse could
not draw you, and should not make the attempt—no, no, if Margaret wants
to go she may wait till next time—if you pay visits at all, you shall
pay them properly."
The consequence of this decision on the part of their father, was such
an increase of fretfulness in Margaret for the rest of the day, as to
make Emma inclined to think the society of her new acquaintance would be
dearly bought at such a penalty. Elizabeth bore it with the indifference
produced by long habit.
"It is no use minding her," said she to Emma, as they were undressing,
that night; "she is always the same; if you give up one thing, she will
quarrel about another; you can do no good to her by sacrificing every
thing to her wishes, and you had much better take your own way when you
can, and mind her crossness as little as possible."
Emma sighed at this assertion, but she sighed in vain; Margaret's
ill-humour was as apparent next morning, and rather increased as the
hour of setting off drew near. It was some consolation to her, however,
to discover that the day was exceedingly cold, with a heavy canopy of
clouds over head, and occasionally, slight sprinklings of snow, which
promised any thing but a pleasant drive to her sisters. Wrapping
themselves up as well as they could, they set off; but the ominous
appearance of the sky rather increased than diminished; and before they
came in sight of Osborne Castle, for the parsonage was within the park,
a very heavy fall of snow overtook them. As their humble vehicle slowly
progressed along, Elizabeth was earnestly hoping that none of the
Osborne family would see them; she had never before reflected much on
the difference in their rank and circumstances; but now, whilst driving
along the road where their coach and four had so often passed,
she was mentally comparing her lot with Miss Osborne's, and it seemed
almost presumption in her to come, as it were, in contact with such
superior elegance and grandeur.
Emma's sensations were different; she felt that their equipage was
suitable to their station, and need therefore cost her no blushes, as it
gave her no concern. The wish to find the inhabitants of the parsonage
at home, was uppermost in her thoughts—and the hope that they should
ultimately return, without being buried in the snow, her principal
object of anxiety.
In the former of these she was perfectly gratified; the neat and pretty
looking maid, who opened the door, announcing that both the master and
mistress were within. Emma was struck with the air of comfort and
tidiness in all she saw, possibly because it contrasted strongly with
her father's house. It was owing to Mr. Watson's frequent illness
perhaps, but at home she had observed so many things which appeared to
require a master's eye. The gate swinging on one hinge, the trees
straggling over the paths, the wall round the stable-yard broken down,
and a hundred other examples of neglect and disorder had met her eyes at
home. How different it all was at Mr. Howard's! Even with the
disadvantage of winter, and the consequent dreariness of aspect which a
lawn and shrubbery at such a season must present—the neatness of the
place conveyed an idea of comfort and taste.
The porch and steps were clean and white; and the little vestibule,
through which they passed to the parlour, was ornamented by some fine
myrtles and geraniums in pots, which combined with the well-arranged
guns, fishing-rods, and similar objects to give an air at once elegant
and pleasing to the eye, but not too studied for the daily habits of
domestic life. The useful and the ornamental were happily blended, and
Emma looked with great pleasure round her.
They found Mrs. Willis sitting alone, and were received by her with
warmth and ease.
"It is very good, indeed, of you to come through such weather to see
us," said she, "I am sure you must be half frozen—what can I give you to
make you comfortable."
Her visitors assured her they needed nothing; which, however, was not
strictly true, as Emma certainly required the presence of the brother to
make her quite contented. This assurance did not satisfy the hospitality
of their hostess, who persisted in ordering hot wine and water, and
would not be satisfied without their eating something to keep prevent
any ill effects from the cold, as she said.
They had not sat there many minutes, when Mr. Howard entered from his
little study which faced the entrance. He had seen their arrival, but
would not gratify his wishes of immediately presenting himself till he
had ascertained that their horse was properly attended to, and the
carriage placed under cover, to shelter it from the now thickly
descending snow.
Elizabeth looked round the room with surprise and admiration. It was not
larger or better than their own—and the furniture was, apparently,
neither more expensive, nor more plentiful—but there was an air which
their sitting-room never had. Instead of the old discoloured engravings
of bishops with wonderful wigs, or gentlemen in broad-tailed coats, and
flapped waistcoats, with their black frames, and dull, dusty glasses,
which adorned the walls of their usual sitting-room at home, there hung
here a few beautiful copies from the well-known and most admired works
of the Italian masters, which Mr. Howard had brought as the fruits of
his tour with Lord Osborne. These appeared to Elizabeth far more
cheerful than the dingy prints before mentioned, although the idea of
objecting to the latter, had never before entered her head. There was a
flower-stand with some pretty plants; an embroidery frame; a bird cage
with Charles's pet canary; a set of bookshelves well-filled, and a
comfortable fire. But she could not make out why the appearance of the
room was so different from things at home. Perhaps one reason was, that
the whole of the furniture, having been bought and arranged at the same
time, harmonised together; unlike the articles in her father's house,
which having been picked up at different auctions in the neighbourhood,
or purchased second-hand from the broker, appeared, when put together,
ill-matched and out of place, however good in themselves the individual
articles were. She wished she could learn the art of giving such an air
to a room, but she feared she never should. These thoughts wandered
through her mind during the intervals of her conversation with their
hostess, mixed with occasional wonder that Emma should find so much to
say, and say it all with so much ease to Mr. Howard; for though
Elizabeth could get on pretty well with Mrs. Willis, she still felt some
degree of awe towards Mr. Howard himself; a man who taught young Lord
Osborne, and played at cards with his mother. Emma, evidently undeterred
by such considerations, or rather not considering the subject at all,
kept up a very pleasant chat with him, though nothing was said by either
particularly deserving to be recorded. Half an hour passed rapidly, but
when the sisters, after glancing at each other as a signal for
departure, began to look rather anxiously at the weather, they found
that it had changed decidedly for the worse since their entrance,
although their attentions had been too much engrossed to perceive it
before. The heavy sky was discharging itself on the earth in a thick
veil of snow, which entirely concealed the distance, and rapidly
whitened all surrounding objects. So dense was the atmosphere, that it
rather seemed as if the clouds had themselves suddenly descended and
settled upon the earth, than as if they were merely dispensing their
superfluous contents. The wind too, which had before blown only in
occasional gusts, was now almost incessant, and greatly increased in
violence, and as their road lay eastward, they were certain of
encountering it in full force. The whirlwinds of snow which it raised,
threatened almost to smother unhappy travellers, and would have made it
madness to attempt to face it.
"What can we do?" said Emma, as she contemplated the scene in some
alarm; "do you think you could drive in such a storm, Elizabeth?"
"Oh, I should not mind venturing," said Miss Watson, "but I am afraid
for you; you know you had a cold this morning, and to encounter such a
storm would make you worse."
"Encounter the storm!" cried the brother and sister at once,
"impossible, not to be mentioned or thought of, much less put in
practice—they must wait a little while, if they wished very much
to return home, and see what patience would produce; in case it did not
mend, they might send a message if they feared Mr. Watson would be
uneasy—but indeed Mr. Howard thought they had better give up all idea of
returning at once, and allow him immediately to dispatch some one to
answer for their safety to their father's house. But as to leaving the
house during such a tempest, it was quite out of the question."
With the most friendly warmth, every possible accommodation was placed
at their disposal; every objection done away as soon as started; every
difficulty proved to be a vain fancy of its originator. The idea of the
addition to their circle at dinner, did not seem at all to discompose
Mrs. Willis; and the minor arrangements, the things to be lent for their
use and comfort, appeared rather to bring her positive enjoyment. In a
short time, the young ladies felt themselves quite domesticated in the
house; their cloaks and bonnets removed, their hair smoothed, and their
thick boots exchanged, for comfortable slippers of their new friend,
they found themselves again seated comfortably in the pretty
parlour—and, ere long, were busily employed in helping Mrs. Willis in
the agreeable occupation of sewing certain little colored silk bags
which Mr. Howard and Charles afterwards filled with deliciously scented
pot-pourri, from the large china jar in the corner of the room. Now,
their only subject of uneasiness besides the dread of giving too much
trouble, was the fear that their father's comfort would suffer in their
absence, as they knew only too well how little Margaret contributed
towards his amusement, or sought to spare him trouble.
Dinner time came, and Elizabeth was surprised to find that, although in
the vicinity of Osborne Castle, their hour of dining was no later than
what she was accustomed to; and still more surprised that the simple
meal—the single joint, and the plain, but certainly well-made, pudding
which followed it, was considered quite sufficient in itself, and
needing no apologies. Not that she expected anything more elegant or
uncommon, much less wished for it, but she felt had she been the
entertainer, she would, certainly, have regretted the absence of further
luxuries. The hour of dusk which followed the dinner, was particularly
agreeable, as they drew their chairs round the comfortable fire, and
chatted with the easy good nature which such a situation and such a
combination of circumstances is sure to promote. The man or woman who
can be cross and disagreeable at such a moment, must either be cursed
with an uncommonly perverse temper, or have eaten a great deal more than
is good for the health. This was not the case with either of the five
who formed this cheerful group—and Charles very freely expressed his
extreme satisfaction at the turn events had taken; appealing to his
uncle to confirm his assertion that nothing could be more delightful
than the fact of the two Miss Watsons being forced to remain in the
house, and to join in his hope that the snow would keep them prisoners
for a week to come. Mr. Howard readily assented to his view of their own
good fortune in the turn events had taken, and only demurred to his
wishes from the doubt whether the young ladies themselves would not find
such a detention a severe penalty—in which case, he was sure, even
Charles could not wish, for his own gratification, to inflict it on
them.
"Oh, certainly not, if they did not like it," cried Charles, "only I am
sure Miss Emma, you are too good-natured to object to what would give us
all so much pleasure."
"If my opinion or wishes could make any difference to the snow, or serve
to open the road, Charles, it would be worth while to form a deliberate
decision," said Emma, good naturedly; "but now I want you, in the
meantime, to guess this riddle," and she diverted his attention by
proposing some charades and enigmas for his amusement.
The diversion soon occupied the whole party, and much mirth ensued at
the variety and strange guesses which it gave rise to. Presently a note
was brought to Mr. Howard, which after studying near a light for some
time, he threw down on the table, and said:
"There, ladies, there is a riddle which I would almost defy you to
read—look at it!"
His sister took it up.
"Oh! I see—pray Miss Watson can you read that name?" and she held it out
to Elizabeth, who, with Emma, looked at it with great curiosity.
"Is that writing!" cried Emma, "and can any one expect it to be read; I
do not understand a word, except the three first."
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "one can read that, 'my dear Mr. Howard,' but the
rest appears as if the writer had dipped a stick in an ink bottle, and
scribbled over the paper at random—you do not mean to say, you have read
it, Mr. Howard?"
"I made out its meaning," said he, looking up from a writing-table, at a
little distance, "and I am answering it at this moment."
"Well, you must be much more clever than I am," said Elizabeth, simply,
"they are all hieroglyphics to me."
"It is a note from Lady Osborne," said Mrs. Willis, "I know her
signature; but I am not sure that I could decipher more."
"Lady Osborne!" cried Elizabeth, looking at it again, but this time with
great respect, "do peeresses write in that way."
"Not all, I trust, for the credit of the peerage," replied Mr. Howard,
"or, at least, for the comfort of their correspondents."
"It is certainly a great misapplication of abilities," observed Emma,
coolly, "for I am sure it must cost a person more trouble to produce
such a scrawl than it would to write three legible letters."
"I have no doubt it has cost her ladyship some trouble, and I am certain
it has put her to needless expense," said he, "for on one occasion, her
steward sent an express to London to enquire the meaning of a note he
had received which was intended to announce her return home: they passed
the man on the road, and consequently the housekeeper was taken by
surprise; how angry she was at the blunder!"
"Well but, Edward, what is the subjects of your present
billet-doux, or is it a secret that you are
answering in such a hurry?"
"It is only to invite me to the castle to-night, to make up their
card-table, which I have refused," said he, as he gave his note to the
servant and seated himself again.
"Ah, how glad I am," cried his sister, "such a night, to ask you out,
though only across the park! The Miss Watson's company affords a
sufficient apology even to Lady Osborne, I should think."
"It is a sufficient one to myself," said Mr. Howard, "Lady Osborne may
be unable to calculate accurately what I gain by the refusal—but I know
that I secure a pleasant party, and escape a dreadful walk, to say
nothing of the tedium of the card-table itself; you see how deeply I am
indebted to your presence, Miss Watson, which serves me as an excuse on
this occasion."
"We always hear virtue is its own reward," said Emma, "and your
hospitality to us is now repaid in kind; as you would not allow us to
encounter the snow, it would have been unjust that you should be exposed
to it yourself."
"Well, Edward, I must say, I should be glad if you had a living in some
other part of the country—for you must know," turning to Elizabeth,
"that the inhabitants of the castle are almost too near to be pleasant.
We are under obligations which neither party can forget, and Edward is
compelled to sacrifice a great deal of time, and suffer much occasional
inconvenience from the whims of the great lady, which would be all
obviated if our residence were fifty miles off. You have no idea how
exacting she is; and if my brother were not one of the best-tempered men
in the world we never could go on as well as we do."
Here was food for wonder to Elizabeth; after all then the Osbornes
though noble were not perfect; and the Howards, with their nice house,
comfortable income, and high connections had, like other people, their
own peculiar grievances, and cherished those hopes of improving their
lot, by some anticipated change, which form the principal charm of life
to half the world.
"I owe much to Lady Osborne for kindness both of deed and of intention,"
said Mr. Howard seriously; "and I should be sorry either by word or act,
to fail in the respect which is her due. She always means kindly at
least."
"It is quite right of you, Edward, to be careful how you express your
opinion, but neither gallantry nor gratitude have the same claim on me.
She always means kindly to herself, I dare say, and thinks she means so
to us—but she is no judge of our comfort, and fancies because our rank
is different, we have a different set of feelings likewise—"
"For shame, Clara," interrupted her brother, "you forget what you are
saying, and the best thing for you is, that we should forget it too."
"No indeed," replied she smiling; "must she not suppose you endowed with
an extraordinary indifference to cold, and a super-human energy of frame
to be pleased at encountering such a storm as this? hark to the
wind!"
"Well, I am convinced, that were we removed from the vicinity of the
Castle, as you so much desire, Clara, we should suffer as much
inconvenience from the loss of many comforts which they afford us now;
and you would admit then, that the good and evil were more equally
balanced than you are at present disposed to allow."
"We might not have quite so much game, Edward; Miss Osborne would not
give me flowers, and we should not go to assemblies in their coach; but
on the other hand, I should not be so plagued by our best maid marrying
their groom, as Lucy is going to do next month, because the Osborne Arms
will then be vacant; nor would the laundress tell me when I complained
of her clear-starching, that she had always helped in my lady's laundry,
and the housekeeper had been perfectly satisfied with her."
"But pray tell me," said Emma, "is there any reason for her ladyship's
curiously illegible hand, has she lost any of her fingers, or did she
never learn to write?"
"I assure you she would be surprised at your not admiring her writing,"
said Mrs. Willis; "she piques herself on its peculiar and aristocratic
beauty."
"I am sure," said Elizabeth, "I have often been punished for writing
which was much better than that; the writing master at school would have
groaned at such a prodigious waste of paper and ink."
"Nevertheless, it thoroughly attains the object at which she aims, to be
unique," said Mr. Howard, "and I am sure she would be much surprised at
hearing it was illegible; but she thinks a fair, flowing hand, in an
Italian character, much more a round, distinct, and clear one, only fit
for tradesmen's accounts or clergymen's sermons."
"She has the same taste in everything," said his sister; "that frightful
little dog she is so fond of petting, and half the ornaments in the
drawing-room have no value but in their singularity."
"And do her family inherit her tastes?" enquired Emma, "does her son,
for instance, prefer the wonderful to the beautiful?"
Mr. Howard gave Emma an enquiring glance, which seemed intended to
question the motive of her curiosity; then answered rather gravely, that
Lord Osborne's tastes and opinions were as yet unformed.
"But he is not insensible to the power of some kind of beauty," cried
Elizabeth, looking archly at her sister; "from what I have lately heard
of him, I am certain he is not."
Why the subject of Lord Osborne's tastes should be disagreeable to Mr.
Howard, Emma could not precisely comprehend, though she pondered long on
the matter, but this short discussion was evidently followed by a
certain coldness and restraint in his manner of addressing her, which
puzzled and rather vexed her. It was not, however, shaken off during the
rest of the evening, and the unpleasant sensation it produced, was only
mitigated by his being persuaded to read aloud to them, and in this
manner the rest of the evening was spent.
The weather the next morning did not offer any prospect of a release to
the young ladies, and to say the truth they evidently bore the
involuntary absence from home without suffering very acutely, if either
their air of complacency or their lively conversation might be
considered indicative of their feelings. Breakfast passed pleasantly
away, and the ladies were quietly sitting together afterwards, when the
door opened and Lord Osborne's head appeared.
"May I come in?" said he, standing with the door in his hand. "You look
very comfortable."
"You will not disturb us, my lord," said Mrs. Willis gently but
good-humouredly, "provided you have no dog with you."
He advanced and paid his compliments to the ladies, then turned to the
fire.
"That's nice," said he; "you can't think how pleasant it is after the
cold air;" then seating himself and holding out his feet to dry before
the fire, he said to Emma, "I heard you were snowed up here last night."
"Did you, my lord," said she very coolly.
"Yes; my mother would know who it was with Howard, and so I
learnt, and I am to give you my sister's compliments, or love or
something of the sort, and as soon as the road is swept she will come
and see you."
Emma was rather embarrassed at this declaration; she did not wish for
Miss Osborne's notice, and felt uncomfortably averse to her patronage;
yet the declaration seemed to excite so little surprise or emotion of
any kind on the part of her new friend that she began to think it might
be a more common-place matter than she had anticipated. The feelings of
the sisters were not at all alike, though the result was the same in
each; they both shrank from any intercourse with Miss Osborne; Elizabeth
because she feared their inferior style of living would shock and
disgust her, or perhaps excite her ridicule; Emma because she
apprehended the superiority of her birth and fortune would lead the
peer's daughter to expect a degree of complaisance and submission which
Emma herself would only pay to superior talents or virtue; but when she
saw the quiet ease with which Lord Osborne was received, and the
indifference with which the announcement of his sister's intentions was
listened to, she became better reconciled to her lot, and prepared to go
through her share of the introduction with calmness.
After all, Miss Osborne, though a baron's daughter and living in a
castle, might have the tastes which are to be found amongst the dwellers
in parsonages—though she travelled in a coach and four, she might love
variety and novelty as much as the driver of the humblest one-horse
chaise, and the prospect of forming a new acquaintance might have many
charms for her on a snowy day when her time would probably hang heavy on
her hands.
"It's not such bad walking either as you would think," said Lord Osborne
to nobody, and in answer to nothing; "and the walk down here is screened
from the wind; but you would be surprised to see how the snow has
drifted in places: it will be impossible for you to get through the
lanes to-day Miss Watson."
"We do not intend that they should attempt it," said their hostess,
"until we have ascertained that the roads are perfectly practicable, it
would be inhuman to turn them out."
A short silence ensued. Lord Osborne sat by the fire looking at Emma,
who proceeded steadily with her work; presently Mrs. Willis commenced,
or rather resumed a conversation with Elizabeth, for the entrance of his
lordship had interrupted it, on the best methods of rearing domestic
poultry.
Gradually as Miss Watson became hardened to the consciousness of being
listened to by Lord Osborne, her faculties returned; and though at his
first entrance she could not have told how young chickens should be fed,
before the expiration of half an hour she was equal to imparting to her
companion the deepest mysteries of the poultry yard.
Whilst they were thus sitting, quiet and composed, Charles Willis
suddenly rushed into the room and took up his station close to Emma's
work-table.
"Why, Charles," said Lord Osborne, "don't you see me—aren't you going to
speak to me this morning," and he laid a firm grasp, as he spoke, on
Charles's coat collar, and drew the boy towards himself.
"I beg your pardon, my lord, I really did not see you," replied Charles,
twisting his person in the vain hope of eluding his lordship's grasp,
and keeping his place.
"I say, Charles," continued the young man, "how comes it lessons are
over so early this morning—a holiday—hey—or uncle lazy—I thought you
never finished till noon?"
"Oh no, we have been very industrious," Charles answered; "we both
worked as hard as we could to get lessons over because we wanted to come
early into the drawing-room as the Miss Watsons were here."
"But you don't mean to say you like the Miss Watsons better than Latin
grammar—or Greek verbs—that's impossible altogether."
Charles laughed.
"Are you so fond of the Latin grammar, my lord?" asked he, slyly.
"I! oh no; but then I learnt all mine long ago; and since I survived the
flogging, I dare say it did me no harm. But now tell me," added he, in a
whisper, quite distinct enough for every one in the room to hear, "was
it you or your uncle who was in the greatest hurry: or does not he like
the Miss Watsons as well as you, Charles."
"Oh, I assure you, he was quite as anxious as myself—and I think he
likes Miss Emma as much as I do," whispered Charles in reply.
Whether the deep colour in Emma's cheek, at that moment, was occasioned
by this answer of Charles, or by vexation at an obstinate knot in her
thread, which she vainly endeavoured to disentangle, was not exactly
obvious to Lord Osborne's perceptions. He thought the effect, however,
so very becoming as to regard her with great admiration, and his looks
were intently fixed on her, when Mr. Howard entered the room.
The eager step and open, happy look with which he was advancing, seemed
to meet an unexpected shock at the sight of his young pupil. His air was
embarrassed as he paid him his compliments, and after standing for a
moment, as if in hesitation, he drew a chair near Miss Watson and his
sister, on the opposite side of the table to the others.
A pause of some minutes ensued: it appeared that Lord Osborne found
sufficient, amusement in contemplating the varying colour in Emma's
cheeks, whilst Mr. Howard was occupied in playing with a pencil he took
from the table, and did not raise his eyes at all.
"It is not like your lordship's usual aversion to cold," said he, at
length, "to venture out on foot in such a morning. I thought nothing
could have tempted you to such an exertion."
"One changes sometimes," replied Lord Osborne, "and one can do anything
with a sufficient motive—I mean to turn over a new leaf, as my nursery
maids used to say—and you will hardly know me again."
Another silence, during which his lordship crossed and uncrossed his
legs repeatedly—then took up the poker and stirred the fire. Emma
heartily wished him back at the castle: his looks fixed on her were very
unpleasant; and she hoped that his departure would release Mr. Howard
from the spell which appeared to overpower him, and restore his ordinary
animation.
She had, however, long to wait for this desirable result; it was evident
that the drawing-room at the parsonage presented more charms to the
young peer, than the castle halls, and he continued to sit in silent
admiration of Emma's blushes long after Mr. Howard had risen in despair,
and left the room.
The sound of the door bell about noon, brought some prospect of a
change; eliciting from Mrs. Willis an exclamation of wonder, and from
Lord Osborne an interjection—
"I'll bet anything that's my sister."
He was right. Wrapt in a furred mantle which might almost have defied
the cold of a Siberian winter, Miss Osborne made her entry, on purpose
to call on Miss Emma Watson, as she declared immediately. Emma observed
her with some curiosity. She was a small, young woman, with lively
manners, a quick, dark eye, and good humoured expression. Quite pretty
enough, considering her birth, to be called beautiful, though had she
been without the advantages of rank, fashion and dress—had she, in fact,
been a Miss Watson, and not a Miss Osborne, she would not, probably,
have been noticed a second time. She was extremely courteous and
agreeable in her manners, chatting with volubility and animation, as if
it was a relief to her to escape from the state apartments of her
mother's house, to the unrestrained warmth and good-nature of the
parsonage.
"Where's your brother to-day, Mrs. Willis," said she presently, "has he
run away from me; does he fancy we are charged with lectures for his
desertion of our drawing-room last night. He need not be afraid.
I think he was very excusable."
"He was here just now. I do not think his conscience seems very
uneasy—he is probably engaged in some business at present—I will let him
know you are here."
"Oh no, pray don't disturb him; I have too much regard for his credit,
and the good of his parishioners. What should I say if my intrusion
broke in on an argument, or put to flight a beautiful figure of speech.
How could I answer for such mischief. Let him write his sermon in
peace."
Mrs. Willis assented. Probably Miss Osborne did not expect she would,
for she presently added:
"I don't know, however, but that on the whole you had better summon him,
because then he can give us his opinion on the proposal that I am
charged to make, being nothing less than that you should all come
and dine at the Castle this evening."
It would not be easy for words to convey an accurate idea of the look
and feelings of Elizabeth Watson on hearing this proposal. To say she
was astonished, is to tell but a small part of her sensations. The idea
that she should have lived to see the day which brought about such an
invitation was so perfectly overwhelming, that she seemed to herself
until that moment never to have been surprised before. But to accept it
was impossible: she felt an instantaneous conviction that it must be
refused; for besides not knowing how to conduct herself under such
circumstances, she had no dress to go in. Their visit to the parsonage
having been entirely unpremeditated, it followed, of course, that there
had been no preparations made; their best dresses, inferior as they were
to what the visitors at Osborne Castle might be expected to produce,
were reposing in quietness in Elizabeth's wardrobe.
Miss Osborne's proposal was followed by a short, hesitating silence
amongst those to whom it was addressed.
"Perhaps," cried she perceiving this, "you will like a moment's
consideration. I do not wish to hurry for an answer. Pray deliberate on
the case, Mrs. Willis, but if you can, persuade your friends to conclude
their deliberations in our favour."
"I am afraid," said Elizabeth, urged by the desperate nature of her
feelings to some immediate exertion, "I am afraid we cannot have the
pleasure—do ourselves the honor I believe I ought to say—but indeed we
were not prepared—we have no dress at all suitable for the occasion"—she
stopped, afraid that she might have done wrong in exposing the real
state of the case.
Miss Osborne looked surprised, as if the idea of not possessing a
sufficient stock of gowns had never before entered her head.
"I am sorry there should be any difficulty," she cried, "gowns that are
good enough for Mrs. Willis and Mr. Howard, must surely be good enough
for us. We shall not make the smallest objection to your coming as you
are. You will be conferring on us a most important favour. You cannot
imagine how miserably dull we find ourselves in this weather. Mama dozes
over a fire-screen, and Miss Carr and I sit and look at each other, and
long for a change of scene. Snow is always detestable, but at Osborne
Castle it surpasses everything for deadening the faculties and damping
the spirits. Come now, do think favourably of my request, how shall I
dare to face Lady Osborne with a second refusal?"
"I hope her ladyship was not vexed at my brother's refusal last night?"
said Mrs. Willis, with a little anxiety.
"I will not say she was not disappointed," replied Miss Osborne gaily,
"we are so dreadfully dull and melancholy; but he has my full and entire
forgiveness for his defalcation, on condition that he comes to-night to
repair his errors, and brings you all with him."
Meantime Lord Osborne had edged his chair closer to Emma, and was in low
tones pressing on her the request his sister had just made.
"Do come, you look too good-natured to say no—I am sure you must be
monstrously obliging."—Emma shook her head and tried not to smile.—"And
as to what your sister says about dress, that's nonsense; that is, I
don't mean she talks nonsense, but it's foolish to care about dress—you
look very nice—you always do—and we don't the least mind about your
gown. My mother and sister have such loads of fine clothes themselves,
that depend upon it they will not care the least for seeing any more."
Emma thought this extremely probable, but yet it did not seem quite
applicable to their case. How, indeed, could any young lady be expected
to derive consolation from the idea that her personal appearance could
be a matter of total indifference to her companions. It was evident to
Miss Osborne, that the ladies wished to discuss this question amongst
themselves; she therefore dropped the subject, and after chatting
good-naturedly on some indifferent topics, took her leave, with an
assurance that if they decided in favour of the Castle, a carriage
should be sent down to fetch them. She persuaded her brother to return
with her, which was a particular relief to Emma, who had grown quite
tired of his eyes.
Hardly was the house door closed on them, when Elizabeth drawing a long
breath, exclaimed:
"Oh dear, Mrs. Willis, do tell me what we had better do, I am sure I
would much rather refuse if we can, but then perhaps it would not be
thought right—and I must say if I were not so frightened I should rather
like to see the inside of the Castle, and how people go on there."
"I do not think you need be much alarmed," replied Mrs. Willis smiling
good-humouredly, "you will survive it I dare say, if you make up your
mind to go. Lady Osborne is rather stiff certainly, but though
she does nothing to make herself agreeable, she is not unpleasant—not
more so than a handsome piece of furniture—a picture, or anything of
that sort. And I really think you would be more amused there than in our
little drawing-room."
"But we have no dress fit for company," again urged Elizabeth.
"They are aware of the circumstances under which you came, and therefore
must know you to be unprepared. I do not, therefore, think that
need be an insurmountable objection. Your own inclination must decide
it."
At this moment Mr. Howard re-entered the room. His sister immediately
began to relate to him the fact of the visit and the invitation; but he
cut her short by saying that he knew it; he had met Miss Osborne and her
brother as they were leaving the house, and accompanied her part of
the way home. His eyes were turned on Emma as he spoke, and an idea which
suddenly occurred to her relative to his acquaintance with the young
lady, caused her a sensation that brought the blood to her cheeks. Why
she should color and feel warm at the notion that he had any particular
regard for Miss Osborne, she could not exactly decide. It certainly
could not concern her in the least if he had, and she would have been
very glad to have kept her looks and feelings under better regulation,
she was so very much afraid that he would guess her thought. This was an
alarm entirely without foundation, as far from rightly guessing what was
passing in her mind, Mr. Howard's fancy went off in a totally different
direction. He attributed her blushes to some sentiment connected with
the brother, not the sister, and supposed her to be pleased with the
consciousness of these attentions being meant for her. For his own part
he felt considerable surprise that Miss Osborne should so directly and
decidedly countenance her brother's admiration. He had expected more
pride from her.—Could he have heard the conversation that passed on the
subject at Osborne Castle, he would have better understood the hidden
machinery on which these matters turned.
"What makes you so anxious to cultivate an intimacy with those Watson
girls," said Miss Carr to her friend, when she heard her announce an
intention of calling on them.
"I like the looks of Emma particularly," replied the young lady
addressed; "there is expression in her countenance, an air and manner in
her motions which I admire."
"And do you run after all the girls who have a little manner or
expression, Rosa?" enquired her friend again, with something of
superciliousness in her tone.
"I don't like those who have not, Fanny—but there is more than this in
my plan—I think Mr. Howard likes her."
"Well, and what does that signify to you? what have you to do with Mr.
Howard's liking?" this question was accompanied with a sharp,
interrogative look from Miss Carr, as if she strongly suspected her
friend's motive.
"I have half a scruple about explaining to you, Fanny."
"Oh, pray throw it away then and explain it once. I am dying of
curiosity to understand the motive of your manœuvres."
"I will tell you nothing whilst you look so much as if you think you
understand all—your quizzical look provokes me to silence."
"And if you will not tell me, Rosa, I will just tell you what I think;
listen—you think Mr. Howard admires Emma Watson—and you cultivate her
acquaintance for the sake of thwarting their attachment. Is that worthy
of you."
"Worthy indeed," cried Miss Osborne, throwing back her head with an air
of disdain. "I might justly retort your question—upon my word, I am
highly flattered by your gracious opinion of me. No, if I do stoop to
manœuvre, it is not to dishonor our house, or to promote
alliances unworthy of it. Now I will tell you my real motive—though
positively even to you, I am half-ashamed of mentioning it. My
mother—have you not observed—she is so very partial to—"
Miss Osborne paused in some confusion. Her friend looked puzzled.
"Partial to whom—to Emma Watson? I really don't understand."
"No, no, to Mr. Howard," replied the blushing daughter, in a low tone;
"and I would give the world to see him married and out of her way."
"Very well—very reasonable," said Miss Carr, coolly, twisting her
fingers through her long ringlets. "But how does your patronising this
Emma promise any particular progress to Mr. Howard's passion? In my
opinion, you had much better let them alone."
"I don't think so," replied Miss Osborne, decisively; "the Watsons have
always been considered as very low in rank amongst visitable people. The
few we know ourselves decidedly hold them cheaply—and I think it possible
that, accustomed to superior society, Mr. Howard might hesitate a moment
before throwing himself amongst a set so decidedly inferior to those with
whom he is used to mix."
"He does not seem to feel any such nicety, since his admiration has
begun, and will, no doubt, prosper without your intervention. I still
repeat, you had better let them alone."
"But I have a great regard for Mr. Howard, and should like to be on good
terms with his wife."
"Wait till she is in existence then."
"But if I slight her now, will she be more inclined to be
sociable then?"
"You need not slight her—be civil if you like—but why seek her out
unnecessarily?"
"Because I foresee that his marriage, whenever it takes place, will
cause a fracas, and I should wish them both to feel they have a
friend in me."
"Well, it is an affair that concerns you no doubt, much more nearly than
me, and I cannot presume to dictate. But I think all manœuvring
dangerous."
"Besides," continued Miss Osborne, changing the ground of her reasoning,
"Emma Watson, in herself seems a nice conversable girl, and, I assure
you, at Osborne Castle, when there is no party in the house, such an
acquisition is not to be despised."
"Why, Rosa, you never spoke a word to her—how can you tell that she is
conversable."
"Not from my own observation of course; but I can form some judgment
from what Mrs. Willis and her brother have told us—"
"And your brother, too," said Miss Carr, with some emphasis; "he seems
to be taking some trouble to make her acquaintance."
"Who, Osborne? yes, he admires her, I believe; but his is a very passive
sort of admiration, not in the least likely to lead to any vehement
results."
"Well, I can admit your being sometimes lonely as a motive for wishing
for a country friend; but, if I do not think you make the selection with
your usual judgment, you must forgive me."
"I cannot imagine why you entertain such a prejudice against poor Emma
Watson, Fanny; you cannot, surely, be jealous of her—are you in
love with Mr. Howard—come—confess!"
"No," replied Miss Carr, coloring deeply as she spoke.
The result of this conversation was that visit and invitation already
related. Lady Osborne made no objection to her daughter's proposal. Her
card-table would be then certain to be filled, and Mr. Howard would have
no excuse for absenting himself. Her pride did not stand in the way on
this occasion—she considered every individual not belonging to the
peerage to be so much beneath her, that the gradations amongst
themselves were invisible to her exalted sight; and a step or two, more
or less, made no difference. She had not, therefore, the smallest
inclination to oppose the admission of new spectators to her glory—and
rather rejoiced in the idea of the envy and admiration to which her
jewels, her equipages, and her general style of grandeur would give
rise.
With these amiable motives, she allowed her daughter to do as she liked,
and the only one who seemed at all discomposed by the circumstance, was
Miss Carr, whose remonstrances, however, proved quite ineffectual.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v1ch09
CHAPTER IX.
.sp 2
To return to the party at the parsonage, whom we left discussing the
point, Elizabeth suddenly turned to her sister and exclaimed,
"By the bye Emma, you have given no opinion on the subject—yet you are
as much interested as the rest of us. What do you think of going—should
you like it?"
"Yes, I think I should," replied Emma honestly and boldly. "I like what
I have seen of Miss Osborne better than I expected, and really have
rather a curiosity to see the inside of the Castle."
"Ah, Emma, I am glad you have come down from your proud indifference,
and condescended to be curious like the rest of us," cried her sister.
"Did you think I affected indifference, Elizabeth?"
"I suspected it. For my part I have no scruple in owning my wishes, and
should like extremely to surprise Tom Musgrove by my acquaintance with
the manners, amusements and ideas prevalent in Osborne Castle, of which
he talks so much."
"Then I may conclude it a settled affair," observed Mrs. Willis; "and
Charles shall run up to the Castle with the note immediately. That shall
be his share of the amusement."
At six o'clock the party started from the Parsonage. Elizabeth in a
flutter between curiosity and fear, which made her pleasure in the
undertaking rather doubtful to herself. Emma would have thought more
about it had she not been engrossed with meditations on the change in
Mr. Howard's manners, which rather perplexed her. He had been different
all the afternoon from what he had appeared in the morning; his
prolonged absence from their company seemed unaccordant with Charles's
declaration of his haste to join them, and there was a coldness in his
tone when he addressed her, quite at variance with his former
warmth and frankness. This pained her; she was constantly fancying that
she had done or said something to lessen herself in his esteem, but she
could not imagine what it was. Occupied with these thoughts she scarcely
noticed the grandeur of the Hall, the magnificent staircase, the
elegance of the ante-rooms as they approached, and was only roused from
her reverie by the overpowering blaze of light in the drawing-room. Lady
Osborne was alone in the room, seated on a sofa from which she did not
rise to receive them, but graciously extended her thin and richly
jewelled hand to Mrs. Willis, and bowed courteously to her companions.
Overawed by her near approach to such magnificence, Elizabeth drew back
rather hastily, and after nearly upsetting Emma by inadvertently
treading on her toe, she dropped into the chair which seemed most out of
sight, and endeavoured to recover her breath and composure.
Lady Osborne desired the other ladies to find seats, and then observing
that Mr. Howard likewise drew back, and seemed to meditate a retreat to
one of the windows, she dropped the elegant screen she had been holding
in her hand. It was not well managed, however; Mrs. Willis was so near
that she restored her ladyship's screen before her brother had time to
interfere. But Lady Osborne was not to be baffled, she addressed a few
civil words to Mrs. Willis, and then suddenly observed,
"You have no footstool Mrs. Willis, take mine—I daresay Mr. Howard will
bring me another."
Thus appealed to the gentleman was forced to approach, and immediately
with eager civility was offered a seat on the sofa by herself.
Emma meantime was contemplating their hostess with some interest, and
more wonder. Lady Osborne had been a celebrated beauty, and her dress
showed that she had by no means given up all pretensions to her former
claims. Jewels and flowers were mingled in her hair which was still
remarkably abundant; her neck and shoulders were a good deal uncovered,
her arms and hands were heavily hung with ornaments, and she smoothed
down her rich dress with a hand which though thin was still white and
delicate-looking. There was something in her manner to Mr. Howard which
particularly struck Emma—a sort of consciousness and wish to attract and
engage him, that seemed very much at variance with her age and station.
Not that she was an old woman—Emma had learned from "The Peerage" that
she was not more than forty-five, and she looked less. But she was the
mother of a grown-up son and daughter, and the widow of a peer; and a
grave and gentle deportment, stately but serene, would have seemed more
becoming in Emma's eyes, and given her a higher idea of her character.
She had not however very long to make these observations as Miss
Osborne's entrance gave her another subject for her thoughts. This young
lady presented a remarkable contrast to her mother, from the studied
plainness of her dress. She was entirely without ornament, except some
beautiful flowers, and had evidently sought in her toilette to
assimilate her appearance as nearly as was suitable to what she knew her
guests must present. She took a seat between the two strangers, and
entered readily into conversation with Emma; but before many sentences
had been exchanged, their party was completed by the appearance of Miss
Carr at one door, as the young master of the house entered at another.
He paid his compliments to them all by a short bow, and a muttered, "Glad
to see you," then walked towards his mother's sofa, and stationed himself
by the end of it, nearest Emma, where leaning against the elbow, he could
resume his apparently favorite amusement of staring at her face. Miss Carr,
meanwhile, had approached the fender, and stood fluttering over the fire
for some minutes, then advancing nearer to Lady Osborne, addressed to her
some trifling question, which diverted her attention from Mr. Howard, to
his evident relief. He immediately rose, and resigned his seat in her
favor. Lady Osborne looked displeased, but to that Miss Carr was
indifferent, she had secured a position at Lord Osborne's elbow, which was
her own object, and broken short her lady hostess's attempts at flirtation
with the clergyman which she knew would please her friend.
Her position, however advantageous, was not long tenable: the summons to
dinner was given before she had time to utter more than one remark to
Lord Osborne, cutting off his answer, which, short as he usually made
his replies, there was now no opportunity to utter. Lady Osborne rose in
great state, and giving her hand to Mr. Howard, proceeded to the dining
room, through a long range of ante-rooms, where large glasses were so
arranged as to exhibit before her, her stately figure, and glance back
the lustre of her diamond ornaments. As Elizabeth and Emma followed Miss
Osborne and her friend, they could not help wondering at the
self-admiration which made it agreeable thus to see nothing but self.
"How dingy we look compared to her ladyship and Miss Carr," whispered
Elizabeth to her sister. "I really feel quite ashamed of myself."
"I trust I shall be a little sheltered from her son's eyes," rejoined
Emma, in a similar tone, "his stare is quite overpowering; why does he
not, sometimes, look at you."
"Thank you, I do not wish it—gracious—six footmen—what can they all find
to do in waiting," this ejaculation was uttered almost inaudibly—they
having reached the dining-room, where Elizabeth was too much awed to
speak.
Lady Osborne did not sit at the head of her own table, and her two young
visitors were seated on either hand of Miss Osborne on the opposite side
of her ladyship. Immediately that she perceived how they were about to
be arranged, Emma contrived to seat herself as far as possible from
their host, and by that means became the neighbour of Mr. Howard. She
fancied he perceived the object of her manœuvres, for a sort of half
smile passed over his face, and he looked either amused or pleased, she
could not tell which. He did not address her, however, and as Miss
Osborne turned to converse with Elizabeth she sat for some time silent.
But as dinner advanced, just as her ladyship was detailing to Mrs.
Willis some events in the village which required superintendence, and
whilst Miss Carr was making a lively attack on Lord Osborne—about his
absence of mind during the dinner, Mr. Howard enquired whether her
curiosity was gratified. Pleasure that he should once more resume a tone
of friendship, brought a lively colour to her cheeks, and so sweet a
smile to her lips, that he must have been very insensible to admiration
of beauty, had he been able to resist the attraction. He continued the
conversation as long as Lady Osborne's narrative served as a screen to
them, and though, when that drew to a close, he found himself compelled
to transfer his attention to their hostess, the impressions left by his
look and tone were so very pleasing, as quite to rescue the dinner from
a charge of stupidity which Emma had previously been meditating to bring
against it. It was lucky that she had this little diversion, for
otherwise her share of amusement would have been small. There was not a
great deal said at dinner, and of that little comparatively a small
portion fell to her lot.
It was over however at last, and when they had reached the drawing-room
to which they were ushered, in almost as much form as they left it,
though their conductor was now only the groom of the chambers, Emma
hoped she might find some little relief from insipidity: nor was she
disappointed; whilst Lady Osborne was sipping coffee, and prosing to
Mrs. Willis, her daughter drew her younger guests into a smaller room,
which she assured them was her own particular domain; here establishing
themselves comfortably round the ample fire, they fell into a lively and
pleasant chat, such as any three girls might be expected to do;
presently they were joined by Miss Carr.
"Your lady-mother," said she, "is so deep in village politics with Mrs.
Willis, that I am sure I must be de trop there, and I have,
therefore, absconded here."
She seated herself as she spoke in the chimney corner on a low ottoman,
and spreading out her hands to the fire; she said—
"Don't let me stop you unless you were talking of me, Miss Emma Watson,
it is your turn—what do you think?"
"Think of what?" enquired Emma, rather startled by the keen eyes fixed
on her—it seemed always her fate to be stared at unmercifully.
"Think, oh, of anything—of Mr. Howard for instance—what do you think of
him?"
"That he carves very well," returned Emma laughing.
"Well, that is something—a good quality in the master of a house; I
commend it seriously to your attention."
"I should think the gentlemen would not sit very long," observed Miss
Osborne, "and when they come we must all adjourn to the drawing-room,
for mama will wish to sit down to cards. I hope you can play cards."
Her visitors assented, Elizabeth asserting that she was very fond of
them.
"And you, Miss Emma Watson," cried Miss Carr, "do you not delight in
cards—you answer with a degree of coldness that speaks rather of
indifference on the subject."
"I can play if necessary," replied Emma, "but there are many occupations
I prefer."
"But you shall not be obliged to make martyrs of yourselves," said Miss
Osborne good-humouredly. "If you prefer it you shall sit here, either or
both of you, but we do not play high."
Nothing remarkable occurred during the rest of the evening; a dull,
leaden state seemed to pervade everything, and both the Miss Watsons
felt an inclination to yawn, which they dared not indulge in so august a
presence. They were very glad when the time for taking leave arrived,
and the enlivening bustle of putting on cloaks and fur boots quite
aroused them. Lord Osborne looked on whilst Mr. Howard was wrapping up
Emma, with a degree of attention which held out fair hopes of his soon
learning such a lesson by heart.
"I shall come down and see you to-morrow," said he.
"It seems warmer to-night," observed Emma, "don't you think we are going
to have a thaw? perhaps we may get home to-morrow."
"I hope you are not weary of us," said Mr. Howard, in a cordial voice;
"if the weather does not change till we wish it, we shall keep
you prisoner some days yet."
"Thank you," said she—she wanted to say something more but did not know
exactly what, and they reached the carriage before she had made up her
mind.
The bright fire which was burning in the comfortable little drawing room
at the parsonage, irresistably invited them to enter and draw round it,
before separating for the night. Their drive had dispelled their
sleepiness, and they were all four in good spirits: it was just the
time, the situation, when reserve seems naturally cast aside, and
friendly chat and the merry laugh go round unrestrained.
"Well, Miss Watson," said Mrs. Willis, "is your curiosity gratified? how
do you like the Castle? are you envious of their state?"
"No, I think not," answered Elizabeth reflectingly, "there are some
things I should like, but much that would be troublesome. I dare say
Lady Osborne has no worry about housekeeping, but then I should
feel the responsibility of having so many dependent on me."
"And what part would you chose of her ladyship's manner of living?"
asked Mr. Howard, "her jewels perhaps—or her six footmen?"
"Neither," replied Elizabeth, laughing a little; "I am used to wait on
myself, and should feel it a great restraint to be obliged to wait
whilst others waited on me. I could not help thinking of what my father
used to say, when Lady Osborne's maid was so long bringing her ladyship
a shawl. 'If you want to be served, send—if you want to be well
served, go.' That was his motto—and though he never acted on it himself,
I think I do—and would rather run up three pair of stairs myself, than
wait whilst another does it."
"I admire the activity and independence of your spirit, Miss Watson,"
replied Mr. Howard; "but you have not yet told me what it is you do
envy."
"No, and I do not mean to do it," replied she; "be satisfied with your
own conjectures."
"I must if you will say no more. And you, Miss Emma, how were you
pleased with your evening?"
"Very much—I have come back much wiser than I went; I have made up my
mind that the more elevated the situation the less pleasant it would be
unless one had been brought up to it."
"Then you would not change places with Lady Osborne?" said he, fixing a
pair of very penetrating eyes on her. As she had noticed Lord Osborne's
looks without the remotest idea of his meaning anything but to put her
out of countenance, and formed no airy speculations as to the
possibility of succeeding to the dominion at the Castle, she attached no
peculiar meaning to his question.
"I think the supposition hardly a reasonable one," was her answer;
"could you suppose I should wish to exchange with a woman old enough to
be my mother—give up five and twenty years of life to be a wealthy
middle-aged dowager in claret-coloured satin and diamonds."
Mr. Howard smiled.
"Remember," continued Emma as if retracting, "I mean no disparagement to
your friend, who I have no doubt may be a very excellent and amiable
woman, but I was speaking merely as she appeared to me to-day."
"There have been young Lady Osbornes," said he almost in a whisper, and
as if rather doubtful whether or not to speak the words.
"I suppose so," replied Emma coolly, without the smallest embarrassment,
but with a slight shade of reserve in her manner. She never allowed
jesting on the topic of matrimony. He saw it immediately.
"Then what do you think you require to make you happy?" said he, to
escape from the other subject.
"A very comprehensive question—I should like to know whether you expect
a serious answer," replied she gaily.
"A true one, if you please."
"To be with those I love, and have money in my purse—I think that is
sufficient: no—I think I should like a house too—"
"Very reasonable and moderate."
"But preserve me from the slavery of living en grande
dame; I was not brought up to it—and nothing but habit could
make such bonds sit light and gracefully."
"I believe you are right, and you must certainly be wise."
He looked at her with unmistakable admiration; she could not meet his
eye, but coloured and fixed hers on the fender. In spite of her
embarrassment, however, she felt a real pleasure in the friendly tone he
had assumed, and hoped sincerely that the morning would not see him cold
and formal again.
"Emma," said Elizabeth after they had retired for the night, "I am
certain that Lord Osborne admires you very much."
Emma only smiled in reply.
"What do you think about it?" continued Miss Watson.
"That I wish he would find some pleasanter way of testifying his
admiration," said Emma. "I do not know whether he is the only man who
ever admired me, but he is certainly the only one who ever looked at me
so much."
"Oh, we must not expect everything arranged just to our taste," replied
Elizabeth; "and whilst you enjoy so much of his attention, you must not
complain if he is not the most sprightly of admirers—the honour itself
should suffice you. His rank is higher, if his wit is not brighter than
Mr. Howard's."
"To mention them in the same breath!" cried Emma; "they are the
antipodes of each other—as different in sense as in rank—what a pity
their position cannot be reversed!"
"Oh, then your objection to being Lady Osborne is not after all to the
rank but the man," cried Elizabeth, "and you are less philosophic than
you pretended to be. But if Mr. Howard had been a peer, perhaps you
would never have known him."
"Very likely not," said Emma calmly, "but I do not see what that has to
do with it."
"Now don't pretend to be so very innocent and simple-minded, Emma; you
know, as well as I do, that the two men are both in love with you, and
you, ambitious monkey, not content with things as they are, and choosing
between worth and rank, wish to have every advantage combined in one,
for your own special acceptance."
"How can you talk such nonsense, Elizabeth?" said Emma coloring.
"I deny the accusation stoutly; it is you who are unreasonable, whilst I
am talking in the most matter-of-fact way imaginable."
Emma was silent, and after waiting a minute, her sister began again:
"I wonder what Tom Musgrove will say when he hears we have dined at the
Castle?"
"Some nonsense I dare say," replied Emma; "I believe his boastings were
at the bottom of your curiosity to go there; you wished to surprise
him."
"Yes I think I did—but was it like what you expected? it was all so
grand and formal that I felt quite uncomfortable. I am glad to
have been, and still more glad that I have come away."
"It was not the first time I have been in a large house," said Emma,
"and I was not surprised at anything I saw; except that Lady Osborne
should take the trouble of wearing so many jewels, and dress in so very
juvenile a style."
"Were you not jealous, Emma? Did you not notice how she flirted with Mr.
Howard?"
"For shame, Elizabeth, to say such things of our hostess."
"Nay, indeed it is only truth—I think he had much better marry her. I
dare say she has a good jointure, and she may not be very disagreeable
to him perhaps! what would you say to that?"
"That he must be a very different Mr. Howard from what I fancy him, if
he can be induced to marry for the sake of a jointure," replied Emma
firmly.
"But perhaps he is in love with her," persisted Miss Watson.
"That alters the case," said Emma who did not believe anything of the
kind.
"I rather think he must be," continued her sister, "he looked so much
pleased at her calling him to the sofa. Or I will tell you another idea
that struck me, perhaps he is attached to Miss Osborne, and pays his
court to her mother to gain her good word."
"My dear Elizabeth," cried Emma rather impatiently, "you have within the
last five minutes, concluded Mr. Howard in love with three different
people. Some of your conjectures cannot be right, but they may all be
wrong—pray leave off guessing, since you cannot arrive at any
conclusion."
"I like Miss Osborne," said Elizabeth, after a moment's pause.
"So do I," replied her sister.
"Better than Miss Carr," continued Miss Watson, "I have a little fear of
Miss Carr; but, Emma, I wonder how my father and Margaret get on, I am
afraid he will find it very dull; she does not like backgammon or
reading out loud—and this snow will prevent his getting the newspaper,
or seeing any one to amuse him."
"Yes, I am afraid so," sighed Emma, "it is very pleasant here, but I
wish we were home again."
"I wish home were like this," continued Miss Watson, "as airy and
cheerful, and elegant-looking—what a nice room this is—we have not such
a room in our house—and I am sure our furniture never looks so well,
take what care I can of it. You had better take this for your own room
when you are Mrs. Howard."
"I really wish you would not talk in that way, Elizabeth," remonstrated
Emma, "it can do no good, and it will make me feel very uncomfortable."
"I beg your pardon, I will try not," said her sister laughing.
Long after her sister was asleep, Emma herself was thinking over the
events of the morning, and recalling to memory every tone and word and
look of Mr. Howard. She weighed them all, and tried to comprehend the
cause of the changes which seemed to her rather sudden. She could hardly
suppose it a caprice—she did not think him guilty of that—but why vary
so completely.
She wished to be liked by him; she was pleased with the society both of
himself and his sister, and he feared if she did not approve of her
manners, or disliked her conversation, his sister likewise would draw
back from the friendship which seemed to have begun so prosperously, and
she should lose the pleasantest acquaintance she had found since
returning to her father's house.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v1ch10
CHAPTER X.
.sp 2
The aspect of the next morning did not promise any additional facility
for returning home; more snow had fallen during the night, and the
cutting wind which had accompanied it assured them that the lanes would
be still less practicable than before. Emma, assured by the parting
words of Lord Osborne that she was doomed to see and be seen by him
again, tried to compose her mind and features to bear the threatened
inspection. Instead of a visit from him, however, noon brought down a
little note from Miss Osborne, reminding her of a wish expressed the
night before to see the picture-gallery at the Castle, and offering, if
Mr. Howard would escort her up in time for luncheon, to go round with
her afterwards.
"Do you think your brother could spare the time to accompany me?" said
she to Mrs. Willis, after communicating to her the contents of the note.
"I should be so much obliged if he would—because—" she added rather
hesitating, "I do not like to go alone, lest I should encounter the
young lord."
"And you do not like him, my dear?" said Mrs. Willis with a bright look.
"I do not mind him much," replied Emma; "but I think I would rather not
throw myself in his way: going alone would be almost like inviting his
escort. Will you ask your brother?"
"I will go to him immediately—but I have no doubt of his acquiescence,
and I can assure you in promising you Edward's company through the
picture-gallery Miss Osborne is securing you a very great
pleasure."
"It would I am afraid be encroaching too much on Mr. Howard's time,"
replied Emma, "to exact his attentions as a cicerone. Miss Osborne has
promised to go round with me herself."
"Miss Osborne sometimes breaks her word," said Mrs. Willis coolly; "and
as she has usually a good many engagements, perhaps you had better trust
to my brother since you seem determined to shun hers."
"I should not expect much intellectual gratification from Lord Osborne's
company, or his remarks on painting," replied Emma, almost laughing at
the idea.
Mrs. Willis left the room, to speak to her brother. She found him of
course in his study, from whence Charles had just been dismissed.
"Edward, are you busy?" said she.
"No; what do you want, Clara?" looking up for a moment and then
returning to his papers. "I was just coming to the parlour."
"It is not I, but Emma Watson who wants you."
Mr. Howard turned round to look at his sister with an expression half
pleased, half incredulous.
"Yes indeed, so you need not stare so; Miss Osborne has sent down to ask
you to bring her to lunch at the Castle, and go through the
picture-gallery afterwards—that is to say, she has promised to go
through the gallery, but you must be sure to accompany them."
Mr. Howard bent over his papers again for a moment in silence.
"Why do not you answer, Edward? There is nothing to prevent your going,
is there?—and I am sure you cannot dislike it."
"Oh, no—but Emma—what did she say to it?"
"She begged me to come and engage you as her escort, that she might
avoid falling into the company of Lord Osborne, who she seemed to
apprehend might be lying in wait for her. Elizabeth Watson does not care
for paintings, and means to remain with me."
"It will give me the greatest pleasure," said Mr. Howard, starting up,
and beginning to put away his books and papers. "Now, or at any time she
will name, I am quite at her service. When does she wish to go?"
"Immediately, I should think, as they lunch at one—that is, as soon as
she can get herself ready. I will go back and give her your message at
once."
They were soon on their way. The air was bright and exhilarating—and it
would have been very pleasant walking but for the ground being
exceedingly slippery. It may be doubtful whether Mr. Howard thought this
an evil, since it compelled his companion to lean on him for support, up
the steep ascent which conducted them to the castle. Even with the
assistance of his arm, she was obliged to pause and take breath, before
they had accomplished more than half the ascent. From the point where
they stood, they commanded a beautiful view—the parsonage and the church
lying snugly at their feet, and the snow-clad country stretching out
beyond, chequered with rich hanging woods of beech on the sides of the
hills, and thick coppices of underwood down in the valley. Emma
expressed her admiration with enthusiasm. Mr. Howard assured her that if
she would move a short distance along a path to the left, she would
enjoy a still more splendid panorama. The snow had been swept from off
the gravel, and Emma could not resist the temptation, though it was
diverging from their object. There was plenty of time,—since they need
not be at the castle till one—and it was now little more than half past
twelve. They turned into the path accordingly, and soon reached the spot
he had mentioned: from this point they likewise had a peep at the
castle, situated some way above them; and whilst they were standing
there, Mr. Howard observed:
"There is Lord Osborne just coming out at the side door, near his own
rooms—do you see him."
Emma perceived and watched him.
"I think he is taking the path to your house—is he not?"
"Yes, we shall meet him presently, if we turn and pursue our walk
upwards."
"Oh! then, pray let us stay here till he is gone past," said Emma,
hastily. "I do not wish to meet him in the least."
Mr. Howard looked so excessively pleased that Emma deeply coloured, and
was nearly thinking his eyes as troublesome as those of his former
pupil.
It will easily be believed that he did not press the proposition to meet
Lord Osborne,—on the contrary, he acquiesced with very good grace in her
wish to remain concealed till all danger of encountering him was passed
away. As soon as the winding of the path hid him entirely from sight,
they proceeded upwards and reached the castle without further incident,
having only consumed half an hour in a walk which might have been easily
accomplished in a third of that time. Yet Emma did not find the walk
tedious, and Mr. Howard never discovered the period it had occupied.
They were shewn to Miss Osborne's own sitting room, where they found her
practising on the harp. Miss Carr was lounging amongst the soft pillows
of a comfortable chair—from which she hardly raised herself to address
the visitors. Her friend was extremely good-humoured and civil. She
pressed Emma's hand affectionately—enquired tenderly after her health,
and expressed herself excessively obliged by her coming.
"Luncheon is waiting," added she, "you will not see mama, she is never
visible of a morning—but did you not meet my brother?"
Emma coloured, and as she did not answer immediately, Mr. Howard
replied—
"We saw him at a distance—but he did not join us."
"I am surprised," said Miss Carr, "for I know he set off on purpose to
escort Miss Emma Watson up here. Which way did you come, to pass him?"
"It is easily accounted for," replied Emma, calmly, "Mr. Howard had
taken me out of the direct road to shew me a good view of the castle—and
Lord Osborne passed whilst we were looking at it."
"It is a pity you did not stop him," pursued Miss Carr, "he would not
then have had his walk for nothing."
Emma made no answer. She did not think it necessary to inform Miss Carr
that the honor of Lord Osborne's company was not a thing that she
coveted.
When their luncheon was over, Miss Osborne renewed her offer of guiding
Emma through the picture gallery—observing that they had better not lose
time, as there was no light to spare in a winter's afternoon.
"But you must come too," continued she, addressing Mr. Howard. "I am
sure you know more about the pictures than I do—and are much better
worth listening to on that subject, at least."
"Your humility, Miss Osborne, is most commendable," said he, with a
playful bow.
"Oh, yes, I am the humblest creature in the world—there are some things
in which I believe you and a few others are wiser than myself—Greek and
mathematics for instance."
"Your learning in those two branches did not use to be remarkable."
"Oh, I dare say I know as much as half those who have passed through
Eton—they learnt to forget—I forgot to learn—there is not much
difference."
"Not as you state it, certainly; apparently, you hold the learning of
your acquaintance rather cheaply."
"Well, perhaps I do—but, really, one seldom meets with very wise
men in these days: one hears such prodigies have existed in
former times—but, I dare say they were not at all like the generality of
our gentlemen companions, and would be sadly at a loss to comprehend our
amusements, could they re-appear on the scene."
"You know scholars are proverbially awkward, bashful and absent—and,
unless you would tolerate all those capital crimes, you need not wish
for them in your company."
"I look upon you as a scholar, Mr. Howard," said the young lady,
laughing.
"I cannot plead guilty to the impeachment, Miss Osborne."
"But I do not consider you particularly awkward nor intolerably
bashful—and—what was the third crime you laid to the charge of
scholars?"
"I forget."
"What intolerable affectation," cried Miss Osborne, "you want to be
accused of absence of mind. But here we are at the gallery. Now, Miss
Watson, make Mr. Howard tell you all about them."
The collection was really a very good one, and Emma was delighted. Miss
Osborne looked at two or three, then sauntered about the room—looked out
of the window—and, at length, returning to her companions, said:
"I have just recollected an engagement, for which I must leave you—I
will be back as soon as I can; but don't hurry, and don't wait for me.
You may be quite comfortable here, nobody will disturb you."
She then left them to another protracted
tête-à-tête; a particularly pleasant circumstance
to Mr. Howard, who found an increasing charm in Emma's conversation.
When tired of walking about and straining their eyes upwards, they sat
down on a comfortable sofa in a recess, where they could at once enjoy
the view of a beautiful landscape, and converse comfortably.
"You surely must have been used to look at good paintings," said Mr.
Howard, "It is a taste that requires as much cultivation as any other
art. You evidently know how to look at a picture, and how to appreciate
its merit."
"I do not pretend to be a connoisseur, I assure you," said Emma.
"There is no occasion that you should—you have an eye and a taste,
which, lead your judgment right, and I can perceive that you are well
acquainted with the styles as well as the names of great artists."
"I almost suspect you of quizzing me," replied Emma, blushing, "have I
been saying or affecting more than you think I felt."
"You are unjust to us both in such an idea," cried he, "I should not
take such a liberty; and you are in no danger of tempting me."
"My kind uncle was extremely fond of the art," said Emma, "and he took
me to every good collection and exhibition within our reach. He likewise
took great pains to form and correct my taste; so that I ought rather to
blush at knowing so little, than receive compliments on the subject."
"I do not know of what uncle you are speaking," said Mr. Howard, in a
manner that denoted his interest in her connections; "you forget that I
know almost nothing of your family."
"The uncle who brought me up; Dr. Maitland."
"Then you were not educated at Winston?"
"I—oh no—my home was formerly in my uncle's house—I have not been more
than two months resident in my father's family."
"I dare say you think me a very stupid fellow for not being aware of
this—but though I saw you were different from your sisters, and indeed
most of the young ladies of the neighbourhood, the reason never occurred
to me."
"You thought, I suppose, I was a sort of Cinderella," said Emma
laughing, "let out by some benevolent fairy on the occasion of one ball,
and that having once escaped into public, I could not be repressed
again."
"You know I had not been in your father's house, and had therefore no
reason to assign you an imaginary abode in the kitchen, in preference to
the parlour, where I had never been. But I own I was surprised by your
sudden apparition, since I had neither in ball-room or street, town or
country, seen or heard of more than three Miss Watsons."
"I can easily believe it—so protracted an absence will naturally sink
one's name in oblivion."
"May I ask if you are to return to your uncle's house?"
"Alas! no—my dear, kind uncle died not quite a twelvemonth ago—my aunt
has left England to settle in Ireland—and my home is now at my
father's."
"Is it not with rather a strange sensation that you meet your nearest
relations; they must be almost unknown to you."
"I have made acquaintance with one brother and two sisters," replied
Emma with something like a sigh; "But I have yet to meet another brother
and sister."
"It seems almost a pity," said Mr. Howard thoughtfully, "to bring up one
child apart and differently from the other members of a family, if they
are ultimately to be rejoined. At least I feel in my own case how much I
should have lost, had Clara been separated from me in childhood. I
suppose it rarely happens that a brother and sister are so much together
as we were—but we were orphans, and everything to each other till her
marriage."
"It does not do, Mr. Howard, to indulge in retrospective considerations,
if they tend to make one dissatisfied," said Emma, with an attempt to
check a tear or hide it by a smile; "my friends wished to do everything
for the best, and if the result has been different from their
intentions, they are not to blame. But I do not know that I should
choose to repeat the experiment for one under my care."
"Do you like the neighbourhood?" enquired he, feeling that he had no
right to press the last subject further.
"I have seen so little; the weather has been so unfavourable, but it
does not strike me as being very beautiful about Winston. I was used to
fine scenery in the west of England."
"Then you will naturally think Winston flat and uninteresting.—Osborne
Castle and its park have beauties, however, which you cannot despise—but
in my enquiry I rather referred to the inhabitants—have you pleasant
neighbours about your father's house—I do not visit in the village."
"We live so very quietly," replied Emma, who had no intention of
satisfying his curiosity as to their acquaintance, "that I have had no
opportunity of judging. I saw a great many people at the ball,
but as you must have seen them too, you are as equal to decide on their
appearance as I am."
"You know Mr. Tom Musgrove of course?"
"A little."
"He is not a person of whom most young ladies answer so coolly; if I put
the same question to five out of six of my acquaintance, they would
reply with rapture—he is charming—divine—a perfect pattern for all
gentlemen."
"I understood he was a great favorite," observed Emma, still in the same
composed voice.
"I have been used to consider him such a perfect example in everything
relative to the important concerns of fashion and the toilette," said
Mr. Howard, gravely, "things which I know are of the first importance in
the eyes of ladies, that I have seriously proposed when I wish to be
particularly charming to copy him in the tying of his cravat."
"I am not quite sure whether I should think any one improved by copying
Mr. Tom Musgrove, from his cravat to his shoe-buckles: but I have, I am
afraid, a wicked prejudice, against any individual who is considered
universally agreeable."
"Alas you discourage my young ambition; if to be universally agreeable
is to be hated by you, I shall leave forthwith my attempts at pleasing.
To how many individuals is it allowable to be friendly? to how many
cold? to how many repulsive in order to win your good opinion."
"Impossible for me to answer without more data for my calculations. You
must tell me, to begin with, how many you have been in the habit of
flattering daily!"
"None, I assure you—there is not a more sincere creature under the sun."
"I do not quite believe you—but if you will not own to that—with how
many do you consider yourself a particular favorite."
"That is an artful question—you wish to prove me guilty of general
agreeableness—but my native modesty stands my friend there: I do not
think more than two thirds of my acquaintance consider me a very
charming fellow—amongst ladies, I mean—of course, a man's opinion goes
for nothing."
"Ah, that is too many by half to please me—if you had always spoken with
sincerity, depend upon it your particular admirers would be less
numerous."
"But seriously, Miss Watson, why do you feel a particular enmity to the
general favorites of your sex!"
"Seriously then, because I mistrust them."
"You think then truth must be sacrificed to popularity? Is not that
rather a severe reflection on the taste of other women."
"I did not mean it as such."
"I never knew any one who did not profess to hate flattery."
"Very likely—but I go a step farther—I dislike the flatterer."
"And by what scale do you measure, so as to form a correct decision—is
your standard of your own merit so accurately settled, that you can
instantly perceive truth from flattery, appropriating just so much of a
compliment as you deserve, and rejecting the rest."
"I think, Mr. Howard, I am more inclined to decide on the value of
compliments from the character of the giver, than from my own. If an
individual either man or woman dares to say a disagreeable truth, I
cannot suspect them of an agreeable falsehood. Or if they are as ready
to praise the absent, as to compliment the present, then I listen with
more complaisance."
"It is fortunate for some men that all young ladies are not like you;
their stock of conversation would be reduced very low, if neither
praises of the present nor abuse of the absent were tolerated."
"I differ from you, Mr. Howard. If no one would listen to slander
much less evil would happen in the world; much unhappiness would be
saved—much moral guilt would be avoided."
"True: call it by its right name—slander—and every one shrinks from it;
the habit of softening down our expressions leads to much evil—a little
scandal, nobody minds that."
"Most detestable of all is the flattery from mercenary motives. To see a
man—a young man courting, flattering, cajoling a woman for her money—one
to whom he would, were she poor, hardly deign to address a word—selling
himself body and soul for gold—oh, it makes one shudder—it tempts me to
unjust, harsh thoughts of the whole species. Hateful!"
Mr. Howard looked at his companion with considerable surprise. She
certainly was using rather strong expressions, and evidently felt
acutely what she was saying. As he, however, was perfectly ignorant of
the circumstances of her aunt's marriage, and never for a moment thought
of anything of the sort, an idea passed through his mind that she might
allude to himself and Lady Osborne, for though he could not plead guilty
to anything on his own part which deserved such condemnation, it was
possible his conduct might appear in this light to her eyes. He did not
stop to consider whether it was probable, or in accordance with her
character to make such personal reflections, but fell into a reverie on
the subject of his own manners, from which he was roused by her
addressing him again.
"I am quite ashamed, Mr. Howard, of having spoken so bitterly just
now—pray forget what I said if possible—at least do not decide on my
being a very ill-natured person because I spoke harshly—there are
sometimes circumstances on which to reflect invariably creates
unpleasant sensations—but the past is passed, and should not be allowed
to awaken angry feelings."
"I fancy we have strayed a long way from the point which awakened these
reflections," said Mr. Howard trying to recover himself likewise. "Tom
Musgrove was the commencement of our dissertation on flattery."
"Mr. Musgrove—yes, so he was, but I had indeed forgotten it; my thoughts
were many miles off—they had gone back many months."
"Your opinion of him does not seem very high," observed he, much
relieved at the termination of her sentence.
"My opinion of him is of too little consequence to be worth discussing,"
replied Emma: "I have not seen a great deal of him, but I fancy my
father does not estimate him very highly."
"But you cannot deny him the advantage of having plenty to say for
himself."
"Plenty indeed—sufficient to make any discussion amongst others on that
subject unnecessary."
"He is handsome too, in the opinion of most women."
"I do not deny it."
"And you know he has a very comfortable independence."
"On that point, Mr. Howard, I feel incredulous: independence is the very
thing he wants. His principal object seems to be to follow another."
"I see you are hardened against him."
"You think me prejudiced, no doubt."
"I have no wish to combat your prejudice, or persuade you into liking
him against your will."
A pause ensued, when Emma suddenly starting from her reverie, exclaimed,
"It is almost dusk—we must really return home."
"True, we can come again another day; I am sure you may come whenever
you feel disposed—I shall be most happy to escort you."
At this moment the door was thrown back, and Lord Osborne himself
appeared. After paying his compliments, he paused a moment, and then
observed,
"You must have a precious strong taste for pictures, Miss Watson, to
like to remain in the gallery even when it is too dark to see. I suppose
breathing the same air is pleasant to those who value the art."
"We have stayed longer than we intended, my lord," said Emma; "and I
really feel much obliged to your sister for allowing me such a pleasure;
but we expected her to join us."
"It's a mighty fine thing to have such a lot of fine pictures, with all
the fine names tacked on to them. One or two I really like
myself—there's one of some horses, by somebody, excellent—and a Dutch
painting of dead game, which is so like you would really think them all
alive. Did you notice it?"
"Not particularly—I do not care much for still life."
"Howard there knows all about them: he has the names and dates and all
on the tip of his tongue. Don't you find it a deuced bore to listen to
it?"
"On the contrary, I am much obliged to Mr. Howard for the information."
"Well I should be glad, for my part, of a piece of information: how
the—I beg pardon—I mean how the wonder did I contrive to miss you as I
was going down the straight path to the Parsonage."
"Because we did not come up the straight path, my lord."
"Well, on my honour, I just was surprised when I got there to hear you
were gone—stole away in fact. 'Holloa! how can that be!' said I, 'I did
not meet them—no indeed.' 'Did you not!' cried Mrs. Willis. 'Well deuce
take it, that is extraordinary!'"
"Did she say so indeed," said Emma with exemplary gravity.
"I don't mean to say she used those very words—she thought them, though,
I'm sure, by her look."
"But now, my lord, we must wish you good evening, or Mrs. Willis will be
waiting for dinner; and though I am not afraid of her swearing at us, I
do not wish to annoy her."
"Ah, yes, Mrs. Willis is mistress—I know—the Parson there, like myself,
is under petticoat government; nothing like a mother or sister to keep
one in order. I'll be bound a wife is nothing to it. One cannot get away
from a sister, and one can't make her quiet and obedient—you see she has
never undertaken anything of the kind, as I understand wives do when one
marries them."
"But I have heard, my lord, that they sometimes break their word and
rebel," said Emma with mock solemnity.
"Ah, but that must be the husband's fault, he gives them too much
rein—keep a strict hand on them, that's my maxim."
"I recommend you, however, to keep it a secret, if you wish to find a
wife; I assure you no woman would marry you if she knew your opinion."
"Seriously—well but I am sorry I said so then."
"Oh, never mind—there is no harm done as yet—I promise not to betray
you—but here we are at Miss Osborne's room, will she expect us to look
in—or shall we go straight home, Mr. Howard?"
"We'll see if Rosa's here," said her brother, opening the door as he
spoke. The room, however, was empty, and there was nothing to be done
but return home. Emma was vexed to find the young peer persisted in
escorting them. Though his conversation had been much shorter than Mr.
Howard's, she was far more weary of it. To hurry her walk, was her only
remedy, and the coldness of the air was a plausible excuse for this. The
space which had occupied nearly half an hour in ascending, was now
traversed in five minutes, and breathless but glowing, the party reached
the door of the parsonage. Here Lord Osborne was really obliged to leave
them, and Emma hastened to her room to prepare for dinner.
"Well, Emma," cried Elizabeth, "I should like to know what you have been
doing all this time—what an age you have been gone!"
"Looking at pictures, Elizabeth—you know what I went for."
"I know what you went for indeed, but how do I know what you stayed for.
Pictures indeed—looking at pictures for two hours and a half—and in the
dark too!"
Emma laughed.
"Of what do you suspect me, Elizabeth?" cried she as her sister placed a
candle so as to throw the light on her face.
"Which have you been flirting with?" said Elizabeth taking her sister's
hand, and closely examining her countenance. "The peer or the parson,
which of your two admirers do you prefer?"
"How can you ask such an unnecessary question?" returned Emma, blushing
and laughing, yet struggling to disengage herself, "would you hesitate
yourself—is not Lord Osborne the most captivating, elegant, lively,
fascinating young nobleman who ever made rank gracious and desirable.
Would you not certainly accept him?"
"Why yes, I think I should—it would be something to be Lady
Osborne—mistress of all those rooms and servants, carriages and horses.
I think I should like it, but then I shall never have the choice!"
"So far as I am concerned, I do not think I shall interfere with your
power of accepting him—if he makes you an offer, do not refuse it on my
account."
"Very well—and when I am Lady Osborne, I will be very kind to Mrs.
Howard—I will send and ask her to dine with me most Sundays, and some
week days too."
"I hope she will like it."
"I will give her a new gown at Easter, and a pelisse or bonnet at
Christmas!"
"Your liberality is most exemplary, but in the midst of your kind
intentions to Mrs. Howard, I fear you are forgetting Mrs. Willis and her
dinner. If you do not finish your dressing quickly you will keep them
waiting."
Elizabeth took her sister's advice, and finished her toilette with all
possible despatch. It was singular that though invariably consuming
double the time that sufficed for Emma, the result of her efforts in
adjusting her clothes was much less satisfactory. She never looked
finished. Her hair was certain to fall down too low; or her gown
burst open, or her petticoat peeped out from underneath: she was always
finding a string, or a button, or a loop wanting, just when such a loss
was particularly inconvenient—always in a hurry, always behind hand,
always good-naturedly sorry, but always as far from amendment.
The evening was spent in quiet comfort, far removed from the stately
grandeur of the yester-night's scene—they closed round the fire,
chatting and laughing, cracking nuts and eating home-baked cakes with a
zest which Osborne Castle and its lordly halls could not rival. They
talked of the snow melting, and Charles and his uncle too persisted in
the greatest incredulity on that subject. A hundred other things were
discussed, made charming by the ease and good-humour with which they
were canvassed, and then a book was produced. Shakespeare was placed in
Mr. Howard's hands, and he read with a degree of feeling and taste,
which made it very delightful to his listeners. Thus the evening passed
peacefully and quickly, and when they separated for the night, it was
with encreased good will and affection between the parties.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v1ch11
CHAPTER XI.
.sp 2
The next morning, though ushered in by no change of the weather, brought
a very material alteration to the Miss Watsons. About eleven o'clock, as
the ladies were working together, their attention was attracted by the
sound of carriage wheels on the drive to the house. Presently a note was
handed to Miss Watson, accompanied by an assurance that the carriage was
waiting. With much surprise, Elizabeth opened the dispatch. It was from
her father, and contained information to the effect, that wearied by
their long absence, and finding that the lanes were still blocked up, he
had sent their man to the post town for a chaise, in which they could
return home, by taking the high road, which, although greatly adding to
the distance, was the safest and most expeditious route they could
adopt. He begged them to return immediately in the post-chaise, and
Robert could follow with their own little vehicle after them. Kind as
the family had been to them, the girls were still glad of a prospect of
returning home before Sunday, being conscious that they could be ill
spared from their father's house, and that every hour of enjoyment to
them, was probably unpleasant and wearisome to him.
They could not be parted with, of course, without great regret and many
remonstrances on the subject of the dangerous nature of the expedition
they were undertaking. Charles, in particular, gave them such repeated
assurances that they would certainly be upset, that Emma declared her
belief that his foreknowledge arose from having bribed the postilion to
bring on a catastrophe. Mrs. Willis' object seemed to be to overwhelm
them with cloaks, furs, shawls, and everything she could think of to
fence the cold away, and Mr. Howard obviated all difficulty about
returning these articles, by volunteering to drive over as soon as the
weather permitted, and fetch them all back. Hopes of a continued
friendship closed the visit, and they parted on the best possible terms.
Their return home was perfectly uneventful. There was not even the cold
to complain of—so well had Mrs. Willis succeeded in wrapping them up.
Most cordial was the welcome they received from Mr. Watson; and
Margaret, too, really looked enlivened by the sight of them.
"I shall not let you young ladies go visiting again in a hurry," said he
good-humouredly, "I began to think one of you must have eloped with Lord
Osborne, and the other with Mr. Howard. I assure you, we have been very
dull without you."
Such was his salutation—Margaret's ran as follows:
"Well, I hope you have been having pleasure enough—and that you will
have brought home some news to enliven us. I am sure I am almost dead of
stupidity and dulness. Not a creature have we seen—not an individual has
come near us. Some people contrive to keep all the amusement—all the
luck—everything that is good and pleasant to themselves."
The astonishment of Margaret, when she heard the detail of what had
occurred, was excessive; she was ready to cry with vexation and envy, to
think of her sisters having so much to amuse them—of which she did not
partake. With jealous anger she insisted on knowing every particular,
for the sake, apparently, of tormenting herself to the uttermost, and
being as miserable and ill-used as possible.
Every dish at dinner—every jewel in Lady Osborne's necklace—every word
said to be spoken by the ladies at the castle, and every amusement
suggested by the inhabitants of the parsonage, was an additional sting
to her mind; and she was more than ever convinced that it was an act of
the most barbarous injustice, the not allowing her to accompany her
sisters—though nothing could be more evident than the total
impossibility of such an arrangement. In vain did Emma try to turn the
conversation to some less irritating topic; Margaret pertinaciously
returned to the original theme, and insisted on learning every thing
which her sisters could tell her.
There are various tastes amongst the inhabitants of the world; some
delight in making themselves happy, some in just the reverse; Margaret's
pleasure was to fret; her pastime was to vex herself. Had she been the
only victim to this peculiar taste, there would have been less harm in
it; but, unfortunately, her father and sisters were likewise sufferers,
and in as much as they were involuntary sufferers, and really took no
pleasure in her vexation, it was rather hard upon them to be involved in
the same calamity.
In progress of time the snow melted from the ground, and the inhabitants
of the rectory at Winston were again set free from confinement. As soon
as the roads became at all passable, Emma began to catch herself
wondering when Mr. Howard would redeem his promise of coming to fetch
the articles with which his sister had supplied them. She likewise
detected herself in what she considered another failing; this was
looking round the untidy rooms of her father's home, with their dingy
carpets, faded curtains, papers soiled by the hands of the servants and
children, and tables unpolished and scratched, and contrasting them
mentally with the clear and cheerful aspect of the apartments where Mrs.
Willis was mistress. The grandeur of Osborne Castle had none of the
charms in her eyes which Mrs. Willis' little parlour presented, and she
came to the conclusion that the happiest thing in the world must be to
preside over such an establishment with such a companion. Those
feelings, however, she did not openly express, in which she differed
from Elizabeth, who repeatedly declared that she wished she could make
their house resemble Mr. Howard's.
One morning, shortly after their return home, Tom Musgrove, whom they
had not seen since that event, was ushered into the parlour.
Margaret, who happened to be alone, was instantly all agitation and
bustle, trying to persuade him to take her chair by the fire, as she was
sure he must be cold, or to accept the loan of her father's slippers
whilst his boots were sent to the kitchen to dry.
He persisted, however, in declining her tender attentions, declaring she
wanted to make an old man of him before his time, and placing himself on
the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his hands behind him,
half whistled an air.
Margaret sighed.
"It is long since we have seen you," said she; "and the time has passed
very wearily."
"Hum," said Tom, stopping in his tune. "Where are your sisters, Miss Margaret?"
"Oh, they are at home again," replied Margaret. "I believe Emma is with
my father, and Elizabeth in the kitchen. Did you hear of their being
away so long?"
"How long?" cried Tom.
"From Wednesday to Saturday: there was I left without a creature to
speak to except my father and the servants, snowed up in the house, and
if they had only taken me with them, I should have enjoyed it as much as
they did."
"I dare say; but how came they to go?" said Tom, who though really
knowing nothing about it, was determined to learn all he could without
betraying his ignorance.
"Oh, they wanted to return Mrs. Willis' visit, and they went over in the
pony-chaise, and then the snow came on and stopped them there all that
time. I dare say they liked to stay, for I have no doubt but they might
have come home had they tried. At last my father was obliged to send for
a post-chaise to fetch them home in, and they came on Saturday."
"And they liked it very much, did they?"
"Oh yes, of course—was it not hard I could not go too? I am always
thwarted and ill-used."
"I wish your sister Emma would come down; she is always shut up in your
father's room; I called here on purpose to see her."
"I dare say she will come presently—do sit down here; I am sure you
ought to rest yourself; you seem to have had a very dirty ride."
"You could not go and call her, I suppose?"
"Oh no, she will come when she has done reading to my father. Do take
something—a biscuit and a glass of wine, or something of that kind."
"Quite unnecessary, I have but just breakfasted. I do not keep such
gothic hours as some of my friends do. I am able to please myself—a free
and independent man."
"No doubt a happy one. Ah, Mr. Musgrove, you are most fortunate. You
cannot tell the misery, the low spirits, the—the—in short all we poor
helpless women suffer from, how much heart-breaking sorrow we endure in
silence—bitterness of heart of which the world knows nothing."
Tom only whistled again in reply to this very pathetic address, then
turning round began to examine the ornaments on the chimney-piece. Even
Margaret could not quite blind herself to the change in his manner since
the period when her smiles seemed the object he most coveted.
Presently he began again.
"Whilst your sisters were at Howard's did they see much of the
Osbornes?"
Before Margaret had time to give an account of the visit to the Castle,
Elizabeth entered the room.
"So I understand, Miss Watson, you have been playing the truant, and
been obliged to be brought back almost by force."
"And are you come to congratulate or condole with me on our return?"
"I am come to wish you joy about being overwhelmed in the snow. I little
thought when I was last at Osborne Castle we were such near neighbours."
"When were you there?" cried Elizabeth.
"Let me see—I think it was Thursday. I am there very often, but I think
Thursday was the last day. How droll it would have been had we met."
"Emma," cried Miss Watson, as her youngest sister just then entered the
room, "Mr. Musgrove says he was at the Castle on Thursday."
"Oh," said Emma.
"I wonder we did not hear of it," pursued Elizabeth. "Miss Osborne never
mentioned it."
"How do you like Miss Osborne," enquired Tom, who wanted to appear
perfectly well informed as to what had passed, and was, therefore,
ashamed of asking questions which might betray his real ignorance.
"She seems a very pleasant, amiable young lady," replied Elizabeth,
"don't you think so, Emma."
"Yes," replied she, quietly.
"Did she know you were friends of mine, Miss Watson? Miss Emma, did she
not talk about me?"
"No, indeed," replied Emma, with much satisfaction; "we never heard your
name mentioned the whole time we were in company with her."
"How did you hear we had been there," enquired Elizabeth.
"I think Osborne mentioned it on Saturday, when I saw him for a minute,"
then seating himself by Emma, who was a little apart from the others, he
whispered; "He told me the beautiful, but obdurate Miss Watson had been
at Howard's parsonage. Why do you treat him with such scorn, Miss Emma?
You will drive my poor friend to despair."
"I should be sorry to think that I merited your accusation, Mr.
Musgrove: scorn cannot be a becoming quality in a young lady."
"Nay, there can be nothing unbecoming which you can do; youth and beauty
have unlimited privileges," whispered he again. "Miss Osborne vows you
eclipse Miss Carr in beauty, and she would rather have you for a friend.
She is dying to be introduced to you."
"It is quite unnecessary to inflict such a death upon her even in
imagination, Mr. Musgrove—for our acquaintance has progressed too far
for that phrase to be at all applicable to it."
"Yes now, I dare say; Osborne told me, but I forget, you went over the
castle I think."
"No, we did not."
"You did not! that was unlucky; I wish I had known you were going, I
would have been there, and I could have suggested it to Miss Osborne; I
dare say she would have shewn you all the rooms."
"She offered to do so, but we put it off till another time; we thought
we should be too hurried."
"It's a pity you did not dine there; its something quite grand to see
all the plate—I quite enjoy it—they give such good dinners."
"You do not seem aware that we did dine there," replied Emma,
"and, as I had seen other large establishments before, I saw nothing so
very astonishing at their table."
"You did dine there—yes—but that was in a family way; the thing is to
see a regular great dinner—twenty people sitting down—that is what I
like."
"I am not fond of large dinner parties; unless one has a very pleasant
neighbour they are apt to be dull."
"Very much so—very much so indeed; I quite agree with you, a little,
quiet, social dinner—where one person can talk and the others listen,
that is pleasant. You get every thing hot and quickly—that's the thing!"
Emma did not feel called on to answer, and presently he added:
"I should like to have you for a neighbour at such a dinner."
Emma was still obdurately silent, and Mr. Musgrove, to recompense
himself, turned to Elizabeth, and began to talk to her.
As soon as her attention was released Emma left the room, and throwing
on a bonnet and cloak, determined to take refuge in the garden as the
day was fine, and she longed for fresh air. Hardly had she quitted the
entrance, however, when her attention was attracted by the sound of
wheels in the lane, and looking up her cheek crimsoned with pleasure at
perceiving Mr. Howard.
The pleasure was certainly mutual, judging from the alacrity with which
he sprang from the carriage to meet and address her. There was no
mistaking the look and air with which he advanced, it was the genuine
expression of a cordial welcome, met with equal though more bashful
cordiality on her side.
He was come, of course, to redeem his promise of fetching back his
sister's property; she would have come also, but she had a cold which
confined her to the house. But he had another object in his visit—he was
the bearer of an invitation to herself and sisters to attend a concert
at the Castle, which was to take place in the afternoon, and to be
followed by a ball in the evening. Miss Osborne hoped they would excuse
her mother's not having called on them; she scarcely ever paid visits,
never in the winter, or she would have accompanied her daughter to the
Vicarage when they were there.
Emma read the note which was addressed to herself, and felt very much
pleased. It contained, besides the invitation to the ball for herself
and sisters, a most pressing request that she would pay a lengthened
visit at the Castle; over this she pondered long, and then ended with
coming to no conclusion, suddenly remembering that she was detaining Mr.
Howard out of doors, when she ought to have allowed him to enter the
house.
"You will find Mr. Tom Musgrove sitting with my sisters," continued she;
"but if you will be so kind as not to mention the contents of the
note before him, you would greatly oblige me."
"Could I not see Mr. Watson?" replied Mr. Howard; "I wish to call on
him, and perhaps when my visit to him is over your sisters will be
disengaged."
"Certainly; I am sure my father would have great pleasure in seeing
you," said Emma much gratified; "allow me to show you the way."
She ushered him accordingly to her father's dressing-room, and having
witnessed the very cordial reception which Mr. Watson offered him, she
was about to withdraw, but her father stopped her.
"I am sure you can have nothing particular to do, Emma, so you may just
as well stay and talk to Mr. Howard—I like very much to hear you, but
you know I am not strong enough to converse myself."
"I am sure, my dear father, nobody talks half so well when you are equal
to it, but indeed you must not fancy yourself unwell, or you will
frighten Mr. Howard away."
"When Mr. Howard has reached my age, my dear, and felt half the pain
that I do, from gout and dyspepsia, he will be very glad to set his
daughter to talk for him, my dear; so I beg you will stay."
"I wish I enjoyed the prospect of realizing your picture, my dear sir; a
daughter exactly like Miss Emma Watson would be indeed a treasure."
"But remember it is to be purchased at the expense of gout, and you must
not look for it these thirty years, Mr. Howard," said Emma laughing.
"When the sacrifice is complete you will talk in a very different
strain."
Mr. Howard looked very incredulous, but said nothing more on that
subject.
Emma then mentioned the note she had received; her father began to
murmur.
"The Osbornes will all turn all your heads with their balls and their
visits, child," said he pettishly. "I wish you had never known them."
Emma looked down.
"I am sure I do not wish to go, if you dislike it," said she, in a voice
which rather trembled.
It was evident to Mr. Howard that she did wish it very much.
Mr. Watson began again.
"What am I to do if you are going away for two or three days? You are
but just come home as it is—I cannot do without you."
"Then I, at all events, can stay with you," replied Emma cheerfully,
"and my sisters can do as they please."
Annoyed at the gentleman's selfishness, Mr. Howard felt inclined to
interpose, but doubted whether he should not do more harm than good.
Emma knew better, or acted more wisely in not contradicting him, for
like many irritable people, the moment he found himself unopposed, he
began to relent, and said in a more placid voice,
"What's the invitation, read it again, Emma, I am not quite clear about
it."
Emma complied.
"Well, I do not know; she does not want you all to stay over the
ball—and as Elizabeth will be at home, perhaps I could spare you for a
day or two."
"Elizabeth would like to go to the ball too, papa."
"Yes, yes, but then she and Margaret would come home at night, and I
should not be all day alone. I think you might go—you must have a
post-chaise and a pair of horses to take you, I suppose, and bring your
sisters back again. Would you like it, my dear?"
"Very much, sir, if it does not disturb you."
Like it indeed—the words served but coldly to express the pleasure with
which her heart beat at the idea. It was so very kind of Miss Osborne to
think of her in that way, and it was so very pleasant to see how much
consequence Mr. Howard attached to her acceptance of the offer. She had not
dared to look quite at him; but the first glance she had ventured on,
showed in his face an expression of deep interest, not to be mistaken, and
now looking up, she met his eyes fixed on her with a look which immediately
sunk hers again to the ground, and seemed to call all the blood from her
heart to her cheeks.
"I am sure," cried he, speaking hurriedly to relieve her embarrassment,
"Miss Osborne would have been exceedingly disappointed had you settled
otherwise. I can venture to assert, sir, that Miss Osborne is very fond
of your daughter, and extremely anxious to cultivate her acquaintance."
"I dare say, I dare say, why should she not; but I hope Emma does not
flatter her to win her good will."
"I hope not, sir," said Emma, "I should despise myself if I did."
"It is impossible that it should be necessary," cried Mr. Howard. "Miss
Osborne is not to be propitiated by flattery, and it would require, on
Miss Emma's part, nothing beyond her natural manners to
produce a wish to carry on the acquaintance."
"I suppose Miss Osborne desired you to make civil speeches for her,"
said Mr. Watson, laughing.
"No, I do it of my own free will, my dear sir."
Mr. Howard's visit was long and lively; Mr. Watson was evidently cheered
by it, and pressed him to renew it.
"I am afraid I ask what is not agreeable," continued he; "I dare say I
am dull and unpleasant; but if you knew what a treat it is to me to see
cheerful faces, you would not wonder at my selfish wish. You, Mr.
Howard, and Emma do me good."
There was something very pleasant to Emma's ears in hearing her name
thus connected with Mr. Howard's; and it was not unwelcome to the young
man either, who warmly pressed her father's hand, and promised readily
to come as often as he could.
"And mind, Emma, when he does come, you bring him to me," said her
father; "it is not every young man that I care to see. Your Tom
Musgroves, and such young dandies, are not at all to my mind; but a
young man who listens to what his elders say, and does not flout and
jeer at them, but shows a proper respect to age and experience, that's
what I like. I shall be happy to see you, Mr. Howard, whenever you can
come."
After renewing his promise to be a regular and frequent visitor, Mr.
Howard was conducted by Emma to the parlour, from whence they found Tom
Musgrove had departed. Her two sisters looked up as if surprised to see
Emma and her companion; but their pleasure much exceeded their surprise,
when they learnt the nature of the embassy with which he was charged.
Margaret especially, who had formed most exalted ideas of the nature and
felicity of a visit to the castle, was at first in a perfect rapture.
She was certain that the whole affair would be in the most superlative
style of excellence; that Miss Osborne must be a lady of first rate
taste and talent; that the company would be select in an extraordinary
degree, and in short that she should never have known what grandeur,
beauty, elegance, and taste meant, but for Lady Osborne's invitation to
the concert and ball. She determined to do her best to make her court to
the whole family of Osbornes, and had great hopes of becoming an
especial favorite with them all. It was not till after Mr. Howard's
departure, which took place after a visit of about ten minutes, that a
cloud came over her bright vision. She then learnt the sad fact that
Emma was invited to remain at the castle, but that she herself was to
return home.
This discovery made her very angry; she could comprehend no reason for
such a marked preference; why should Miss Osborne invite Emma who was
the youngest, and exclude herself; it really surpassed her
comprehension; it was most extraordinary; she had a great mind not to go
at all; she would let Miss Osborne see that she was not to be treated
with neglect; she was not a person to come and go at any one's bidding;
if Miss Osborne could ask Emma, why not herself too; she surely had as
much claim to attention. Then she turned to Emma and required her to
promise that she would not accept the invitation. But Emma said she had
done so already. She had written a note which Mr. Howard had charge of;
and she was not to be induced to retract. Margaret grew quite angry,
accusing her of being mean-spirited and servile, fawning on Miss
Osborne, and winning her favor only by her base concessions; she said
everything which an irritated and jealous temper could suggest, and
tormented Emma into tears at her crossness and ill-will.
"I wonder you mind her, Emma," remonstrated Elizabeth, when she
discovered that her sister's eyes were red, and wrung from her an
acknowledgment of the cause. Elizabeth had not been present when the
discussion which pained Emma so much, had taken place. "It's not the
least use fretting about Margaret's ill-temper and teazing ways—she
always was a plague and a torment from a child, and there's no chance of
her being any better. She is so abominably selfish. But I cannot bear
her to make you cry."
"I dare say you think me very foolish," replied Emma, wiping her eyes,
"but I have never been used to be crossly spoken to, and it quite upsets
me."
"No, I don't think you foolish, Emma; you are only much too good and
tender for this situation. I shall be glad when you are married and safe
with Mr. Howard, and nobody to scold you or make you spoil your beauty
by crying."
"Nonsense, Elizabeth."
"It's not nonsense, Emma, I believe he is very good-natured, and I dare
say you will be very happy with him. How long were you
tête-à-tête, with him, before you brought him
into the parlour?"
"We came from my father's room then."
"Oh, you need not apologise; I think you were quite right to have a
comfortable chat with him, before bringing him into Margaret's company. It
is but little conversation you can have when she is by. I saw you with him
in the garden."
Emma blushed.
"I assure you we did not stay there five minutes; he came to call on my
father, and we went to him immediately."
Elizabeth only answered by a look; but it was a look which shewed that
she was not in the least convinced by Emma's assertions, but only
wondered that she should think them necessary.
.ni
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END OF VOL. I.
.pb
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.nf c
THE YOUNGER SISTER, VOL II.
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.h2 id=v2ch01
CHAPTER I.
.sp 2
.ll 70
.pi
.nr psi 1.0em
The invitation to the important party was not for an early date; ten days
must elapse before the arrival of the day expected to bring so much
happiness with it. The comfort of the Watson family suffered alternations
which could only be compared to the ebbing and flowing of the tide, but
that their recurrence could not be calculated on with equal certainty. When
the pleasure she was to enjoy occupied her mind, Margaret was comparatively
happy; the arrangement of her dress, the minor difficulties about ornaments
and shoes, were even then sufficient to destroy her equanimity, and detract
from her peace of mind; but this was nothing to the state of acidity and
fermentation which her temper presented, when the grand insult of not being
Miss Osborne's friend, and not invited to stay at the Castle, recurred in
vivid colors to her memory.
But three days before the important morning, a very unexpected event threw
the whole family into a ferment. Just as the two elder sisters were setting
off to the town, to see if their new bonnets were making the progress which
was desirable, the sudden appearance of a post-chaise startled them. Emma,
who was in her father's room as usual, heard the wheels on the gravel, and
naturally supposing that it was the old pony-chaise leaving the door, was
perfectly astonished the next minute by the startling uproar which
resounded through the hall. Loud laughter, and a mingled clatter of
tongues, which might almost be denominated screaming, convinced her that
whatever was the origin, it was not of a tragic nature, but her awakened
curiosity made her long to know the cause, through
she feared to move, as her father had fallen into a gentle doze. A shriller
exclamation than before suddenly roused him from his slumber, and starting
up he exclaimed:
"What are those confounded women about? Emma, go and bid them all be
quiet."
Emma escaped from the room to obey his behest, and on reaching the turn of
the stairs paused a moment to see who was there; just then she caught her
own name.
"Emma is at home," said Margaret, "and as I really want to go, I shall not
mind you. Pen, you can go and sit with her."
"Very well, it's all the same to me," replied a stranger, who she inferred
was her unknown sister, "I am sure I don't want to keep you at home." And
as she spoke she turned again to the door, "I say driver, you just get that
trunk lifted in, there's a good fellow, and see you don't turn it bottom
upwards, my man, or I vow I won't give you a sixpence—do you hear?"
The driver grinned and proceeded to pull down the trunk, whilst Penelope
Watson stood at his elbow, and flourished an umbrella in her hand, very
much as if she meant to enforce her threats with blows.
When satisfied, however, with the care
which he took of her property, she had paid and dismissed him, she turned
to her sisters, exclaiming:
"There, now you may bundle off too, as fast as you please, my bonnet and
gown and all are in that trunk, and you shall not see them till I put them
on, lest you should try and copy them."
"How very ill-natured," cried Margaret.
"No, it isn't, what becomes me would never suit you, so I only prevent you
making a fright of yourself. Where's Emma? I want to see her."
"Here I am," said she timidly advancing, for Penelope's loud voice quite
overpowered her courage.
"Here I am," mimicked Penelope, advancing towards her, "and how does your
little ladyship do, pray? Why are you so long coming to welcome your new
sister? I am sure you ought to have learnt more affection from Margaret."
Emma did not know what to answer to this attack, but looked at Elizabeth
rather distressed.
"Never mind, Penelope," replied Miss Watson to her look, "she always says
what she pleases; well, Margaret is waiting in
the chaise, so I must go; Emma, will you take Pen to my father?"
And Elizabeth hastened away as she spoke.
Penelope turned to her remaining sister, and surveyed her from head to
foot—
"Well," said she, "I suppose I had better go and report myself first, and
then I can settle about my things; upon my word, Emma, you are very pretty,
I am so glad you have dark hair and eyes; Margaret makes me quite sick of
fair skins, by her nonsense about her own. Here I am, sir," cried she,
advancing into her father's room as she spoke, "come to waken you all up; I
am sure the old house looks as if it had gone to sleep since I went away,
and there is the same fly on the window, I protest, as when I was last in
the room. How do you do, my dear sir?"
"None the better for all the confounded clatter you have been making in the
hall, I can tell you; I thought you had brought home a dozen children at
your heels, judging from the uproar you created. What mad freak has
possessed you now, Penelope?"
"Oh! I came for two things—one was to go to the Osborne Castle ball—the
other I'll tell you by-and-bye."
"You are always racing over the country, and bent on having your own way, I
know."
"So is every one; but they don't all know how to get it, so well as I do;
but I see I'm disturbing you, so I shall go and unpack my rattle-traps—Emma
come with me."
Emma seemed to obey instinctively—but she felt no pleasure in accompanying
her sister. Her voice, look and manner, were alike uninviting, and she felt
inclined to shrink from her. Penelope went to the parlour, and stirring the
fire, drew in a chair close to the chimney—placed her feet upon the fender,
and then turning abruptly round to her sister, said—
"So it is all your doing, is it, our going to the castle balls; it is
really something new—Margaret wrote me word you and Miss Osborne were bosom
friends?"
Emma coloured, but did not know what to say in reply.
"How sheepish you look, Emma," cried her sister, "one would think you were
ashamed of it all; I am sure I think it vastly clever of you to get up a
friendship with Miss Osborne, or a flirtation with her brother. I've a
great respect for girls who know how to push their way and make the
most of circumstances. What sort of young fellow is Lord Osborne?,"
"Plain and quiet," replied Emma.
"As if I did not know that," cried Penelope, "why, I've seen him
hundreds of time, child; almost before you were born. I mean is he
pleasant?—can he talk nonsense?—does he know how to make himself
agreeable?"
"That must depend upon taste," replied Emma, "he never was particularly
pleasant to me; and, as to his talking, it's neither good sense, nor good
nonsense."
"Do you know what good nonsense is, Emma?" cried Penelope, "Why, then, I
dare say you may not be quite detestable."
"I should hope not," said Emma, trying to smile.
"I thought your uncle might, perhaps, have made a Methodist of you, and
that would not have suited me. Those musty old doctors of divinity have,
sometimes, queer notions."
"I must beg, Penelope, when you mention my late uncle, you will do so with
respect," said Emma, with spirit.
Penelope looked surprised—and, for a moment, was silent; when next she
spoke
it was to question Emma minutely, as to the quality, price and texture of
her dress, for the important day and night in prospect.
"I expect Margaret will be ready to expire with envy, when she sees the
real Indian muslin that I mean to wear," pursued she, in a tone of great
satisfaction; "I am not going to tell you how I came by it—for that's a
great secret for some days to come. Is not Margaret horridly jealous?"
Emma looked shocked.
"Oh, I see!" laughed Penelope, "you are too good to abuse a sister—quite a
Miss Charity or Miss Meek of a good little girl's prize book. But, if you
like to sit like a goose weighing every word you are about to utter, I can
tell you that does not suit me at all. I always say what comes into my
head, without caring for anybody."
As Emma, however, did not follow the same method, she did not express how
very unpleasant a course she considered it; and the sisters did not quarrel
then.
"How has Margaret got on with Tom Musgrove?" continued Penelope,
"by-the-bye, have you seen Tom Musgrove, yourself?"
"A little," said Emma.
"And how do you like him?—what do you think of him?—do you think he is in
love with Margaret?" pursued Penelope.
"No," replied Emma, answering only to the last question.
"Nor do I; I don't see that he is at all more in love with her, than he has
been with twenty other girls—myself included. But it's very good fun
talking to him when he is in spirits. Emma can you keep a secret?"
"Yes, I hope so, when necessary; but I would rather have none to keep."
"How absurd—why, it's the best fun possible, to have a good secret; I would
tell you one, if you would promise not to betray it."
"I shall be very happy to hear anything you like to tell me, and, I dare
say you would not ask me to do anything wrong."
"Wrong! why, are you such a little Methodist, as to consider whether every
thing is wrong—it's my own affair, and how can there be anything wrong in
my telling you if I like? If one always stops to meditate whether any one
would think a thing wrong, one might give over talking altogether."
Emma was silent from not very well knowing what to say in reply; and, after
a momentary pause, Penelope went on:
"Now, the only reason I want you not to tell is, because I wish to surprise
all the others by the news some day. You will promise not to mention it!"
"You had much better not tell me at all, Penelope; because then, your
secret will certainly be safe," said Emma, good-humouredly; "if you, who are
interested in it, cannot resist telling it—how can you expect me to be
proof to such a temptation?"
"You are very much mistaken," said Penelope, angrily tossing her head, "if
you suppose I cannot resist telling any thing I wish to keep secret; I
assure you, I am quite as discreet, when occasion requires, as your little
ladyship can be, though I do not set up to be so superior to all my family,
and give myself airs of discretion and superfine prudence."
Emma saw she had made her sister angry—though she did know exactly how or
why, and she attempted, but vainly, to apologise for the involuntary
offence. Penelope was not to be propitiated.
"I can tell you, Miss Emma, it's no use at all, your trying to be so grand
and indifferent; it was not a trifling mark of my regard, what I was going
to tell you, but, if you do not wish to hear it, you may let it alone. I
dare say, Margaret will shew more interest in my concerns; I can tell her
some day."
And with these words, Penelope rose and hastily quitted the room, slamming
the door after her with all her might.
During the three succeeding days there was every possible opportunity taken
by her to display to Emma the superior confidence with which Margaret was
treated. Slips of paper were continually thrown across the table,
containing mysterious words or incomprehensible signs. There was whispering
too in corners, and talking with their fingers; hints were thrown out,
which convulsed Margaret with laughing, but in which the uninitiated could
see no joke; and every means taken to raise a curiosity which would have
flattered Pen's self-importance. Elizabeth and Emma bore this infliction
with remarkable heroism—having a strong internal conviction that a secret
which required so much exertion to give it importance could not be much
worth knowing, or that it would soon certainly become public.
Affairs were in this state when the important day, which had already
excited such intense speculation or anticipation in the minds of the four
sisters. Emma's toilette was very satisfactory to herself in its results,
she hoped she should not be the plainest or worst dressed person in the
room, and she certainly took especial care to arrange her hair in a way
that she had reason to think Mr. Howard admired.
Duly were they transported to the scene of such great anticipations, and
when they had sufficiently arranged their dresses and shaken out the
creases, after being so very much squeezed, they were marshalled up the
grand staircase into the state-apartment.
It was worth while to watch Margaret's countenance, when, for the first
time, contemplating the rich furniture and evidences of wealth which
surrounded her. An overpowering sense of her own insignificance, and a
conviction, that amidst so much that was rich, beautiful, and costly, her
own elaborate toilette would pass unregarded, were the most prominent of
her feelings. She could not resign herself to the idea of being one amongst
the many unimportant individuals who contributed to form one whole and
animated picture; she had flattered herself with the idea that she should
be quite distinguished; she had fancied that because her dress was the most
elegant she had ever worn, it would be equally superior to those of the
other visitors. Suddenly she found her mistake. Around her, on every side,
were gay groups dressed in a far more expensive style; jewels glittered,
laces and Indian shawls, velvets and brocades rustled or waved before her
eyes, and the discovery that, however superior to her usual style were her
present habiliments, numbers present surpassed her in elegance, caused a
bitter mortification to her vain mind. It was everywhere a scene of gay
bustle: animated whispers, light laughter, finery and flirtation were on
every side of her and her sisters, as they followed the stream of visitors
ascending to the reception-rooms. There were few whom they knew by sight;
none to speak to, amongst all the company; some who passed bestowed a
stare, some put up their eye-glasses, and some their lips, as they saw the
four sisters unattended by any gentleman walking together. These were
ladies: men when they looked once, looked again, for the whole family were
good-looking, and Emma's beauty could not fail to attract when once
observed. But looks did not satisfy Margaret or Penelope, who both wanted
to be conspicuous characters, envied every woman accompanied or addressed
by a man, and felt extremely ill-used by everything around them.
After passing through several state-apartments, where they followed in the
wake of many others, they arrived at the entrance of the music saloon,
where they at last encountered Miss Osborne and her mother. The latter
curtsied, and then turned to some one else; the former broke off a
conversation with some young people round her, to offer her hand to
Elizabeth and her youngest sister, to whom she expressed much pleasure at
the meeting; and said a few civil words to the two others, when Miss Watson
named them. Both Elizabeth and Emma were satisfied with their reception,
and would have been glad to find quiet seats from which they might survey
the company, and thus secure all the share in the amusement that they felt
they had a right to expect. But the others were not so easily satisfied.
They wanted to keep close to Miss Osborne, hoping for the distinction of
further notice, and they both declared that they had no idea of being
wedged into a corner where nobody could see them. To avoid attracting
attention by their angry whispers, their sisters were obliged to comply,
though they both felt uncomfortable at parading the rooms without any
chaperone or gentleman to escort them, and yet did not like to attach
themselves to Miss Osborne, lest she should think so large a body of
followers troublesome.
Passing once more down one of the drawing-rooms, they for the first time
perceived an acquaintance. This was Tom Musgrove, who was in the act of
escorting a party of fashionable-looking ladies, and either did not, or
would not see them. To pass him unobserved, however, suited neither Pen nor
Margaret, and the latter having failed to catch his eye, the former pulled
his elbow to make him look at them. Emma turned blushing away, quite
ashamed of the free manner of her sister's address.
His attention thus arrested, he could not avoid speaking—but his bow was as
short and hurried as it was possible, and he would again have turned to his
party had Penelope or Margaret allowed it. But this they would not do.
"Bless me, Tom," cried the elder sister; "how many ages it is since we met,
and yet you seem not to have a word to bestow on an old friend."
His party passed on as she spoke, and as soon as they were sufficiently far
off for him to be sure he should not be heard, he replied in a very short
abrupt tone,
"I am much obliged for your notice, Miss Penelope, and vastly happy to see
you, only just at present, as I am particularly engaged in escorting the
daughters of Sir Anthony Barnard, I must beg you will excuse my further
delay; your humble servant, Miss Margaret," and he rushed away as he
finished his sentence.
"How provoking," muttered Penelope, "I declare, Tom Musgrove seems to have
become a perfect bear since I went away."
"I wish our father was a baronet or a lord," sighed Margaret, "then he
would care for us too."
"Then I am sure I should not care for him," cried Elizabeth, with much
spirit; "who would value attentions dependent on such a circumstance?"
They now stood still, and seemed quite at a loss what to do, when a voice
at Emma's ear made her start, and sent all the blood thrilling through her
veins. The individual on whom her thoughts were fixed, he whose presence
and attention were most certain of making her feel at ease—Mr. Howard, in
short, was beside her.
His eager enquiries as to whether she had met Lady Osborne—whether she was
pleased with what she saw, gave her satisfaction; but his proposal that
they should join his sister, who was in the music saloon, and was looking
out for them, was the greatest relief imaginable.
The awkwardness of feeling, from which she had been suffering, was at once
done away; they would belong to some one—they would have some one to
address them—some one to make them feel at home and comfortable.
Mrs. Willis was good-humoured and agreeable as ever—receiving the two
strangers cordially, for the sake of their sisters, and immediately
proposing that she should act as their chaperone at the ball in the
evening.
To this, not even Margaret could make an objection, and Emma, with Mr.
Howard by her side, was now really happy. The happiness, however, was not
of very long duration; scarcely had she been seated five minutes, when she
perceived Lady Osborne's eye-glass turned in their direction—and a moment
after, a young man, who stood near her, and to whom she evidently addressed
some words, approached and said,
"Howard, you are wanted—her ladyship finds your assistance and presence
indispensable—but, before you go, I pray you to bequeath to me your seat."
With evident reluctance—Emma's only consolation, he rose, and turning to
her said—
"Since, I must leave you—will you allow me to present to you my friend, Sir
William Gordon—but, remember, Gordon," he added, laughing, "I shall expect
my proxy to resign in my favour, the moment I return to claim the
situation."
"Don't build too much upon that," cried the young Sir William, whose gay,
animated countenance, would certainly have prepossessed Emma in his favour,
had he not turned out Mr. Howard.
In spite, however, of his lively address, her eyes followed the other
gentleman; and she perceived that Lady Osborne, after some conversation
with him, sent him to fetch some young ladies from the other side of the
room; and, after a good deal of bustle and change, succeeded in locating
him in a corner close to herself. It was vain to watch longer, there seemed
not the slightest prospect of a release for him; and, fearful lest her
looks should attract notice or betray her feelings, she endeavoured to
confine her attention to what was immediately around her. The music had not
yet commenced, and there was neither opportunity nor inclination wanting on
the part of her neighbour to amuse her with conversation.
"Have you been often at the castle?" enquired he, presently; "I do not
remember to have seen you here; yet I think I should have noticed your
face, had we met before."
Emma informed him that she was a comparative stranger in the neighbourhood,
and had rarely been at Osborne Castle.
"Then are you sure that you are aware of the state of family politics? Are
you conversant with the position of parties in the establishment?"
"On the contrary, I am quite ignorant—possessing no knowledge, and little
curiosity."
"Oh, impossible! all women are curious, more or less. You must wish to have
a peep behind the scenes."
"I deny it."
"But it is necessary that you should, or you will transgress again."
"Again!" said Emma, a little alarmed; "have I done so already then?"
"Certainly," replied Sir William gravely, "were you not guilty of detaining
Mr. Howard by your side, when her ladyship needed him?"
"Indeed, no! he went directly she sent for him," said she, coloring.
"To send, should have been on her part, superfluous; to go on his,
impossible; he should, instinctively, have sought her side, and placed
himself in her service."
"Surely not—Mr. Howard is not the individual of highest rank, and could
not, therefore, rightly, appropriate such a situation; and he is a free
agent, and has, surely, the power of choice."
"He has, no doubt, every thing to guide him. I cannot doubt of his having
taste, judgment, discernment, sense; his choice cannot be questioned in
some respects—but, if he intends to please her ladyship, he must prove his
admiration for the mature charms of forty five, not the blooming
graces—but, I am growing personal and particular, I forbear lest I should
offend!"
Emma looked a little puzzled.
"Howard is my intimate friend," added Sir William, "and I really
wish him well; now, do not you think he had better marry the dowager."
"It is a point which no one can presume to decide for him," said Emma,
struggling with certain painful recollections.
"After all," added he, "there is no such disparity in their years—only
fifteen or thereabouts—the jointure might be sometime in his possession."
"I should really be obliged, if you would find some other subject of
conversation, Sir William," replied Emma, decidedly, "I do not think it
good taste to criticise our hostess."
"Suppose we talk of her daughter, then?" replied he, quietly, "don't you
think her rather over-dressed?"
"No," said Emma, "but I think you had better let the whole family alone."
"I think I will follow your advice and choose another subject—what shall it
be?—shall we talk of yourself? Confide to me all your peculiar tastes—your
wonderful aversions—your never dying friendships. How many bosom friends
have you, Miss Watson?"
"None, except my sister," said Emma, amused.
"Your sister! oh, fie! no one thinks of making a friend of a sister—that is
quite a burlesque—a friend's brother is, of course, a favorite—but one's
own brothers or sisters are quite out of the question."
"Well, then, I am badly off indeed, for I have no friend."
"Indeed! I wish you would take me as one."
Emma shook her head.
"I assure you, I am very modest, I should make an excellent friend; only
try me."
She answered only by an incredulous look.
"Here comes Lord Osborne into the room," continued he, "looking as if he
were going to be hanged. Just turn your eyes this way, Miss Watson."
"Thank you," replied Emma, without complying; "but I will not add to Lord
Osborne's modest confusion by looking at him."
"His modest confusion—what a good idea. Why he is the most impudent man in
Great Britain. What bribe do you suppose his mother had to offer him, to
induce him to come into the music saloon to-day?"
"It is difficult for me to guess. Agreeable company and excellent music no
doubt."
"I cannot fancy either would gratify him; he is certainly one of the most
unpolished boors in the county. I assure you his groom is a gentleman
compared to him."
"For shame to say such things of your host—you are taking away his
character, and there is surely some penalty attached to stealing in a
dwelling-house."
"You are quite mistaken, I am doing just the reverse—giving him a
character, out of the superfluity of my own. But now just look at him, he
is making his way up to his mama—what would you bet that he does not tread
on six ladies' toes before he crosses the room?"
Emma could not help smiling, but would not turn round, as she had no
inclination to catch the young peer's eyes.
"Oh, it's not Lady Osborne, it's Howard he is addressing. I wonder what he
is saying. Howard's countenance is a tell-tale, and it's something he does
not like. Now they are both looking this way; upon my word his lordship is
coming here. Do you think he is trying to find me, Miss Watson?
Really such public notice confuses me—I am so very modest—am not I blushing
now?"
Emma could not raise her eyes, for she was conscious that whether Sir
William's blushes were real or fanciful, her own were painfully deep, and
that he observed it. It was not however as Sir William supposed, because
Lord Osborne was coming towards her, but it was the idea that Mr. Howard
pointed out her seat with reluctance, joined to the arch tone and look of
her companion that destroyed her composure, in spite of her utmost efforts
to appear calm.
"You are acquainted with Lord Osborne, then?" said he, as if drawing an
inference from something just passing.
"What makes you think so?" said she.
"I judge from your being so well aware that he is not worth looking at; had
you never seen him, you would certainly have expected something superior.
Shall I vacate my place in favor of his lordship?"
"As you please. It is a perfect matter of indifference to me: don't do it
on my account however."
"What a perplexing answer; I don't know how to understand it; for though
well aware that a lady's private opinion is usually the reverse of her
public one, I am still left in the dark as to which of us you really
prefer."
All this conversation passed in whispers during the bustle of arrangement,
and previous to the commencement of the overture; but now the full burst of
the orchestra drowned all other sounds, and made a reply from Emma
unnecessary.
The silence which followed between them proved a relief to her, and
thinking that her companion's attention was engrossed by some other object,
she stole a glance towards the spot occupied by Lady Osborne's party. There
sat her ladyship in state, and close beside her stood Mr. Howard: he was
stooping to listen with a smile to some observation of his patroness, and
the painful idea crossed her mind that perhaps after all they were
right who suggested the possibility of an alliance between them. She could
not imagine that he loved the dowager, but it was very possible that
ambition, the desire of independence, vanity, or some other motive might
influence him; and as to her ladyship, she must have given some ground for
a conjecture so universally whispered.
A year ago, had she then known the parties, such an idea would have been
rejected as absurd; but her aunt's marriage had given a shock to her
feelings which seemed to destroy her confidence both in men and women,
especially in middle-aged widows with large jointures. It was true that if
Mr. Howard's character were such as she supposed, he would be uninfluenced
by such a consideration, but in this she might be mistaken, and where such
a possibility of mistake existed, it became her not to risk her own
happiness by encouraging the feeling of partiality for him, which she was
conscious had been growing since the commencement of their acquaintance.
She made the most heroic resolutions, determining henceforth to keep as
much as possible out of his company, and do everything in her power to
restore her mind to a state of equanimity. She resolved therefore not to
look again, but studiously to avert her eyes, and she tried hard to fix
them on the orchestra, and to forget, in listening to the music, all other
considerations. She was interrupted by the sudden address of Lord Osborne,
who having at length worked his way up to her, exclaimed,
"I have been trying to get to you this half hour, Miss Watson, but those
fellows with their music make such a confounded row, there is no knowing
what one is doing here."
There was nothing in Emma's calm and collected reception of him to
encourage the notion of partiality on her part which Sir William Gordon had
entertained. It was polite, but as far removed from the flutter of a
gratified vanity as from the consciousness of a growing attachment.
"I wish you would make room for me to sit down," he said presently.
"Gordon, I think you have been here quite long enough—go and make love to
Miss Carr and you will be doing a double charity."
"As how, my lord?" said Sir William without moving an inch.
"By giving her something to do, and leaving a seat for me here."
"Thank you, but in good truth I am not equal to the undertaking which your
lordship has just so successfully performed. I could not make my way across
such a room, and must pray your leave to remain in the modest seclusion of
this corner, as best suited to my humble capacities."
"You abominably selfish fellow, you have the best seat in the room, and you
know it—that's all."
Sir William bowed.
"Then your lordship can hardly expect me to give it up; possession you know
is everything."
"I can make room for your lordship," cried Margaret who had long been
straining forward her head to try and catch his attention. She was seated
behind Emma and Elizabeth, by the side of Mrs Willis.
Lord Osborne just turned his head and gave her a momentary glance, then
stooping towards Emma, enquired who was that thin girl behind her.
She informed him it was her sister.
"Indeed!" cried he; "I should never have guessed that—she is not a bit like
you!"
At this moment a favorable movement was effected by Penelope, who had been
seated at the extreme end of the form. Seeing the advantage of attaching
Lord Osborne to their party, and too wise to expect to do so by superseding
Emma, which seemed to be Margaret's idea, she quietly removed, and placing
herself by Mrs. Willis, left a vacant seat.
He immediately requested Elizabeth to make room for him, and in another
moment he was established by Emma's side, in the long desired position.
"What a remarkably good-natured girl," observed he in a whisper: "who is
she?"
"Another sister, my lord."
"Another sister! Why in the name of Heaven, how many sisters have you in
the room?"
"Only three."
"Only three! And how many others have you?"
Emma assured him that was all.
"Well but three is too many," replied he gravely; "it must be very awkward
and disagreeable having so many—don't you find it so?"
"I never looked upon it in that light, which is fortunate, perhaps, as I
see no remedy."
"That's true—you have them and cannot help it; but that does not make it
less of an evil—one would not choose three sisters."
Emma did not think it necessary to reply to this speech.
"Then your father has four daughters?" continued he, as if the result of
profound calculation on his part.
"Your arithmetic is quite correct, my lord," replied she, smiling a little.
"And how many sons are there?"
"Two only."
"That makes six children in all—what a family. It's a great draw-back
certainly."
"It does not make me unhappy at all."
"That must be because you are so very good-tempered. I am not sure that I
could bear it myself."
"It is fortunate that you will not probably be called on to support such an
infliction!"
"Unless I were to marry a woman who had a good many brothers and sisters."
"It will be your own fault if you do that, and with so strong a prejudice
against them, I should certainly advise you not."
A long pause ensued, during which every one seemed occupied with the
singing, and when, at the close of the first act, there was an opportunity
again afforded for conversation, Emma's attention was claimed by Miss
Osborne, who made her way up to her, and offering her arm, led her into
another saloon, as she said, to enjoy a little chat with her.
"How do you find Sir William Gordon?" enquired she, presently, turning away
her face as she spoke, to examine some flowers near her.
"He seems chatty and pleasant," replied Emma; "but I have hardly seen
enough to form a serious idea of him."
"Are you engaged to Mr. Howard for the first dance?"
"No, I have hardly seen him this afternoon," replied Emma, in her turn
trying to conceal her countenance.
"That's unlucky; I wish he had asked you," observed Miss Osborne,
thoughtfully.
"Thank you; but I dare say he would have done so, had he wished it; and I
have no claim on him, more than any one else," replied Emma, rather
proudly.
Miss Osborne looked rather quickly at her. Her eyes were particularly
piercing, and she seemed to read Emma's thoughts in her face. This scrutiny
somewhat distressed her companion, and she was much relieved by the
approach of Lord Osborne and Sir William Gordon, who joined them, with a
request that they would return to the music saloon as the performance would
soon be beginning.
"Nonsense," replied Miss Osborne, "there can be no occasion to hurry—and I
do not care about the first piece—it's so pleasant here—sit down again,
please, Miss Watson, and, Osborne, you keep quiet."
Emma complied—the room was cool and agreeable, and she was out of sight of
Mr. Howard, and therefore less annoyed than when a witness to Lady
Osborne's attentions to him. Miss Osborne had a fancy for some refreshment,
and sent Sir William for a glass of jelly, desiring him to select the one
he thought best. Sir William insisted that her brother should accompany him
to bring something for Emma, with which he complied, although his sister
offered to lay any wager that he would spill it before reaching them.
"I assure you," she continued, to her companion, "he is the most awkward
creature in the world, though, I own, a very good-natured one. I would not
trust him to carry a jelly or a cream on any account, where I had much
regard for the carpet."
The gentlemen soon re-appeared, each bearing something in his hands; but
Miss Osborne's prophecy happened to be amply fulfilled: just as her brother
was stooping to present to Emma a glass of whipped cream, he stumbled over
a foot-stool, and laid the whole contents in her lap.
Up jumped Miss Osborne in great dismay and tribulation, and poured forth
the most vague apologies, her brother being far too shocked to speak at
all. Emma begged her not to be concerned, it really was so entirely an
accident that there could be no blame attached to any one. Nothing could
exceed the good-humour with which she bore the injury to her dress, or her
desire to restore Lord Osborne to his former equanimity.
"The dress will be totally spoilt," observed Miss Osborne, sorrowfully—"and
such a pretty one, what a pity: what can I do for you?"
Sir William suggested that Miss Watson should immediately try some remedy
for removing the stain; perhaps Miss Osborne's own woman could afford her
means of relief—at all events, it was better to make use of any method that
could be effected as speedily as possible, since delay would certainly
increase the evil. Adopting his advice, Miss Osborne hurried her young
friend away, expressing the most sincere regrets at the accident, both as
regarded spoiling her gown, and interrupting her amusement.
Emma did not attempt to deny that she was sorry for her pretty dress; but
she made the admission with so much good humour, and with so evident a
desire of excusing Lord Osborne, that her companion was perfectly delighted
with her.
An accurate investigation up-stairs, proved that the unfortunate gown was
ruined almost beyond hope of remedy; and Miss Osborne suggested that she
should put on one of her own, as a substitute, as they were so nearly of a
size that it was certain to fit well. Her whole wardrobe was placed at
Emma's disposal, and she was soon re-equipped, and ready to descend to the
company again, whilst the injured dress was submitted to the inspection of
a committee of waiting women, who were to take any possible measures for
its reparation. But as Miss Osborne took this opportunity of adjusting her
toilette for the evening, so much time was expended up-stairs, that the
concert was over before they returned to the music-room, and they found the
company separated into groups, some slowly parading through the different
apartments—some enjoying the collation in the refreshment-room—whilst some
had disappeared to prepare their dresses for the ball.
Sir William Gordon joined them almost immediately, with enquiries as to the
nature and extent of the injuries inflicted, and an assurance that the
culprit had retreated, being afraid once more to face Miss Watson. Emma
expressed such very simple and sincere regret that he should be distressed,
that Sir William volunteered to carry to him the news of her entire
forgiveness, and her friendly disposition. But Miss Osborne did not seem
disposed to part with him on such an errand. Detaining Emma's arm, she
engaged Sir William in a lively conversation, and it seemed evident that
her desire to ascertain the nature of Emma's feelings towards Sir William
arose from the fact that her own were rather warmly in his favour. He was
amusing, and rather clever, and Emma enjoyed listening to him. Her
attention was diverted by the approach of her sisters, and she was
immediately called on to explain the change in her dress which, of course,
attracted their eyes. This she did by merely relating that her gown had met
with an accident, and that Miss Osborne had been so kind as to lend her
another.
Now that they were standing under the immediate patronage of Miss Osborne,
Tom Musgrove thought proper to approach and join them. Emma, of course, was
his object, not only on her own account, but because her arm was linked in
that of the honorable Miss Osborne.
"How rejoiced I am to see you looking so well, Miss Emma Watson?" cried he.
"Winston must certainly agree remarkably well with you; but it is a most
unexpected pleasure to meet you under this noble roof; it is the first time
I have had that satisfaction."
Emma calmly admitted the fact.
"On what a magnificent scale our noble hostess entertains," continued he,
"there is not such hospitality exercised in any other mansion where I
visit. Does it not remind you of the old feudal times, when fair ladies
held their court, and knights and squires vied with one another for their
bright smiles."
"I wish you would go and see for my brother, Mr. Musgrove," said Miss
Osborne, looking quickly round.
Tom bowed low and obsequiously.
"Can you tell me where I shall find his lordship?" enquired he.
"No, indeed; you must just have the goodness to search till you find
him—from the turret to the cellar; from the library to the stable;
including the dog-kennel—it is impossible to say where he may be."
"I obey your gracious commands with the precipitation naturally your due,"
cried he, bowing again, but not moving; in fact, he was too much delighted
to speak to the young lady at all, to be in any hurry to conclude the
interview.
"Don't put yourself out of breath in the chace," said Sir William. "I am
sure Miss Osborne will not require that of you. Take your time, and look
carefully, for I suspect much he is artfully hidden from sight."
He tried once more to secure further orders from Miss Osborne; but she
would not look round again, and he was forced to console himself by
wandering over the reception rooms, and enquiring of every acquaintance if
they could tell him where "Osborne" was, as he was sent by Miss Osborne to
find him.
"How I detest that chattering magpie of a man," cried Miss Osborne as soon
as he was out of hearing, "I hope he is no friend of yours, Miss Watson?"
appealing to Emma, "I have been told that some women admire him
prodigiously."
"I do not," replied Emma.
"I am glad of that; he is just the sort of person I thoroughly despise. He
has not an opinion of his own, and is as mischievous as he is idle and
vain."
"Upon my word, Miss Osborne," cried Sir William, "if you express such very
strong opinions, you will frighten me out of your company. If you treat Tom
Musgrove with such severity, I wonder what character you would give to me?"
"You! Sir William, I make no scruple in telling you how vain, disagreeable,
and idle you are. What else can you expect me to say? Do not you waste your
days in fox hunting and coursing; your nights in drinking or flirting? are
you not well known as the worst master, the worst landlord, the worst
magistrate, the worst member in the county? Your misdeeds are notorious; do
you not pull down schools, and destroy churches? did I not hear of a fire
on your estate where much damage was done—were you not supposed to be
deeply concerned in that?"
"I pray your mercy, Miss Osborne; do not enumerate any more of my misdeeds,
or you will indeed drive me away. Such public censure is more than I can
stand."
Miss Osborne now proposed that they should adjourn to the room where the
collation was spread, as she protested the anxiety of mind she had
undergone had given her a prodigious appetite, and she thought she could
eat an ice or a cream, with at least two-thirds of a wafer.
After a search of half an hour, Tom Musgrove was successful in discovering
the owner of the mansion, and when he learnt that Emma Watson was with his
sister, he consented to return to her. He looked rather ashamed of himself
as he approached the ladies, but still he ventured on; his first glance was
at Emma's gown, and seeing no stain upon it, and never discovering that the
dress itself had been changed, he looked much relieved, and ventured to
whisper:
"I am so very sorry for my misfortune, but I assure you I never intended
it."
Emma warmly assured him that she was incapable of supposing such a thing
for a moment. He exclaimed at her extreme good-nature, protesting that he
should never forget it; then looking down at her dress, observed that he
did not think it was hurt by it. Emma was diverted at his entire want of
suspicion that it was another gown she wore, and would not distress him by
telling him of the change; his solicitude that she should have what was
nice, and his care to prevent another catastrophe were most
praiseworthy, and amused her till a summons came from Lady Osborne to her
daughter, announcing that they were waiting for her to open the ball.
To the ball-room accordingly they all proceeded, Lord Osborne still keeping
close to Emma, in such a way as to lead to the natural conclusion amongst
the spectators, that they were going to dance together. This did not seem
to be his intention, as he presently asked her who she was going to dance
with. She told him in reply that she was disengaged; and she internally
fancied that he was about to propose himself as her partner, an honor which
she did not desire. But when she found this was not the case, and that he
was quite contented with thinking somebody must
soon ask her, she certainly felt a little disappointed, and rather annoyed
fancying that he wished to prevent her dancing at all. Miss Osborne had
taken pains to procure partners for her sisters, knowing that they had but
few acquaintances in the room, and Emma thought it strange she should take
no notice of her. A few words she whispered to her brother, to which he
replied by a nod; and then she too disappeared amongst a group, and left
her standing by her extraordinary and taciturn admirer. She began to feel
rather strange and uncomfortable, and to wish herself quietly in a corner
out of sight, or with Mrs. Willis, whom she could not discover; anywhere in
fact but in a conspicuous station in the ball-room, with none near her whom
she knew, except their host.
At length she took courage to say that as they would probably be in the way
where they now stood, she should be glad to find Mrs. Willis, and sit with
her. Before Lord Osborne had time to reply, the lady they were speaking of
appeared accompanied by her brother.
Emma's surprise was very great when his lordship exclaimed:
"Oh, Howard, I'm monstrous glad you're come. You shall dance with Miss Emma
Watson, I've been trying to get her a partner for this great while."
Mr. Howard who had but recently escaped from the attentions required of him
by Lady Osborne, and who had been searching for Emma with this very
intention, felt all his expectation of pleasure die away at the sight of
the young couple standing together. He knew enough of his pupil to be aware
of the extraordinary interest he must take in his companion even to think
of procuring her a partner, and he could hardly suppose that she would be
quite undazzled by the devotion which was thus testified by a young
nobleman. It was therefore with a grave though civil air that he took up
the request that Lord Osborne had dictated, and solicited the honor of her
hand.
To refuse was out of the question, and yet she could not bear to accept
what seemed so unwillingly proffered. She thought he disliked the
proposition; he concluded she was disappointed in not having the young
baron for her partner; this feeling produced on each side a natural
coldness of manner, very unfavorable to securing an agreeable dance. She
could think of nothing to say which would serve to introduce the topic of
her thoughts, though she was longing to explain how uncomfortable she had
felt, whilst standing apart with Lord Osborne; and he seemed to be
labouring under a total absence of all ideas whatever, in the least
productive of conversation. Their dance was as different as possible from
that of the happy evening when they had first stood up together, and in
spite of her philosophic resolutions to cultivate indifference towards him,
she could not get over her regret at his manner. It was over at last, and
whilst trying to find her party she encountered Miss Osborne and her
brother. The former immediately addressed her with a hope that she had
enjoyed the dance, but before she had time to reply, with the most
astonishing quickness Lord Osborne answered:
"I am sure she did not, Rosa, for both she and Howard looked as if they
were following a funeral, and scarcely spoke a word to each other."
The lady and gentleman were both rather put out of countenance at this
accusation, and Miss Osborne looking archly at Emma, said:
"Why what's the matter—have you been quarrelling, my dear friend?"
Emma only answered by blushing still more deeply; and Lord Osborne, who
appeared seized with the spirit of communicativeness just at the wrong
moment, continued:
"Next time you send her a partner, Rosa, I hope he will be more to her
mind," from which sentence Emma conjectured that it was to Miss Osborne's
intervention that she was indebted for Mr. Howard's appearance.
In another moment she was still more surprised by Lord Osborne suggesting:
"Suppose you were to dance with me, Miss Watson, and see whether I could
not be agreeable; only, Rosa, you must call a very easy dance, for I shall
not be able to get through an intricate one."
Miss Osborne looked rather surprised at this extraordinary exertion on her
brother's part; Mr. Howard turned away. Just at this moment Tom Musgrove
approached again, and Lord Osborne instantly addressing him, desired he
would go and ask that good-natured Miss Watson to dance, as he felt
particularly obliged to her. It would have amused a spectator to watch his
countenance on receiving this command: he could not make up his mind to
disobey; indeed as he found the whole family so much in favor at the
Castle, he intended to take them under his patronage likewise, but he
wished to dance only with Emma, and had come to seek her for that
purpose. After a moment's hesitation he turned to her, and affecting to
believe she was the one intended, requested the honor of her hand, in
compliance equally with his own wishes and his noble friend's commands. His
noble friend, however, was by no means inclined to cede his prior claim on
her hand in favor of Mr. Musgrove, but plainly told him that the Miss
Watson whom he was to ask was an elder one, who had been very good-natured
when he wanted a seat. Since he could not dance with Miss Osborne, who was
likewise engaged, Tom thought the next thing must be to take the sister of
Lord Osborne's partner, and he accordingly went to find the young lady
whose good nature had made so deep an impression on that nobleman. But
Penelope was engaged, and he, desirous of obeying the orders he had
received so far as he could, but preferring Margaret to her sister, was
very glad on this occasion to ask her to dance with him.
Margaret received him in a flutter of gratified vanity and delight, which
displayed itself in her looks and actions; it was such a very unexpected
compliment, that she felt certain that his affections were once more
returning to her—and that, before long, he would become her avowed admirer.
Emma's dance was little more lively than her last; Lord Osborne was so very
much occupied in keeping his feet in time, and giving the proper hand at
the proper moment, to his vis-à-vis, that he had no
faculties to spare for engaging in conversation. She saw Mr. Howard did not
dance and more than once she met his eyes fixed on her with a look which
she could not understand. It was not dislike or disapproval that his
countenance expressed—she would rather have described it as depicting
concern and a friendly interest—as if he were gifted with second sight, and
foresaw for her some great misfortune. She tried to avoid looking at him,
and was provoked with herself for thinking so much about his looks and
manners, in spite of her repeatedly formed resolutions to the contrary.
At the conclusion of this dance, there was a general movement to the
supper-room, and Emma found herself escorted there by her late partner,
rather to her own astonishment, as she could not help feeling that her
place should have been occupied by some one of the more distinguished
guests. Indeed she fancied, for a moment, that both his mother and sister
looked a little annoyed at his selection. She was quite separated from all
her own family, except Margaret, who, with the assistance of Tom Musgrove,
was placed nearly opposite to them—and who was now, in a peculiarly happy
state of spirits. In fact, Emma saw, with some little surprise, that they
were carrying on a very lively flirtation—which, as the excellent champagne
took effect on his head, became every moment more tender on his part.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch02
CHAPTER II.
.sp 2
On rising from supper, Miss Osborne again passed her arm under Emma's, and
led her out of the room: complaining that she was tired and heated, she
proposed adjourning to the conservatory, where, by the light of beautiful
lamps amidst the murmur of a fountain, the delicious odour of flowers, and
the chequered glimpses of a bright wintry moon playing on the blossoms and
shrubs, they sauntered in silence. At the end of the conservatory was an
alcove fitted up with sofas, and almost concealed from observation by a row
of orange trees, whose beautiful blossoms perfumed the air. Into this
recess Miss Osborne conducted her friend—and here they had been sitting
only a few minutes when they heard voices approaching.
After reconnoitring through the boughs, Miss Osborne softly whispered,
"It's only your sister and Mr. Musgrove—sit still, or we shall be plagued
with his company."
Trusting that they would not loiter long, the two young ladies remained
concealed; and, in another moment, the couple approached so close as to
enable them distinctly to hear what they said.
Margaret was speaking.
"But you need not envy us, I assure you, Mr. Musgrove, we, poor, weak
women, who have no defence from slander—no pity for the deep heart-wounds
we are ever compelled to bear in silence; oh! I assure you, if, as you say,
we are like angels, our lot is any thing but angelic."
"But women have so much more—I mean to say they are so much less—that is,
you know, they have not any thing at all?"
He did not seem quite aware of what he did mean; and Miss Osborne's looks
expressed a degree of amusement that threatened the security of their
concealment. She succeeded, however, in stifling her laughter, and catching
up his words—
Margaret began again.
"So they have—you say very true—you mean, no doubt, they have more
tenderness and less thought than you—but that increases our evils. We love
and dare not shew it—and we smile whilst a dagger is placed in our
hearts—and die happy, if, in dying, we can secure the peace of some beloved
object."
"What are these flowers, Miss Margaret?" said Tom, who evidently found it
difficult to sustain his part in this very pathetic conversation.
"Do you not know they are orange blossoms—bridal ornaments?"
"Are they indeed?—and when do you, mean to wear them?"
"How can you ask—is such an event in the disposal of woman?"
"Do you wish to wear them?"
"I shall not tell you—fie! how can you ask?"
"Nay, do not scold me for the deep interest I take in you."
"You take an interest, indeed!" cried Margaret, laughing affectedly; "ah! I
know you better."
"If you doubt my word, you don't know me at all—tell me, is there one of
all those men in that bright assembly, for whom you would put on those
mystic blossoms?"
"None, upon my word," cried she, again; "none for whom I would consent to
deck myself—none who could tempt me to such a sacrifice of life and
liberty."
"Is that possible?" exclaimed he, in an incredulous tone.
"True, indeed; but why should you ask; you care not for me—you take no
interest in me—you profess much indeed—but you are a man of professions."
"Cruel assertion—you cannot believe it possible. I assure you I have the
most feeling heart in the world."
"I am incredulous."
"You are unkind."
"What motive have I to be otherwise to you."
"My deep and earnest devotion to you, fair Margaret."
"Now you are jesting, Mr. Musgrove."
"In professing my admiration—my attachment—impossible—by this fair hand, I
swear I love you beyond expression. Will you wear the orange blossoms for
me?"
"Will I? ah! dearest Tom—you little know my heart if you doubt the
willingness—but may I trust you?"
"I vow to you by the bright moon above us—by all the honor of my ancestors;
by every thing that is dear to me, that you are the fairest, best, most
amiable, lovely, perfect woman of my acquaintance."
"Ah! dearest Tom. I sadly fear you flatter me with your sweet words."
"Flatter you! you indulge in an idea derogatory to yourself, to me—some
women I might flatter—some I have flattered—but not you—that is
impossible—tell me, Margaret, do you love me."
"Doubt you my love? Can you question my feelings—would you probe my
heart—ecstatic moment—bliss beyond conception. Tom, I am yours in life and
death."
"You are mine and I am yours—but hush, there are voices coming—let us
return to the dancing—"
With slow, and apparently, reluctant step, Margaret was drawn away; and,
the moment they were out of hearing, Miss Osborne turned to her companion
and aroused her from the state of almost stupid astonishment, in which she
was plunged, by commencing a rapid, but whispered apology, for having
become unintentionally the confidante of her sister's happy prospects. She
assured her it was entirely from a friendly feeling towards her, that she
had sat silent—for she felt had they started out and put the lovers out of
countenance by their appearance, the declaration would have been
interrupted, the whole affair disarranged—and more mischief might have been
perpetrated, than they would ever have hoped to repair.
At the same time she promised honorably to conceal the secret thus
unintentionally come to her knowledge, until it was generally published,
and she was able to present her congratulations to Miss Margaret. She did
not think it necessary to add how singularly absurd she had thought both
gentleman and lady on the occasion, or with how great a risk of choking her
effort to suppress her laughter had been.
To Emma the sentences overheard had conveyed a sensation of illimitable
wonder. That Tom Musgrove should have thought of marrying any woman, and
especially Margaret, a girl with whom he had formerly flirted till he was
tired, that he should really be enough in love to marry her without money
or connexions appeared almost miraculous. She was vexed that Miss Osborne
should have overheard all the nonsense passing between them, for she could
not help fearing, from the glance of her eye, that she would ridicule such
affection and folly.
Then too she felt very doubtful as to her sister's happiness with a man
whose present levity and idleness promised but ill for the future.
Certainly Margaret loved him, but hers was a love which doubtless might
have been transferred to some other object, and was but little likely to
make her seriously unhappy.
All these thoughts passed through her mind whilst slowly accompanying her
companion to the ball-room, where they neither sought nor saw the two whose
conversation had so much interested her.
The evening to Emma had decidedly been one of more pain than pleasure; she
was bitterly disappointed by the conduct and manners of Mr. Howard, and
this interview, instead of increasing their acquaintance, or promoting
their friendship, seemed to have ended only in finishing and strengthening
that incomprehensible division between them which had once or twice before
this surprised or alarmed her.
Regret at this circumstance combined with a feeling of lassitude and
weariness, from not being accustomed to such late hours, sufficed to rob
her movements, at first, of all spirit and grace during the next dance, and
to take away all sprightliness from her conversation. Her partner, the
lively Sir William Gordon, expressed a fear that she was ill, and proposed
sitting down, but desirous not to attract attention, she asserted herself
perfectly competent to continue the figure, and exerted herself more
effectually to dispel his ideas, lest he should succeed in guessing the
origin of her want of spirits. The effort was perfectly successful, and
carefully smothering her own feelings, she allowed her partner to talk in
his usual gay and careless style, and rewarded his conversation with smiles
which encouraged him to proceed.
He ascertained that she was to remain at the Castle that night, and
informed her that he was also to be an inmate for a few days, so that he
had the satisfaction of knowing that he should have the opportunity of
following up the acquaintance so happily begun, and that her appearance was
not only that of a dazzling meteor to shine across his path with rare
brilliancy for a few minutes, and then leave him to darkness and despair
for the future.
"No," said Emma; "I trust I have an orbit, though a small one, but too
distant and remote a one from yours, Sir William, for it ever to be likely
that our paths should cross again."
"You don't say so, Miss Watson; surely if Miss Osborne has discovered and
learnt to appreciate your worth—your brilliancy—it is very possible for an
inferior individual like me equally to keep you in sight."
"No," said Emma; "it requires Miss Osborne's abilities for that, and I am
sure you cannot pretend to vie with her in that respect."
"Beyond all question, no," cried Sir William; "I have not such vanity or
impertinence; have I not already informed you I am the most modest creature
breathing?"
"Oh, yes," replied Emma smiling; "we settled that point so long ago that it
had almost escaped my memory in the interval; but now you mention it, I do
recollect that you said so before."
"You are too bad, Miss Watson," replied he laughing.
"I think you wrong me—you should say too good, in thus readily allowing
your claim to superior merit."
"Well, but now tell me, do you think Miss Osborne so very clever?"
"I must decline discussing that point, being incapable of forming a
judgment on the subject."
"Am I to infer that you do not like me?" enquired he doubtfully.
"By no means—all I can allow you to infer from my silence is, that Miss
Osborne has been, voluntarily, so very kind to me, that she deserves my
gratitude, but that I have seen too little of her to warrant my forming an
opinion as to her talents or abilities."
"Do you think her pretty?"
"Exceedingly so," replied Emma warmly; "it is a countenance that improves
on one so very much—surely you must admire her."
Sir William did not return a direct answer, and Emma suspected that he
would have been more ready with a reply, had his admiration been merely
superficial. Yet it had struck her that Miss Osborne's manner to him was
uncertain and capricious, as if she did not wish to give him encouragement,
or was trying to play with his feelings, whilst Sir William, instead of
seeking to overcome this, appeared rather desirous of amusing himself with
some other objects.
She began to think she was the subject of some spell, destined to be the
puppet of one or other of her companions, who seemed continually acting
towards her some part which she could not understand. Perhaps they were all
trifling with her feelings, or amusing themselves at her expense by giving
her encouragement which induced her to enter society decidedly above what
was her proper situation.
She tried to shake off this very uncomfortable feeling, but it seemed to
have taken fast hold of her mind, and her hitherto animated countenance
became again clouded, her steps were dull, and her whole air exhibited
fatigue and depression.
Sir William was evidently watching her closely, and this annoyed her;
presently he said again,
"Then after all, she is not so much your friend as I fancied."
Totally forgetful, at the moment, of the subject on which they had just
been conversing, Emma started at this address, and looked puzzled without
replying.
"I mean," continued he, answering her look, "that I had fancied you were
particular friends, and I wished to hear your opinion of her—of Miss
Osborne."
"My opinion, I assure you, would not be worth giving, Sir William; but I
will inform you though I cannot presume to call myself her friend, I have
received very great attention from Miss Osborne, which has naturally
prepossessed me in her favor; and what I have seen of her gives me such an
opinion of her, that if our situations in life had made us equal, I dare
say our acquaintance might have grown into friendship."
This assurance apparently satisfied Sir William, as he dropped the subject
of Miss Osborne, and started off on a lively dissertation on the nature of
friendship, which amused Emma as long as she had strength for the dance or
attention to bestow on him. Her weariness however had increased so much
that she at last gave up, and was glad to rest in a corner, before she had
completed the allotted two dances. Here she was discovered by Miss Osborne,
who moved to compassion by her weary looks, or influenced perhaps by some
other unacknowledged motive, was persuaded, after a faint opposition, to
allow her to retire to rest.
And so ended Emma's enjoyments of the ball at Osborne Castle; it had
certainly been productive of little pleasure, and had cost her a handsome
dress; yet upon the whole she found herself regretting less the actual
injury inflicted on her than the unrealized pleasure which her imagination
had promised.
She was convinced, on reflection, that this dissatisfaction must spring
from some fault in her own mind; had her feelings been under proper
regulation, she would have entered with contentment or satisfaction into
the amusement before her, instead of worrying and wearying her spirit in
wishes for what was withheld. Her partiality for Mr. Howard was the origin
of all this; and if this incipient partiality already produced her so much
discontent and evil feeling, it became her to check it at once, and
vigorously, lest she should find herself deprived of her peace of mind,
before she was aware that she had gone astray.
The conjoined effects of excitement of mind, and unusual dissipation tended
naturally to produce a restless and sleepless night, and finding early the
next morning that her head would be the better for fresh air, she resolved
to try and find her way out of doors before the breakfast which would
probably be at a very late hour.
The wintry sun-beams were sparkling on the hoar frost, and glancing red
upon the naked boughs of the trees around, as she quitted the porch; the
air was brisk and enlivening—the sky free from clouds—and promising herself
a pleasant ramble, she walked into the park. The path she chose lay along
the side of beautiful hanging wood of beech, and she pursued it in profound
solitude for some time, hearing no other sound than the echo of her own
footsteps on the hard ringing gravel; but after walking a considerable
distance, it struck her that there was a sound of other feet in her
vicinity which seemed to be keeping parallel with herself, but farther in
the wood. Supposing it might be some labourer or gamekeeper, she paused to
listen, and allow them to pass on; but the steps likewise ceased when she
did, and that so immediately as to make her doubt if it were not fancy
altogether.
Again resuming her walk, she immediately heard the accompanying sound, and
this time being convinced it was no delusion, she tried to see through the
wood, and ascertain who was thus her silent companion, but the shrubs and
underwood were too thick to allow her to see anything.
Not quite liking to be thus accompanied, she resolved to return home, and
an opening which appeared to her to lead in the direction of the castle at
that moment presenting itself, she, unhesitatingly, struck off in that
direction. The footsteps no longer met her ear; but no sooner was her
attention released from this object, than she saw with a different kind of
alarm that the rapidly gathering clouds predicted rain. Not liking the
prospect of a wetting, she became rather anxious about the direction of the
path she was following—the turns and windings of which began to perplex
her, and she soon came to the conclusion that she had quite lost her way.
Certain, however, that the castle must be within a mile of her, though not
visible from where she stood, she would have rambled on indifferent to this
consideration, but for the state of the weather, which became every moment
more threatening.
Hoping to discover the turrets of the castle amidst the trees, she climbed
up a small eminence, in order to obtain a more extensive prospect, and from
this spot, though no view of Osborne Castle met her eyes, she saw in a
little glen beneath a cottage, apparently belonging to a keeper or
gardener, and there she determined to apply for directions as to the
shortest way home.
During the momentary pause, whilst taking this survey of the landscape, her
quick ear again caught the sound of the footsteps which had before seemed
to follow her. Well aware that there could in reality be no cause for
alarm, she overcame, as well as she could, the sort of nervous excitement
which had increased upon her feelings, and listened attentively.
Her nerves were naturally firm, though her fancy was lively, and she, under
ordinary circumstances, would have cared little for her invisible
companion, but the excitement of last night's dissipation, probably,
affected her in some degree, as it was with a sensible palpitation of her
heart that she awaited the appearance of the intruder, as she thought he
must immediately be visible between the open trees near her. The tread was
light and steady, evidently that of a gentleman, too light, she thought,
for Lord Osborne, who was not remarkable for his grace in walking; and her
heart suggested the idea that it might be Mr. Howard.
She would not speak to him, if it were, that she was resolved on; she would
not allow him to be friendly only in private, whilst he was cold and
distant before witnesses; but she thought she should like to ascertain if
it was he, and like to see how he would be disposed to behave.
The steps were now so close, another moment must reveal the figure; she
would not seem to be waiting for him, and turned once more to look at the
lodge below, to which a few large heavy drops of rain made it advisable she
should speedily retreat; and whilst her head was thus averted a few rapid
bounds brought to her side Sir William Gordon.
The young man would in all probability have felt but little gratified had
he known that the flush on her cheek at his sight was entirely one of
mortification and disappointment, for whatever she might try to persuade
herself, she was really quite disappointed that the intruder was not Mr.
Howard, as she had fancied.
She gave him as friendly a return to his salutation as she could force from
her lips—far more than she felt from the fear of betraying her feelings;
whilst he professed most unbounded satisfaction at his good luck in thus
overtaking her.
On his enquiring where she was going, she owned she had lost her way, and
was thinking of taking shelter in the cottage before them from the rapidly
encreasing rain.
"Do you require shelter?" cried he; "then let us hasten there at once; but
I thought you must be a fairy or a sprite, no mortal maiden could be
walking at this hour after dancing all night as you did. Seeing you could
go without rest, I naturally concluded you would be alike indifferent to
the variations of the elements—proof to the storm—impervious to the rain."
Emma smilingly assured him she was very far from this; and that she must
now condescend to make haste to avoid a thorough wetting. He begged to be
allowed to show her the way, and as they descended the steep side of the
glen together, she felt that she ought to be thankful for his arrival, as
the path was so abrupt, and in some places almost precipitous that his
support was, if not absolutely necessary, at least very convenient, when in
a hurry, as she was at present.
With all their haste, however, she was not a little wet, by the time they
stood in the porch of the lodge, and were right glad when, on the door
unclosing, in answer to their knock, they saw a bright fire burning on the
hearth.
The keeper's wife, a pretty and neat-looking young woman, very hospitably
pressed them to enter, exerted herself to dry Emma's cloak and hat, and
then asking if they had breakfasted, set about preparing them a meal with
all expedition, probably pitying the uncomfortable lot of those who were
obliged by fashion to defer their morning meal so long. The keen appetite
which a walk on a winter's morning would produce was sufficient to have
made welcome even inferior fare to that which she displayed. The excellent
bread and butter, the eggs, the apples, the raspberry jam, were all
tempting in themselves, and the jug of home-brewed ale which she placed for
Sir William was declared by him to be an excellent substitute for chocolate
after a late supper and an early walk.
Whilst she was preparing these things, her child, an infant of a few months
old, awoke in its cradle near the chimney corner. Perceiving that the
mother was too busy to attend to him, Emma volunteered to act the part of
nurse; and, being really fond of children, took much pleasure in the
occupation. Sir William looked at her with admiration—he had been struck
with her when dressed for the ball, and surrounded by a crowd of other
elegant women, but here the effect was doubled by the accompaniments. The
small and plainly furnished room, was brightly illumined by the blazing
fire—which, in spite of the gloom without, threw a ruddy glow over every
thing beside it.
Emma's simple dress shewing her figure unencumbered by ornament or
superfluous clothing, her dark hair, now wetted by the rain carelessly
pushed back from her glowing cheeks, highly coloured by the rapid exercise
which she had just undergone; her graceful movements as she tossed and
played with the infant in her arms, and the sweet smiles which she bestowed
on the really pretty child, struck him as forming the prettiest picture he
had ever seen. He drew back a little to contemplate it, and being an
excellent artist, he could not resist the temptation of trying a sketch of
her figure on a leaf in his pocket-book.
Engrossed with her charge, and not much caring for his company, she did not
for some time notice his occupation, and he had made a very satisfactory
though slight sketch of her, before she was in the least aware of it. But
suddenly turning to him, and catching his eyes fixed on her, whilst the
pencil was suspended under his fingers, the idea of what he was doing
struck her at once. The perfect simplicity of her manner when charging him
with it, the freedom from all affectation, and all appearance of gratified
vanity, seemed to him no less remarkable than her grace and beauty, and he
no longer wondered at the effect her presence had visibly exercised over
both Lord Osborne and Mr. Howard, and only felt surprise that Miss Osborne
herself should not feel uneasy at placing her brother in proximity to so
captivating a girl. He was sure, had his heart been free, she would
inevitably have conquered it, but his long standing partiality for Miss
Osborne herself was not to be overthrown by the unconscious rivalry of Emma
Watson.
"I was not aware you were an artist, Sir William," said she, quietly taking
the paper from his hand and looking over it, "this indicates that you are a
master of the pencil. You will allow me to keep it I hope, it can be of no
use to you."
"Excuse me, the sketch I cannot part with, at least not at present, I wish
to make a drawing of the subject; as the interior of a cottage it will be
perfect; pray do not require me to give it up." As he spoke he took the
sketch from her, as if afraid she might detain it against his wishes.
She said no more in opposition, but looking out of the window, began to
wonder whether there was any prospect of the rain ceasing, so as to give
them a chance of reaching the Castle in comfort.
"I assure you we shall not be missed these two hours," said he, "there is
not the remotest chance of any one being up in the Castle before noon,
after such a ball as that of last night."
"I should not like to spend many such nights," observed Emma, "one soon
tires of pleasure or rather of dissipation."
"What sort of life would you have, Miss Watson, could you decide your lot
with a wish—have you made up your mind?"
"Hardly, it is a point that requires reflection, and I cannot say that I
have bestowed much on it," replied Emma.
"Indeed—you don't say so—I thought all young ladies settled that before
hand—the situation, residence, fortune, even the name which the future was
to bring them, do you not arrange that entirely."
"If that is the case I am sadly behind hand," replied she smiling.
"It is never too late to mend, that must be your comfort; begin now—do you
prefer the country, or are you ambitious of a house in town?"
"Oh, the latter of course; a house in town and ten thousand a-year; you
cannot imagine I should stop short if I once began wishing, what would be
the good of that?"
"Bravo, I like to hear a lady speak her opinion boldly—so you are ambitious
after all; I should not have thought that from your face, I am a great
studier of countenance."
"But indeed you must blame yourself for my ambitious wishes," retorted
Emma, "I am sure it was you who put them into my head, I told you I had
never thought of anything of the kind."
"Very well, I see you are a promising pupil, I shall be proud of your
progress, I have no doubt, but now to tell you the truth I should have
assigned you a quiet cot in the country, a retired home, domestic cares and
joys, a round of parochial duties, cheered by peace and content—a clever
and well educated companion, not a dashing or ambitious one. I read your
feelings as I thought in your face, and should have expected you to chose
such a lot; you see how the best physiognomist may be mistaken—you blush
for me I perceive."
Emma did blush more than she wished, and she felt too much to dare to
answer for a moment, then recovering herself with an effort, she replied:
"Are you aware, Sir William, how nearly you have drawn my lot—did you know
I was the daughter of a country parson, and am situated nearly as you
describe?"
"No indeed," replied he with much animation, "I am after all then a better
guesser than I took credit for, it is curious that I should have so closely
described you. You live in the midst of content and peace do you!"
"I always thought content was an internal, not an external blessing,"
replied Emma, again evading his question, "one which it became our duty to
cultivate for ourselves, and I was blaming myself for enjoying so little of
it at this moment, being sensible that I feel rather discontented at the
detention in this cottage."
"Well, I am certainly more amiable than you, Miss Watson, for I am as happy
as possible, or nearly so at least. But now you mention it, it occurs to me
that perhaps the rain may continue all day, in which case we should be
really confined in our present refuge. Suppose we were to consult with the
hostess as to the means of escape."
"But what means can she suggest?" enquired Emma, "except walking home, and
in that case we shall certainly get wet through."
"I do not see that that catastrophe is absolutely inevitable," replied he,
"we might send to the Castle for a carriage; this seems to me the most
simple remedy; do you object?"
Emma was rather startled at the idea of taking such a liberty, but she
thought, perhaps, Sir William knew the ways of the family best, and she did
not raise any objection. Mrs. Browning, the keeper's wife, when called into
counsel, regretted extremely that she had no one about whom she could send
on such an errand, her husband being out with the boy that helped; she
would have gone herself but she had a cough, and was afraid of the wet.
This was an unexpected dilemma. Sir William meditated in silence.
"You have no carriage, Mrs. Browning, I suppose?"
"Bless you, no, sir—only one little tilted cart, which my husband drives to
church on Sunday."
"Well and is not that at home—can we not have that? it would do admirably
if we could;" cried he, delighted at the idea.
"Certainly, sir, I think I could harness it for you, the horse is at home
to-day unluckily—I will go and see about it."
"No, no, my good woman, let me go and see,—I dare say, I can manage the
affair without troubling you," said Sir William.
But she assured him her presence was necessary to show him the way, at
least; but, if the young lady would be so kind as again to hold the infant,
they would soon have every thing right. To this, of course, Emma readily
agreed, and she soon, from the thinness of the partition, heard Sir
William's voice joking with their hostess about the horse and harness.
In about ten minutes he returned.
"Miss Watson," said he, "your carriage is waiting—are you ready to
undertake the expedition under my escort?"
Emma assented; and, after thanking the mother, and kissing the child—a
process which Sir William pretended likewise to imitate, she was conducted
to the door, and assisted into the neat, little chay-cart by him—and, under
his protection, commenced the journey.
"What a charming little scene," cried he, slackening the reins to allow the
horse to walk up a long hill; "I wish you would write a pastoral poem
descriptive of the little cottage and its inhabitants, Miss Watson."
"And make you the hero of it, of course," replied Emma, "I wish I could,
the subject would be decidedly novel and amusing."
"Oh! by all means, make me the hero; introduce me in any way you like, you
could not do wrong."
"I should particularly celebrate your great and glorious appetite, and the
heroic way in which you attacked the bread and butter," said she.
"Miss Watson, you are growing satirical, I will not trust you; I know you
will say something cruel of me, I see it in your eyes."
"Your dexterity in harnessing a horse, that shall likewise be
commemorated—we will say nothing about your buckling the traces all wrong,
or the assistance Mrs. Browning was compelled to give you."
"Are you a witch, Miss Watson?" cried he. "How came you to know of my
little blunders; upon my word, I begin to suspect you of something
strange."
"Likewise your extreme partiality for little babies, and your amiable
caresses bestowed on them."
"Why, the baby was not exactly the thing I should have chosen to kiss,"
replied he, slyly, "but mothers and nurses seem to prefer it to
having such fees paid to themselves; but, if you think I was wrong, we will
go another day and I will make a more judicious selection."
"Far from it; I think you displayed peculiar judgment and taste—I am
serious in commending it. On the whole, I think you have behaved nobly this
morning, and posterity should learn your merits through my song, if it were
only in my power to write verses."
"Nay, now, I trust you are not going to have the cruelty to retract;
remember, whilst I celebrate the adventure with my pencil, I shall trust to
you to do so with your pen," cried he.
She only smiled and shook her head in reply, then, after a moment's pause,
she suggested that it might, perhaps, be in his power to quicken the pace
of the horse.
He assured her he was in no hurry; and he feared it would jolt her
inconveniently, if they drove very fast. She was obliged to submit, as she
saw he was determined to have his own way—but she thought the drive rather
tedious, and was quite relieved when they reached the porch.
"Holla, what have you got there?" cried a voice, which she had no
difficulty in recognising. "Why, Gordon, when did you set up that handsome
equipage?"
"I will tell you, presently, Osborne—but I must first assist Miss Watson
out," replied Sir William, gravely.
"Miss Watson! why, in the name of all that's wonderful, what frolic is
this? If you wanted to take a drive with Miss Watson, why did you not take
her in your curricle, Gordon?"
"Because, my good fellow," replied the baronet; "the curricle being
uncovered, would have exposed us to the rain; you had better trust to me,
Miss Watson, and let me lift you out—the step is very awkward for a
lady—gently, now, there, you are safe," as he set her down within the
porch, "I hope you are none the worse for your expedition. Do you not see,
Osborne, this, our coach, is weather proof—and, therefore, convenient in
such a rainy day."
"But where have you been!"
"Only driving in the park—surely your lordship cannot object to so innocent
a recreation."
"Why did you not ask for one of the carriages" said he reproachfully
turning to Emma, who was trying not to laugh at his wondering look. "Then I
could have accompanied you!"
"We are exceedingly obliged to you," replied Emma, "but—"
"But," interrupted Sir William, "we were quite content with each other's
society—and, as to our equipage, I defy you to produce one from your
coach-house, at all to be compared to this elegant vehicle. Miss Watson,
were you ever in one you liked better?"
"Never in one, for the loan of which I felt more obliged, I admit," replied
she.
"There, I knew it; only add you never had a better charioteer, and then I
shall be satisfied. I want a little commendation myself," added Sir
William.
"I do not think you do—you seem so uncommonly well satisfied with your own
exploits," returned Emma, laughing.
"Do come and have something to eat," interposed Lord Osborne, "I've done
mine, but my sister and Miss Carr are in the breakfast-room."
And he laid his hand on Emma's as he spoke, and led her away.
Sir William, after sending for his groom to take home the cart, ran after
his companions and joined them at the door of the breakfast-room. Both the
young ladies raised their eyes in astonishment and visible curiosity, at
their entrance together.
"Been out walking, Miss Watson," cried Miss Carr, "there must be something
superlatively delightful in such a morning as this—are you partial to
rain?"
"Not at all," replied Emma, "but it did not rain when I left the castle,
and I did not think it would."
"Did you walk far?—and are you not wet?" enquired Miss Osborne, rather
coldly.
Emma assured her she was perfectly dry.
"Where do you think we breakfasted, Miss Osborne?" commenced Sir William,
"for I beg to inform you, we, early risers, have had a walk, a breakfast
and a drive, this morning, before your finished you first meal."
"Really, I cannot pretend to guess where so eccentric a person as Sir
William Gordon takes his breakfast, or what his amusements are."
"Oh, do tell us," cried Miss Carr, "so you and Miss Watson have been
visiting together, have you; in some gipsy-camp or where?"
"No, indeed, you must guess again."
"Not I," replied Miss Carr, pushing back her chair from the breakfast
table, "I have no talents for divination. Rosa, I am going to your room to
try your harp—will you come when you are at leisure?"
Miss Osborne assented.
Emma, who had not sat down, declined all breakfast, and proposed to go to
her own room to remove her walking dress—enquiring of Miss Osborne where
she should find her afterwards.
"I will shew you your way," cried that young lady—then leading her into the
hall, "that flight of stairs leads to the gallery where your bed-room is. I
will wait for you here, before this fire."
Emma walked slowly up-stairs, and turning her head, she saw Sir William
join Miss Osborne and address her. His reception was any thing but
gracious—the young lady seemed bitterly offended about something, drew up
her head—pouted her under lip, and gave unmistakeable signs of being out of
temper with him. Emma did not wait to see whether he succeeded in
propitiating her anger, which she suspected arose from the supposition that
they had been walking together; and, to allay which, she determined to give
an accurate account of their adventure. On descending again to the hall,
she found only her friend, the gentleman having disappeared, and with her
she proceeded to the sitting room where Miss Osborne usually spent her
mornings.
Here the three girls were sufficiently merry and talkative, but Emma could
not find an opportunity of introducing the subject of her morning walk,
which she could not help fancying was scrupulously avoided by her young
hostess—a circumstance which rather annoyed her, as she particularly
desired to explain the reason of her return with Sir William.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch03
CHAPTER III.
.sp 2
The whole day was too wet to allow anything like exercise out of doors, and
Miss Carr complained bitterly of the stupidity and dullness of a wet
morning after a ball; indeed she found it so great an evil that she threw
herself on a sofa and fell into a doze, from which she was roused by the
entrance of Lord Osborne. At sight of him she started up, and tried to be
animated and agreeable, but it was evidently thrown away upon him, as he
seated himself by Emma, who was engaged in embroidering for his sister, and
began to admire her work.
Emma's manners were too quiet and reserved to give Miss Carr any ground for
supposing she was a voluntary rival, but his were so unusually animated as
to make his admiration of her indubitable, and Miss Carr's jealousy
extreme. Emma's thoughts were wandering—two wonders continually occupied
her mind, one on the subject of Margaret and Tom Musgrove—the other more
nearly connected with her own feelings and sentiments. She was roused by
Miss Osborne's enquiring of her brother if he had seen any of their friends
at the Parsonage that day. His answer was in the affirmative; he had been
walking with Howard and had a long chat with him about something of
importance, and Howard was thinking of going away for a few weeks, if he
could get any one to take his duty; he thought his sister wanted change of
air, and it was a long time since he had enjoyed a holiday.
"Going away!" exclaimed Miss Osborne, with a look of utter amazement; "this
does take me entirely by surprise. What in the world can influence him to
such a freak as that! going away, and at such a time!"
"I do not see why he should not go if he likes travelling in the cold,"
observed Lord Osborne coolly; "he has a right to a holiday if he chooses."
"And he has worked particularly hard of late," added Miss Carr maliciously;
"he has had double duty to perform."
"He is always very attentive to the parish," said Miss Osborne.
"Yes, both to old and young—the charitable visits that he pays to some old
ladies are most exemplary," continued Miss Carr in a sarcastic tone. "No
doubt he will be rewarded for his exertions, but I fear he will be much
missed in his absence."
Miss Osborne frowned and bit her lip; Emma continued to devote an
apparently steady attention to her work, and would not speak. Lord Osborne
added,
"I gave him leave to go, as far as I was concerned, but I do not know
whether her ladyship will like it. However, I think it rather hard if the
poor man cannot have a holiday now and then; he's a very good sort of
fellow, that Howard, though he was my tutor, I have a great regard for him;
don't you think so too, Miss Watson."
"It is very natural that you should," replied Emma as steadily as she
could, but not very well understanding what his lordship meant.
"I asked him to dine here to-day," continued he; "he said he should like to
see you, Rosa, before he went, or something of that sort, but he did not
seem certain about dining here, or when he should come up. I almost fancy
he is not well, he is so different from usual."
"Something must be the matter with him indeed, if you notice a change,
Osborne!" exclaimed his sister; "for I do not think you in general very
quick at observing faces or expressions. I must certainly see him."
"I fancy he played his cards ill last night," said Miss Carr; "he made some
blunder between hearts and diamonds I believe—I am certain he mistook one
suit for another."
"You know very little of Mr. Howard, Fanny," replied her friend; "pray
don't pretend to judge him, it's absurd."
"Of course it is," carelessly answered she; "it's not to be expected I
should know anything of a man so completely out of my sphere. I dare say he
is a mighty good sort of man, but he rather tires me when he talks."
"Where is Sir William Gordon?" enquired Miss Carr after a pause. "I wish he
would come here, he amuses me with his nonsense."
"In the library painting. By the bye, Miss Watson, that's one thing I meant
to speak about," continued his lordship with eager animation. "Do you know
he has got the most capital likeness of you I ever saw; how came you to sit
to him?—and he vows he will not give it to me."
"I did not sit to him," replied Emma, eager to clear up the mystery of her
walk; "he made it without my knowing it, this morning. We happened to meet
just as it began to rain, and both took shelter in the keeper's cottage,
when he amused himself drawing, whilst I was playing with the baby."
"Oh," said Lord Osborne; "I wish you would tell him to give it to me."
"I cannot interfere with it, my lord," said she smiling. "I begged for the
sketch myself and was refused."
"I vow I must see it," cried Miss Carr: "do come, Rosa, and keep me in
countenance in intruding on his studio."
Miss Osborne declined, but suggested that her brother would do as well, if
she wished for a companion, or fancied a guard was necessary.
"Do come!" cried the sprightly Fanny. "Be my guide and protector."
"Quite unnecessary, Miss Carr—Sir William neither bites nor stings,"
replied she coolly and without attempting to move.
"You are a—what name shall I call you bad enough! Rosa, I vow I will go and
have a tête-à-tête with Sir William—a nice little
quiet flirtation, if you will not come with me."
"Very well, it will serve to keep you awake—pray do," replied she
apparently quite unmoved.
Miss Carr departed, and a moment after Miss Osborne rose and walking to the
window stood there in deep contemplation for some time. The other two were
perfectly silent in the interval—at length returning to her companions, she
took her brother's arm, and saying she wanted some conversation with him,
she led him out to the conservatory to which a door opened from the room,
and they disappeared from Emma. Left alone she sank into a profound
reverie, and was engaged in trying, but not very successfully, to bring her
own thoughts into order and discipline, when a gentle knock was heard at
the door, and on her inviting the visitor to enter, Mr. Howard presented
himself.
Both lady and gentleman were excessively embarrassed at this unexpected
encounter.
"I expected to find Miss Osborne here," said he.
"She has just left the room," replied she, sitting down again, and then not
another word was spoken by either for some minutes. He was trying to be
cold, she to be easy and natural; apparently she had the greatest success
in her efforts, for after some deliberation, she said in as calm a voice as
she could command:
"I hear you are thinking of leaving home, Mr. Howard, I hope I shall see
Mrs. Willis again before you do."
"I suppose Lord Osborne told you?" replied he with a tone and emphasis
which she could not quite comprehend.
"I certainly heard it from him," answered she, rather annoyed at his
abruptness, and puzzled what to say next.
Another pause of some duration followed, and then he broke it, by an
enquiry if she had enjoyed the ball last night. She answered rather
eagerly, not nearly so much as the first one she had attended.
"I am surprised," replied he in a cold voice, "I fancied the friendly
kindness of Miss Osborne, and the attentions of her brother would have
secured you a pleasant evening."
"I hope I am not ungrateful for Miss Osborne's goodness, but she could not
with her best endeavours secure happiness even for a single evening; and as
to the attentions of her brother, to tell you the truth, such as they are
they are not particularly conducive to pleasure. There was far more
exaltation than excitement in being honored as his partner."
"We are, perhaps, all inclined to undervalue what is in our power," replied
he very gravely.
"I beg your pardon, but I do not see what that has to do with the present
case," said Emma, "it is not in my power to think Lord Osborne an
entertaining partner, or a good dancer, and though I mean no reflection on
him, I should not be sorry to think it was the last time we shall ever
stand up together."
"Possibly it may be," said he with a peculiar smile.
She could not make him out at all, and resolved not to speak again, since
he seemed determined to quarrel with her. Again he broke the silence by an
observation:
"I suppose now you have seen more of Osborne Castle, Miss Emma Watson, you
have become better reconciled to it."
"I like it very much," said Emma, finding she was expected to say
something, and not quite certain what would be best.
"I remember not long ago that you expressed very different sentiments,"
continued he, "but circumstances are altered now, no doubt, and it is
astonishing how soon the mind becomes accustomed to such a change. We feel
inclined to doubt that we ever thought otherwise from what we do now."
"Perhaps that is the reason," said Emma, "why I am unconscious of any
change in my thoughts and feelings regarding the Castle and its inmates,
except the natural feelings of being more at home here than before."
"That will probably encrease," said he significantly, "you will be much
here in future."
"I do not think that," said Emma, "I have no claim on Miss Osborne which
can lead me to expect such an honor."
"Those who have rank and wealth in their hands have a heavy
responsibility," exclaimed he in a sort of reverie.
She made no reply, but continued her embroidery with exemplary
perseverance, secretly entertaining a hope that some one would soon come
in, to relieve her from the embarrassment of a very uncomfortable
tête-à-tête. Presently looking up, when about to change the silk in
her needle, she met his eyes fixed on her with a look which seemed at once
to contradict the coldness of his tones and the gravity of his expressions.
It called a deep blush into her cheeks, to see the earnest yet sad interest
with which he regarded her; and she eagerly busied herself with her work in
order to conceal her own emotion. She wished to speak, but could think of
nothing to say sufficiently unconnected with her present feelings to make
it safe to discuss. He was the first to break the silence.
"You do not agree with me, Miss Watson, I perceive; has your further
intimacy in the Castle taught you that a pre-eminent situation is one of
pleasure as well as honor; have you become convinced that happiness can be
purchased and secured more easily in an exalted circle, or that distinction
and luxury are good substitutes for liberty and ease."
"If I had thought my simple silence would have laid me open to such an
imputation, Mr. Howard," replied Emma, "I should certainly have assented to
your proposition."
"Forgive me for attributing the idea to you," said he in a more animated
tone "honored as I have been with so much intercourse with you, it would be
impossible for me to avoid feeling interested in your sentiments, and
desirous for your happiness."
"I am much obliged for your kind expressions, but I trust that a visit of a
few days in this family, need not give rise to any very alarming
apprehensions amongst my friends, for my peace of mind and general content.
These would be hardly worth caring for, if they were so easily thrown into
disorder."
"Eyes unaccustomed to face the light, are easily dazzled," replied he
significantly, "and for long afterwards can see nothing in its true
colours."
She reflected for a few moments, and then looking up said, with some
warmth:
"Am I to infer from what you say, that you think my acquaintance with Miss
Osborne or even her brother likely to make me dissatisfied or unhappy; to
induce me to disregard former friends, or despise those who have before
been kind to me? Tell me plainly what you mean, Mr. Howard; it would be
much easier and safer to be at once explicit, if you really wish to act the
part of a friend."
She fixed her eyes on him as she spoke, her bashfulness overcome or
forgotten in her eager anxiety for an answer—an explanation. His
countenance, in his turn, betrayed extreme embarrassment, and he evidently
hesitated what to say. She continued after a short pause, finding he gave
no reply:
"I cannot help being afraid from your words, that you have some such charge
to lay against me. Tell me, did Mrs. Willis think I neglected her last
night; that I was too much engrossed with Miss Osborne. I should be
extremely grieved were this the case, for nothing could be further from my
wishes; if she felt hurt at anything, I fear I must have been wrong, and
would willingly do anything in my power to explain the circumstance."
Mr. Howard's countenance betrayed that he was feeling much; but of what
nature Emma could not exactly decide. He answered evidently with an effort,
"I assure you, you quite misunderstood me; I never intended to give you the
impression that Clara was jealous of Miss Osborne. Your mutual friendship
need not exclude you from intimacy with others—friendship is not like
love—it should not—it certainly need not be encumbered by jealousy. But,
Miss Watson, there is a feeling, a sentiment—a species of friendship, which
will not bear a rival; an affection which is covetous of the smiles
bestowed on others; which can only be satisfied by an entire return—" he
paused a moment, and then added, "I beg your pardon, I have said too much,
and I cannot expect you to understand me. We are going in a few days to
some distance, and, perhaps, I may not see you again—I wish you every
happiness—may you never have reason to do otherwise than rejoice in the
friendships you contract," he stopped very abruptly, and after a momentary
hesitation hastily quitted the room.
Emma was left alone to try and comprehend, as well as she could, the
meaning and object of his very desultory conversation. There began to dawn
upon her mind a new idea: he was jealous of Lord Osborne. It was
undoubtedly the fact; but her own feelings were in such a state of
confusion that she hardly comprehended whether it gave her more pain than
pleasure to think this.
It was a very great pleasure to feel that he really cared for her. Jealousy
by its existence proved love, and after her doubts as to his feelings and
wishes this unexpected manifestation of his mind was at first very welcome.
Certainly his going away was unfortunate and, in her opinion, ill-judged—it
was resigning without a struggle—it was leaving the field open to his
rival—it was, for anything he knew to the contrary, losing all chance of
success, absolutely throwing away the opportunity. Did this look like a
very ardent or determined affection—she feared not—to run away without
necessity seemed rather to indicate a wish to give up the contest—perhaps
he loved her against his will, his judgment, his sense of duty; but no—then
he would not have waited for the appearance of a rival to teach him the
necessity of avoiding her presence. Perhaps he only wished to give her time
to know her own wishes—and form her own judgment of Lord Osborne, to allow
him an open and undisputed field; and when he found his fears were
visionary and groundless he would return. This she hoped to be the case.
As to his lordship, she never entertained a serious idea about him till
this moment; and now, but for Mr. Howard's superior knowledge of his
disposition, she should certainly have supposed that there was no risk of
his making any one jealous by his attentions.
She could not suppose the idea of allying himself with a family plain and
undistinguished like hers could possibly have entered his head; nor could
she easily imagine any one who in person, habits, and taste would be less
tempting to her. There was no credit due to her for not liking him—the
absence of all ambition to become a baroness seemed so perfectly natural
when the rank must be shared with such an individual. Superiority of
station could not weigh a moment in her estimation, against superiority of
intellect; her ambition did not prompt her to wish for distinction and
honor only possessed because they were hereditary—but for the distinction
of talent—the honor of virtue and worth: this was what had charms for her
above all the gold, the splendour, the rank which the baron could offer.
Yet seriously she never expected to have the opportunity of proving her
entire disinterestedness; the choice would never lie in her power; Lord
Osborne could not seriously contemplate such a mesalliance, nor could his
mother and sister possibly countenance it if he did. The idea carried
absurdity and contradiction with itself: he certainly looked at her a good
deal; but she could not build a substantial edifice of hope on so narrow a
foundation in reality. He probably had looked at twenty girls before in the
same way; and as to any other attentions, they were not so marked as to
have raised any speculations in her own mind.
It was true Elizabeth had laughingly accused her of captivating him—but
Elizabeth was only in joke—she could not have really imagined it possible.
This idea raised a new dilemma in her mind.
Suppose Mr. Howard should have retired only to make way for the passive
admiration of Lord Osborne; suppose he was waiting till his lordship left
off looking at her; and suppose he never should do that—that his devotion
should never proceed beyond a look—no expression escape him—but the
expression which his eyes might chance to convey, what should she do, to
show her indifference to his looks, and the absence of all speculation on
their meaning which she really felt. She could not tell how to repulse him
into a state of inoffensive acquiescence, or how to convince Mr. Howard,
under such circumstances, that there was nothing to fear from his rivalry.
Besides she was not to see him again for a long time. How very unkind of
him to go away and leave her merely because Lord Osborne had such a fancy
for looking at her.
Mr. Howard had paid her more attention, had shown more interest in her, had
made a much deeper impression on her feelings than any one she had ever
known, and now he was voluntarily leaving her. It was
unkind—unjust—ungenerous—it was all sorts of bad things; she began to look
on it in a new light—to get almost angry with him, to think him
unreasonable—capricious—not worth caring about—for five minutes, at least,
she was quite indignant, and resolute not to interest herself any more
about him.
How long this new state of feeling might have lasted, if left to itself, it
was impossible to say, she was interrupted by the entrance of Lord Osborne,
who hurried into the room with an entreaty that she would return with him
to the library.
Emma rather demurred to this request; at that moment, she felt little
inclined to go any where, especially in compliance with Lord Osborne's
wishes. But on her begging to know what he wanted, he reiterated his
entreaty with more urgency, and no explanation. She, therefore, decidedly
declined, he then expressed great mortification and regret, ending with an
assurance that Sir William Gordon wanted her.
She continued to refuse, quickly observing that she was sorry to disappoint
Sir William Gordon by disobeying his summons, but she did not feel equal to
such an exertion—and, therefore, if the interview was inevitable, he had
better come to her.
Lord Osborne declared he would go and tell him so. She had no idea that he
was seriously intending so to do; but as soon as he had left the room she
began to put away her work that she might escape into solitude. This and
the necessary arrangements took her up some time—she found he had entangled
her silk whilst sitting by her side; and before she had put every thing in
proper order, she found her solitude again invaded by Lord Osborne, who
returned together with Sir William and Miss Carr, when all three united in
entreating her to come at once to the library.
Emma still persisted in begging for an explanation of their request; and as
soon as any of the party would attend to her sufficiently to give her an
answer, she learnt that the object they had in view was, that she should
sit to Sir William, in order to give him the opportunity of correctly
finishing the sketch he had hastily made in the morning. Emma declined; the
original sketch, she declared, had been surreptitiously taken, and must now
be finished in the best way it could without any intervention on her part.
"How cruel—how unkind!" exclaimed Miss Carr; "my dear Miss Watson, you will
break Sir William's heart. I assure you he is bent on carrying away a
faithful remembrance of you."
"No, no, Gordon is to give it to me," interposed Lord Osborne, "I told him
so, and I shall certainly expect it."
"I shall do no such thing, I assure you," returned Sir William, "if I part
with it at all, I shall give it to Mrs. Willis, my particular friend and
favorite, Mrs. Willis, to hang in the parlour at the parsonage."
"Finish it as you please—and hang it where you please, but excuse my
undergoing the penance of a sitting for any such object," replied Emma.
"I had not the presumption to ask it," said Sir William, "and only
accompanied my good friends here, lest they should take liberties in my
name which I could not sanction. The utmost I request is, that you should
come and look at my picture."
To get rid of their importunity, she consented to go with them; and in the
library she found Miss Osborne, who had not joined the embassy, and did not
look in a particularly happy mood. Emma saw at once that all was not right
there, and regarded her friend's disturbed countenance with some anxiety.
Miss Carr amused herself with finding all manner of fault in the painting,
which Sir William persisted in denying, declaring the defects she saw arose
only from the unfinished state of the work. Emma did not attend to them,
but turned to Miss Osborne, and began to explain to her, how, when, and
where, the sketch was made.
Miss Osborne listened in silence for some time, but looked relieved, and
then begged her to oblige Sir William by consenting. She was much
surprised, but the grave and earnest way in which the request was made,
induced her, after a momentary hesitation to comply.
Miss Osborne engaged for her, that she should not be detained more than an
hour, a stipulation which was the pleasantest part of the arrangement, as
both Lord Osborne and Miss Carr stationed themselves behind Sir William,
one chattering about every stroke he drew, and commenting on her figure as
if she had been an inanimate object—the other staring in his unmerciful way
at her face, delighted to be furnished with so excellent an opportunity,
and so good an excuse.
"Be sure and make her complexion dark enough, Sir William," cried Miss
Carr, "Miss Watson is so very dark—quite a brunette; I think you have made
the hand a little too small, it strikes me she has not quite such slender
hands—and the hair—surely, you have indulged in a little imagination
there—that luxuriant braid—our eyes must see differently if you think that
natural and like her own."
"I have no doubt in the world that our eyes do see very differently, Miss
Carr," replied Sir William, "I have always observed it to be the case where
feminine beauty is concerned."
"There is not a bit too much hair," interposed Lord Osborne, "but she does
not wear it in that tumble-down fashion—she is always particularly neat and
tidy about the head. I like to see a small head and pretty ear—why don't
you show her ear; it's a mark of blood to see a small ear—all ladies should
have small ears."
"So they should all have pretty hands," replied Fanny Carr, "but, my dear
Lord, they cannot always get them."
As she spoke, she laid her own fairy-like fingers on his coat sleeve.
Lord Osborne moved his arm and allowed the little hand to drop unregarded.
The fair Fanny thought him a great brute for the same.
"My good people," cried Sir William, "my very dear friends, I really must
trouble you to move a little farther off. I think I shall send you out of
the room, Miss Carr, be so good as to take Lord Osborne into the
conservatory and select a bouquet for my refreshment. I cannot stand all
your critical remarks at my back."
"Come, my lord," cried the young lady, "come, do as you are bid."
"Not I," said he.
"I shall not make you a copy if you do not," interposed Sir William, "nor
ever let you see the original again."
"Well," said his lordship, moving reluctantly away, "I'll go on those
conditions."
The couple left the room; Miss Osborne remained in silence.
"I have no objection to Miss Osborne remaining," continued he in a saucy
tone, "if she is determined to patronise a poor artist with her presence."
"I am waiting for Miss Watson's sake,
Sir William," returned the lady addressed, "I cannot for a moment imagine
that my presence can make any difference to you."
Emma thought her friend looked remarkably unamiable as she spoke, and
wondered what was the matter.
"Have you seen Mr. Howard," enquired Rosa in a low voice.
Sir William looked up quickly, in time to catch the deep blush with which
Emma's cheek was tinged, as she answered in the affirmative.
"How did you think him—my brother said he seemed unwell—what did he appear
to you?"
"Very odd," replied Emma, scarcely knowing, however, what she said.
Miss Osborne mused again.
"Something must be the matter," said she at length rather earnestly.
Emma could only answer that she did not know, and wished to drop the
subject. She turned to Sir William,
"I hope you are not going to try my patience much longer. I only promised
for half an hour you know."
"Very true, but half an hour of that kind is of an elastic sort, extending
from one hour to three at least, as I am sure you must have experienced
when obliged to wait for a friend."
"Possibly," said Emma, "but ask yourself in that case what you would
do—vote it a great bore, and run away."
"An impatient, frail mortal like myself might do so, but you are too near
perfection to exhibit any such weak unkindness."
"Your flattery shall not bribe me to remain. Miss Osborne, may I not go? it
was at your request I stayed—pray release me from the spell."
.in 4
.nf
"Sabrina, fair,
Listen where thou art sitting—"
.nf-
.ti 0
murmured Sir William in an under tone, without looking up.
"We will go together," said Miss Osborne.
"Fair ladies, will you not first condescend to cast an eye on the
production of my humble pencil. Have you no curiosity, Miss Watson—no
sympathy, Miss Osborne? do give me your opinion."
"My opinion would, you know, be totally useless," said Emma, turning round
from the door which she had just reached; she stopped in her speech from
catching a glance of Sir William's directed towards Miss Osborne, which
seemed to say her own was not exactly the opinion he most desired. She left
the room without another word, and her exit was followed by a silence of
some moments' space between the two who remained.
Sir William broke it first.
"Are you absolutely determined against exhibiting any interest in my
proceedings—against giving me any encouragement in my efforts?"
Miss Osborne colored deeply, then walking up to the easel said, as she
affected to be examining the drawing,
"Sir William, you have no doubt an accurate eye for likenesses, but I doubt
from the expression you give, whether you possess equal penetration with
regard to characters."
"Give me an instance of my failure," cried he, delighted to have induced
her to speak at all, "explain your critique, Miss Osborne."
"No," replied she, "I leave the application of the moral to you—you expect
to produce a great effect, but the opposition jars on the senses, and
produces harshness, not softness, in consequence."
He fixed his eyes on her with a look of deep penetration, as if trying to
read her thoughts in her countenance. She continued calmly to contemplate
the painting, as if quite engrossed by that object.
"Are you referring entirely to this picture," enquired he, "or to some
other design of mine?"
She colored still more deeply, and answered that he best knew if her
censure was applicable or not.
"I own I suspect you of speaking metaphorically, Miss Osborne."
She was silent.
"But I think you wrong me," he continued, "do you suppose I should dare
flatter myself that you would take any interest in my proceedings, that you
would condescend to feel any concern about where I went, with whom I
associated—what I was doing. Should you not condemn it as unpardonable
impertinence if I presumed thus far."
"Very likely I might, Sir William, but I have an idea that it would not be
the first time you had been guilty of impertinence, or expected forgiveness
when you were unpardonable."
He smiled.
"I will be very candid, Miss Osborne," said he, "and if I sin in doing so,
remember your own accusations are alone to blame for it. I own your caprice
and the variations in your conduct towards me, have for a moment made me
seek the comfort of contrast in Emma Watson—but it was your own fault—you
knew I loved you, and you wished to torment me."
"Sir William, this appears to me a most extraordinary style of address—you
have never, to my knowledge, uttered a word indicative of the love you now
allude to as a well known feeling. However, let that pass—the love you say
has done the same—why then mention it now?"
"The love has not, and cannot pass, Rosa—it is of too old and stubborn a
nature, has been nursed with too much care in its infancy to be easily
extinguished now. You have been unkind and variable as the wind—you have
refused to speak to me—sometimes to look at me—you have said the most
bitter things you could devise—you have been unjust in every possible
way—now be candid and kind for once. Tell me how you really regard me!"
"As the most extraordinary of mortals, Sir William. Your manner of address
may possibly have the charm of novelty—I have little experience in that
way, and cannot therefore tell; but I should suppose
there were few men who preface a declaration of affection with violent
abuse."
He saw that her gaiety was affected—that she really trembled, and had some
trouble in commanding her countenance: he proceeded.
"What else remains to me; the devotion, the silent adoration of a
twelvemonth have been of no avail—you have persisted in slighting me—now I
will speak out; I love you, Rosa—you know it—give me an answer at
once—reject or accept—but trifle with me no more—or I will never see your
face again!"
She tried to speak, but quite overcome, she burst into tears, and seemed on
the point of quitting the room, but he resolutely detained her. His arm was
round her waist, his hand clasping hers, and as he whispered in her
ear—"Rosa, you do love me"—she did not deny it.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch04
CHAPTER IV.
.sp 2
Had Emma Watson known precisely what had passed between Mr. Howard and Lord
Osborne, on the morning preceding her last interview with the former, a
great deal of suspense, anxiety and doubt would have been spared to her.
The young lord, in fact, had fallen deeply in love with her, and had chosen
to confide his affection to his former tutor in these terms.
"I say, Howard; what a remarkably nice girl Emma Watson is—and so pretty."
"Undoubtedly, my lord," was the reply, given rather reluctantly, and with
evident embarrassment.
"I don't know that I ever liked any girl half so well," continued the young
lover; "don't you think she would make a famous wife?"
Another reluctant assent was Mr. Howard's reply.
"Do you know I mean to marry her?" this was a great effort; and having made
this declaration, he drew a long breath.
"You mean, my lord, to propose to her? or have you done so already?"
enquired Howard, in as steady a voice as he could command.
"Oh not yet; that's the worst part of it—confound it, I wish I could get
out of that. I say, Howard, you could not do it for me, could you? would
not that do as well?"
"I fear not," replied he, gravely; "I am afraid I could not trust myself; I
might make some blunder which would ruin the suit, and the blame of
miscarriage would fall on me."
"Well, I suppose I must do my best some day—she's so monstrous
good-natured, that I am not so much afraid of her as of many women; but I
would bet you a hundred to one, I shall make some unpardonable blunder."
"But, my dear lord, have you considered what the consequences will be if you take this step."
"The consequences, yes—that I shall have to marry her, of course."
"And do you imagine such a marriage will be at all agreeable to your mother
and sister? Will not Lady Osborne be shocked at your forming such an
alliance?"
"Perhaps she may—I dare say she will—but then you see, Howard, that does
not signify in the least, because, whenever I marry, she will leave the
Castle and go to the old Dower House, so her not liking my wife will not
signify in the smallest degree."
"You treat the idea of displeasing her very lightly, my lord."
"Well, but what would you have me do? I don't marry to please her only; and
it cannot matter to her what my wife was before; for when she is my wife,
she will be Lady Osborne, had she been even a cook-maid before. It's much
more consequence to me to have a woman I like, than one whose pedigree is
as long as my arm, if she is disagreeable. As to Rosa, she likes Emma, and
I dare say she would not mind it at all; but at all events, she can marry
somebody, and be happy her own way, if she will only let me be happy mine."
The animation of Lord Osborne's love had quite made him eloquent, and
Howard listened to him with surprise. He saw he was bent on the step
proposed; one doubt, however, remained—would he be accepted? He suggested
this to his lordship.
"Why now that's just a question I cannot answer myself," replied he; "if I
only knew that I should have no anxiety at all. But I think she is so very
good-natured she will very likely accept me. Don't you?"
"As to her good-nature, my lord, I can answer without hesitation, but as to
her accepting you, that must depend on other things—on her opinion of
yourself perhaps in some degree. If she loves you, I dare say she will not
refuse you."
"Only think, Howard," cried he with enthusiasm, "how pleasant it would be
to be loved by her—to have her for one's wife—to say, 'Emma come and ride
with me'—'Emma I want you to walk,' and she doing it immediately; always at
hand to chat when one wanted, and never cross or tired, or playing whist
all the evening."
Mr. Howard smiled faintly at his companion's idea of domestic felicity.
"She shall have such a beautiful house," he continued; "and she shall go to
court if
she likes—all women like that—how well she will look in my mother's
diamonds—she must let her have them, I declare. I wish I had made the offer
and it was all settled now—don't you?"
Mr. Howard could not conscientiously say that he did.
"That's the worst part of it, and you say you will not help me. Do you
think it would do to send Tom Musgrove to make the proposals? Perhaps she
might not dislike that—Tom has a very winning way with the girls."
"I do not think it would do at all," replied Mr. Howard. "Independent of
her possibly considering such a reference to a third person disagreeable, I
know, that is I think, that she has a particular dislike to Mr. Musgrove,
which would make but an unfavorable commencement for your suit."
"Indeed!—that's unlucky; I am sure I do not know what to do then, there
seems no alternative but addressing her myself, and that certainly needs a
great deal of courage; I had much rather leap that ditch on Clapham
Common—would not you—it's desperate work. Suppose she should refuse me! a
pretty confounded scrape I should be in then—what should I do Howard,
then?"
"Learn to bear it like a man, my dear lord!"
"That's easy talking. I say, don't you think a man must feel preciously
uncomfortable and foolish when a girl has refused him? If I were to write,
it would not be so bad quite."
His companion gave a quiet assent to this proposition.
"What should I say? that's the thing; I never know what words to use: I
say, I am in a complete dilemma, and must take some time to think about it
and make up my mind. I want you to promise to be my friend, and faithfully
keep my counsel."
He gave the required promise, and then ventured to ask if his lordship had
in his own opinion any ground, from Miss Watson's conduct and manners, to
expect a favorable result to his proposals. Lord Osborne flattered himself
that he had; she was always very kind and cordial, smiled most sweetly, and
gave him all the encouragement he could expect.
"Though you know after all, Howard," he added in conclusion, "she may still
refuse me."
Mr. Howard did know this, and this knowledge was in fact his chief comfort
under the infliction of such a discussion.
If he had previously entertained any doubt as to the state of his own
feelings, this conversation must have enlightened him. Once or twice on
previous occasions he had been seized with a temporary jealousy of Lord
Osborne's place in her estimation, but from this moment the fit came
strongly on him.
He was one of those individuals who never feel any confidence in their own
merit, who estimate every one in some respect above themselves, and are
continually mistrusting the influence which they really possess over their
friends. Had he been properly aware of his own worth, his knowledge of Emma
Watson's character would effectually have preserved her from the imputation
he now mentally cast on her, of preferring the young lord to himself. Had
phrenology then been in fashion, it is possible that the origin of this
weakness would have been discovered in the absence of the bump of
self-esteem; but this not being the case, and in consequence, his head
never having been phrenologically examined, I cannot answer for more than
the entire absence of the quality, and Mr. Howard cannot be brought forward
in evidence of any phrenological theory whatever.
He felt now that he must withdraw his
attentions and give up his dearest plans, to allow a fair field to Lord
Osborne's attempts—though, in doing so, he might lose her entirely. He had,
for a moment, entertained the idea of explaining his wishes to his rival
and asserting an equal right to compete for her hand. But he could not
bring himself to confess his own attachment to a young man like his pupil;
he could not depend on the secret being preserved, and he shrunk from
profaning his love by making it the possible joke of Tom Musgrove and his
associates. No, he would withdraw from the competition—he would not be the
means of depriving her of wealth and rank—if she valued them—and if not—if,
as was possible, his lordship should be refused, then, with hope and joy,
he would return to try his fate in the same adventure.
For this end it was, in part, that he determined to obtain a holiday; he
had long begun to feel that he ought to go for another reason, but Emma
Watson's attractions had kept him stationary. The other reason arose from
the sentiments which the dowager Lady Osborne began to make very apparent
to him. His modesty had long resisted the idea and denied the fact, when,
as often happened, he was charged by young men of his acquaintance with
designs upon the well-jointured widow.
But even his modest estimation of himself was forced to yield before the
conviction which her looks, her manners, and her language conveyed to his
mind.
Most unwelcome this conviction certainly was, as it could end, he thought,
in nothing but a positive rupture between his family and the Osbornes; and
unless he had the power of obtaining another home, it would certainly
render them exceedingly uncomfortable. He knew the dowager to be of a
vindictive disposition when she considered herself injured or insulted, and
both to his own family and that of his beloved Emma, he foresaw nothing but
evil from the prospect before then. If Emma should accept the son, the rage
of his mother would certainly be intense, and if she refused him and
accepted Mr. Howard instead, there was but little probability she would be
better pleased. All hopes of further advancement from the family patronage
would be at an end, and he was not sure that upon the small income his
present living afforded him, it would be prudent to marry, as his sister
and her little boy were quite dependent on himself. There were Charles'
maintenance at a public school, and his subsequent expenses at the
university to be looked forward to and provided for; he had engaged to do
this, voluntarily engaged himself, and now that he came seriously to
reflect on his position and ties, on the expenses of a married man, and the
probabilities of any better future provision, he began to wonder what
infatuation had before closed his eyes, and hurried him on against his
better judgment, to an affection which threatened so much of care and
difficulty. Yet it was hard, very hard to give up the charming hopes with
which he had flattered his fancy; he did not feel equal to such a
sacrifice; he did not feel positively called to it. For the present he
would quit her, but he would make no desperate resolves for the future:
when he came nearer that part of his path, he should be better able to tell
in which direction his duty would guide him.
When he unexpectedly found himself in Emma's presence, and alone with her,
his contending feelings had almost deprived him of self-control, and he had
been scarcely conscious what he said or did, though on quitting her, he
carried away a decided conviction that he had behaved extremely ill, and no
doubt she was disgusted with him. With this pleasing notion he returned
to his house, and his sister soon saw that there was something the matter,
by the absence of his mind, and the air of depression which hung over him.
He told her he wanted to leave home for a time, that he thought it would do
them both good, that he had been talking to Lord Osborne about it, that he
must apply to her ladyship, and that he expected her to refuse. Mrs. Willis
was a good deal puzzled by all this, but could obtain from him no more
satisfactory answer. Playfully she accused him of having been refused by
some lady, which of course he denied; then of having affronted some one by
refusing her, which met with a similar answer. Her invention and
imagination seemed to go no farther, and she was obliged to be quiet and
watchful.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch05
CHAPTER V.
.sp 2
Whilst Lord Osborne was thus hopefully planning, and Mr. Howard
despondingly meditating, a very different termination to Emma's visit was
impending over her. She was roused from a late and heavy slumber, natural
after the sleeplessness of the preceding night, by the receipt of a note
from Winston, sent over by a special messenger. Its contents were as
follows:—
.sp 2
// letter in images - 121.png & 122.png
.ll 60
.in 6
"Dear Emma,
.sp 1
.ti +6
"I am sadly grieved
to have to tell you such bad news, but our
father has been taken very ill, he had a
seizure last night, up to which time he
seemed quite well, and has not recovered
his senses since: nor does the doctor lead
us to hope that he will. I need not say
come home, for I am sure that will be your
first wish; I dare say they can send you,
as our man is gone down to the village to
fetch something for my father's use, and I
cannot, therefore, send the pony-chaise.
.sp 1
.in +6
"Yours, etc.,
.sp 1
.in +6
"E. Watson."
.ll
.in 0
.sp 2
Starting up in the greatest dismay, Emma instantly sent an imploring
message to Miss Osborne to request an interview with her, and in the
meantime hurried over her dressing and other necessary preparations with
the greatest possible despatch. Miss Osborne did not make her wait long,
showed the most friendly sympathy in her distress, instantly ordered a
carriage to take her home, and insisted on her allowing her own maid to
arrange Emma's things, whilst she attempted to take some breakfast.
To satisfy her Emma made an effort to eat, but could scarcely swallow a
cup of coffee; and as the coachman did not keep her long waiting, in
less than an hour from her receiving Elizabeth's note, she was on her
way home. Wrapped up in fearful anticipations of what would meet her
there, she had been almost unconscious of what was passing before her
eyes; she had an impression that Miss Osborne had been very kind, that
just at last her brother had been there also, that he had squeezed her
hand at parting, with much warmth, and had said something which she did
not understand about wishing to help her; she thought of it for a moment
only, and then her mind again reverted to her father's situation, and
her sister's distress.
The rapidity with which the journey was now performed, was a most important
comfort, very different from the creeping jog-trot of their old horse, and
she felt quite thankful that Elizabeth had spared her such torture as would
have been caused by the delay their own chaise would have occasioned.
Before Elizabeth was expecting her she was at home, and the door proving to
be open, and nobody at hand to receive her, she was obliged to have her few
things set down in the passage by the footman, and then dismissed the
carriage, before she was able to see any one who could acquaint her with
her father's state.
Softly she looked into the parlour, the shutters were open, but the room
otherwise bore no symptoms of having been disturbed since last night, the
candles were still on the table, the supper tray unremoved, and the chairs
all in disorder. She then proceeded up-stairs, and was just on the point of
opening the bed-room door, when Elizabeth came out of it. One glance at her
face told her that there was no better news in store for her.
Mr. Watson was fast sinking—he lay apparently in a deep slumber, and there
seemed no probability of his ever recovering sufficiently to recognise
those around him, or to speak again.
Elizabeth had been watching beside him, alternately, with Penelope through
the night; the village apothecary had said there was now no more to do; all
the remedies his skill could suggest had proved unavailing, and they must
patiently wait the result.
Margaret had gone to bed in hysterics, and required Nanny to sit up with
her, so that it was a great blessing Penelope had been at home, as she had
a head and nerves which were always in good order, and knew as much of
medical treatment as the doctor.
At this moment Penelope joined them; she left the patient unchanged; the
apothecary and the maid were with him, and hearing Emma's voice, she had
come out for a moment to meet her.
"A sad ending to our Osborne Castle festivities, Emma," said she, as she
shook her hand; "who would have thought it, when we set out? Elizabeth,
don't you think we ought to have better advice? I am certain that man there
does not know in the least what he is about; there must be a better doctor
at some of the towns round here—Bradford, or somewhere—could not we send
for one?"
Elizabeth could not tell; they had never had occasion to send for a
physician; and she did not know where one could be found. Emma enquired if
notice of their father's danger had been despatched to their brothers; it
appeared neither of them had thought of this; but it must be done
immediately.
They were about twenty miles from Croydon; and by sending a letter by the
mail-coach, which passed through Bradford, they knew Robert would hear the
same evening, and might be at Winston easily within twenty-four hours. This
much they settled on, and a note was written, and
despatched by a trusty messenger, who was to catch the coach at the inn at
Bradford, and then try and bring back a physician with him.
Mr. —— seemed much relieved when he learnt the project of calling in
farther advice, and thus shifting the weight of responsibility from his own
shoulders. He thought it probable that the patient might linger many hours,
possibly two or three days; and with a promise to return in a few hours, he
now took his leave for the present.
It is needless to attempt to describe all the feelings which oppressed the
sisters as they sat watching the sick-bed—perhaps the death-bed of their
only parent. Hours stole away, bringing no change, and no alleviation of
their fears. Margaret did not join the watch; her sensibility, as she
designated it, bringing on violent hysterics, which made attention and
nursing necessary for her. Emma tried to soothe her, in vain; Penelope was
sarcastic and bitter; Elizabeth declared she had no time to attend to her
vagaries, and that she would be soon as well as any of them, if she was not
meddled with.
About two o'clock they were roused by the sound of carriage wheels at
the door, and Elizabeth stealing into the passage, where a window looked
on the entrance, came back with the information that it was a
post-chariot, from which a gentleman, dressed like a physician, had
alighted, and that there was somebody else in the carriage, but she
could not tell who it was.
In another moment, a card was handed into the room, with the name of Dr.
Denham on it, a name which they knew belonged to a celebrated physician,
residing at many miles distance. Much surprised, the girls hesitated a
moment as to the meaning of this, but, of course, decided that the two
eldest should descend to the parlour to receive him and his explanation
immediately.
After a consultation of about ten minutes, Emma hearing their voices and
steps on the stairs, quitted the room of the invalid that she might not be
in the way, and when they were safely shut in there, she ran down stairs to
refresh herself by a moment's breathing the fresh air.
Great was her surprise on reaching the entrance passage, to see Lord
Osborne standing there, and evidently looking about for somebody. Her light
footstep instantly caught his ear, and he turned to meet her with
eagerness.
"Ha! Miss Watson," cried he, "I hoped to see you here; how's your father,
hey—not very bad. I hope."
"Indeed he is," replied Emma, with tears in her eyes.
"Indeed, I am sorry—upon my honour—I'm grieved to hear that," looking quite
compassionately at her. "Poor old gentleman—what a pity—I dare say he is a
monstrous good fellow—but don't fret—I shall be quite unhappy if I think
you are fretting."
Emma scarcely attended to what he was saying.
"How came you here, Lord Osborne?" exclaimed she. "Had you anything to do
with Dr. Denham?"
"I'll tell you how it was," replied he, taking hold of her hand, and
drawing her towards the parlour door, "only don't stand here in the cold,
that's so uncomfortable. There now, sit down there, and let me sit down
beside you—and I'll tell you. We know Dr. Denham very well, he's a great
friend of my sister's, and she's a great favorite of his—so when she heard
your father was ill, she wrote him a note, and sent me with it, to ask him
as a great favour to visit Mr. Watson, for her sake—you know—and I fetched
him in the carriage, so it's only the drive, and he's to take no fee, you
see—he just comes from friendship to Rosa, that's all."
"I am sure we are exceedingly obliged to you all," said Emma, colouring
from a variety of feelings; "it was very kind of Miss Osborne to think of
it, and of you to take so much trouble."
"Do you know it gave me a great deal of pleasure—a very great deal; I don't
know when ever I was happier than just while I was thinking of obliging
you—I did not mind the trouble in the least."
His eyes were fixed on Emma with a far more eloquent expression than was at
all usual with them, and he really seemed to think as he spoke, and to feel
particularly happy.
To what extremes of eloquence his new-found felicity might have led him
there is now no means of knowing; he was interrupted before he had
committed himself by any very pointed declaration, by the sound of the
physician's return, which startled Emma into a sudden recollection that to
be found by him, sitting tête-à-tête and side by
side on the sofa with the young nobleman, might perhaps not unreasonably
surprise him. She therefore told him she should be wanted in the sick room,
and quietly withdrew; when he, his pleasant reveries broken off thus
suddenly, felt himself unequal to meeting any one else with composure, and
likewise quitted the room for a seat in the carriage.
As Emma resumed her seat at her father's bedside, she could not for a
moment banish the idea which had suddenly entered her mind, that perhaps
after all Mr. Howard's jealousy was not ill-founded, and that Lord Osborne
did entertain a more than ordinary partiality towards herself. The notion
was accompanied with no feeling of self-exaltation; she was positively
ashamed that it had intruded itself at such a time, and she felt that had
even the moment been more appropriate, the supposition would have given her
no pleasure at all. She did not want him to like her for his own sake, and
she was annoyed by it for the sake of Mr. Howard's attachment.
But this was not the time when such reflections could or ought to be
indulged; it was her business to think of her father, not of herself, and
she roused herself to shake them off. As soon as Dr. Denham had taken his
leave, her sisters returned to the sick room to tell her what he had said.
He had given them no encouragement; had said there was nothing further to
be done,
that it was true that while there was breath there was hope, but that Mr.
Watson's advanced age and broken health made a recovery most unlikely, and
even a temporary return of his intellects extremely improbable.
The next morning brought no alteration in the situation of the patient, but
it brought Robert Watson to the house. He came, cool and self-possessed as
ever, taken up entirely with facts, not feelings, and looking decidedly as
if his mind at least never quitted his office, but was still engrossed with
the business there transacting. "Deeds not words," was his motto, but the
deeds he delighted in would have been uninteresting to nine-tenths of the
world, and seemed rather intended to mystify than benefit mankind.
Emma felt she could not love Robert; she shrank from him, and it needed all
her self-command and strong sense of propriety to avoid showing how
repulsive she found him. The excessive egotism of his conversation and
habits seemed to yield to nothing; no feeling, no softness was evinced by
his conduct. There was scarcely an emotion betrayed on seeing his father,
and what little was discernible whilst in his sick room, had all vanished
before he reached the parlour door.
"Well, I must say this is a most unfortunate thing," said he sitting down
in his father's vacant chair and stretching out his feet to the fender; "a
most unfortunate thing for me indeed: one might have calculated my father
would have lived ten years more—he's not such an old man—ten years at least
I had reckoned on, and you see how I am taken in. Heaven knows what is to
become of you girls—there will not be more than a thousand pounds to divide
between you: and it's so unlucky to happen just now, for of course you must
come home to Croydon."
"That would be very unlucky indeed, at any time," cried Penelope; "but I
hope not quite inevitable. I shall not live at Croydon, I promise
you."
"So much the better, if you have any other plan; three on one's hands are
quite enough. There must have been some great mismanagement, or some of you
would certainly have married;" and Robert Watson, in a fit of vexation at
his sisters' celibacy, stirred the fire into a vehement blaze.
"Well to relieve your mind," replied Pen in a sarcastic tone, "in return
for the extraordinary fraternal solicitude you evince, I will inform you I
am engaged to be married, and expect to be a wife in about a month."
"Are you indeed, my dear sister I congratulate you. What settlements are
you to have? If the papers pass through our office I promise you I will pay
every attention to see it advantageously arranged for you."
"Your liberality, my dear Robert, is most exemplary, and far beyond what I
had ventured to expect of you. But I shall not encroach so far, I assure
you. The marriage settlements are preparing at Chichester, and I do not
anticipate that it will be even necessary for me to have recourse to the
hospitality of yourself and your amiable lady."
She spoke with a strong and bitter emphasis, which Robert could not
possibly misunderstand, but which he prudently resolved not to notice.
"It is a very delicate matter to talk of," whispered Margaret, who had now
made her appearance, "one from which a young woman of sensibility naturally
shrinks; but I will so far overcome my blushing bashfulness, as to inform
you, Robert, that I too am engaged to be married, and that, therefore,
delighted as I should be to reside with my dear Jane, I
still hope before long to be able to receive her in my own house, and, as
Mrs. Tom Musgrove, to return the kindness showed to Margaret Watson."
"What!" said Robert, staring at her with undisguised amazement, "are
you mad, Margaret."
"Indeed, I hope not," replied she, simpering; "I am engaged to my dear Tom
Musgrove, that's all I mean; and no doubt we shall be married in time."
Her brother still looked doubtfully at her, but after a moment's
consideration, replied—
"Well, Margaret, if that's the case, you deserve more credit than I had
ever thought possible, for I would not have given much for your chance with
Tom—but, since you say he is engaged to you, I am heartily glad to hear it.
Have you any witnesses? or was the contract in writing?"
"No, it was in the conservatory at Osborne Castle, and as to witnesses, oh,
dear Robert, you don't suppose ladies and gentlemen chose to have such
tender scenes pass before witnesses," cried Margaret, trying to look very
young and sentimental.
"I am sure it would be a deuced deal better if they did," said he, sharply;
"there would be much less trouble to their friends; and they would stand a
much fairer chance of having the contract fulfilled. However, since it is
so, I hope he'll keep his word, for the sake of yourself and your friends.
As times go, it's not a bad match."
"A bad match—I should think not," cried Margaret, disdainfully tossing her
head. "I only wish all my sisters may make half as good a one, that's all.
Tom Musgrove is a man every woman may well envy me."
"I doubt if his income was ever a clear thousand a year, Margaret," replied
Robert, as if that were the point on which, in his mind, the advisability
of the match entirely rested. "But if he's not in debt, he may do very
well. I wish Elizabeth and Emma had equal good luck, to prevent their
becoming a burden on their friends."
A burden on their friends! how those words rang in Emma's ears, and grated
on all the feelings of her affectionate heart. Was it possible that her
brother could not only think of them in this light, but could calmly
express the feeling; that he should not only be void of affection, but that
even the wish to seem hospitable, kind, or
generous should be wanting. What would be a home in his house—what
comforts—what peace could it promise, where such an expression was to meet
them ere they crossed his threshold.
Before the colour which these feelings called up had died away from her
cheeks, Robert continued—
"Jane is of opinion that there must have been great want of tact and
management on your part, Emma, during your visits to the Howards and the
Castle, or you might certainly have turned them to better account."
"I am sorry Jane sees anything to blame in my conduct," replied Emma,
meekly; "but I do not know what she expected of me."
"I told her she was far too sanguine," continued Robert; "but she would
have it, that, with proper attention, you might have succeeded in securing
the young lord. You must have been thrown in his way a good deal; and,
certainly, for an unprovided girl like you, it becomes an important duty to
omit no opportunity of advancing your own interests, and those of your
family, by securing a good establishment when in your power."
Emma was silent; her prevailing feeling being too lively a sense of
indignation to make it safe for her to speak.
"I hope you are not to blame through any culpable negligence; the young
lord is to be sure a great ass I believe; but the match would be a capital
one for you—the making of your family. I should like of all things to be
agent and manager of his property—remember that!"
"I am afraid," replied Emma, struggling to speak calmly, "that if your wish
depends for fulfilment on my marrying Lord Osborne, there is but little
chance of its being gratified."
"I am sorry to hear it," replied he, gravely; "but I know such desirable
alliances are not to be compassed without a little trouble and exertion:
and, perhaps, if you were to remain a little longer in the neighbourhood
your chance would be better. I'll think about that."
Emma longed to tell him not to trouble himself, but she thought it most
prudent to remain silent.
The next time she was alone with the eldest sister, Elizabeth confided to
her the extreme satisfaction which the news of Penelope's engagement gave
her. It seemed to be quite certain, from what she could
learn, everything was preparing apace, an the marriage would have soon been
performed if their father's illness had not interfered. As far as money
went, it was decidedly a good match for Pen; and though Elizabeth herself,
did not fancy an asthmatic, elderly widower, yet she could not expect every
one to have her tastes, and if Penelope herself was satisfied, that was all
that could be required.
Emma could not think and feel the same; she wished that her sister should
have required more; that she should have been incapable of considering a
sufficient jointure to be the principal aim and end of engaging in
matrimony.
Something must be wanting—something either of delicacy or principle, which
could lead her to such results; and she wondered Elizabeth did not feel
this too. Miss Watson then proceeded to discuss Margaret's engagement,
which she declared, seemed to her incredible; she told Emma that the night
of the ball, whilst returning home, Margaret had, after a great deal of
nonsense, announced her engagement with Tom, and declared that he was to
come the next day and ask her father's consent. That she evidently expected
him herself in the afternoon—having bestowed
uncommon care on her toilette, and persuaded Elizabeth to add another dish
to their dinner, in case he should remain the afternoon with them; but that
the gentleman had never made his appearance; and in the evening, the
seizure of their father had put it all out of her head. She doubted very
much now, whether the whole was not a mistake—the illusion of Margaret's
vanity, or the consequence of some extra flattery on Tom's part, arising
from the excitement of champagne and flirtation. There were two whole days
now passed, and he had not been near them—Margaret had written to him
yesterday, but had received no answer; and if Elizabeth were in her place,
she should certainly not feel satisfied with such conduct.
After a little internal hesitation, Emma told Elizabeth, that so far as the
fact of Tom's having proposed and been accepted was concerned, she could
herself answer for the truth of Margaret's statement. She related to her,
under a promise of secrecy for the present, the circumstance of her own and
Miss Osborne's being accidental listeners to the whole occurrence; this, of
course, settled the point, but did not diminish the wonder of the girls,
both that Mr. Musgrove should have proposed to
Margaret, and that he should since, have taken no further steps in the
business. They wondered in vain—and they had not much time to devote to
wonder—their father's situation soon recalled their thoughts and demanded
all their attention.
But still in the interval of repose, which this occupation necessarily
allowed, Emma found her mind continually reverting to past scenes; to the
hopes which had once been so pleasant and lively, and the disappointment
which had succeeded them. She told herself she must not think of it; she
determined that she would not—sometimes she almost persuaded herself that
she did not; but she could not regulate her feelings as she wished; and
many a time she was unconsciously dwelling on the past, whilst she fancied
herself meditating on her present duty.
It was Penelope's turn to remain during dinner with her father, and Emma
was once more in company with her repulsive brother. It was really with a
sensible reluctance that she sat down to the same table with him—but she
struggled against the feeling, aware that it ought to be overcome if there
was to be any future peace or comfort for her.
The dinner was more than plain—unfortunately, it was almost entirely cold;
but, in the hurry occasioned by the illness of Mr. Watson, the rest of his
family might reasonably expect to be less comfortably accommodated than
usual. Elizabeth had hardly given the subject a thought; and not at all
indeed, until it was too late for amendment, beyond a steak hurriedly
cooked for Robert's sake. But this was tough—tough as the table, so Robert
said, and he had a particular dislike to cold mutton. His plate was pushed
away with an air of uncontrollable disgust—and he sat eyeing the table with
gloomy looks, whilst his sister good-humouredly apologised for the hardness
of the fare.
"Shall I have the satisfaction of helping you to a little of this cow?"
enquired he, balancing his knife and fork in his hand, and pointing with
them to the condemned steak. "I recommend you to try it, Elizabeth, and
then you may, perhaps, remember another time, and make better provision for
such unfortunate individuals as are compelled, through circumstances to
become your guests—you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Elizabeth-"
"Upon my word, Robert, I could not help it; I will try and give you a
better dinner to-morrow; but it's not my fault entirely, that the steak is
tough. I thought, perhaps, it would be; but it was the only thing we could
dress—and I thought you would like that better than nothing."
"I cannot comprehend such bad management—why is not your cook to dress a
dinner for me?—what else had she to do of more importance?—she
cannot be wanted by my father! For me—you will look very
blank, I expect, when you come to live with me, if I set you down to such
fare as this!"
Elizabeth had the sense and the forbearance to remain perfectly silent; and
Robert, finding that all his indignation could not overcome
impossibilities, or cook him a dinner where the materials were actually
wanting, thought it best to make some attempts at eating; and proceeded,
with an air of injured dignity, to devour the unfortunate subject of his
wrath.
"I think, Jane would be rather astonished if she knew what sort of dinner I
have been compelled to make," was his observation when he laid down his
knife and fork. "She would hardly expect to find me dining so contentedly
off a tough old steak—ill-cooked, and no sauce. I always have observed in
most houses, here especially, none are so badly provided for as the eldest
sons.
I suppose any thing is good enough for them—it does not signify what I eat
at all—I am only your brother—only the head of the house—only the man on
whom you will be dependent when—but no matter, I hope you will fare better
in my house, that's all!"
"I am very sorry," repeated Elizabeth, "I know it's very disagreeable to
have a bad dinner, but I hope it will not happen again, and I'll try and
get you something you will like for supper; a broiled fowl and an
omelette—could you fancy that, Robert?"
Robert assented; but his wrath was evidently mollified at the promise, and
no more was said about the unfortunate dinner at that time.
Another day put a period to their suspense, and confirmed their worst
anticipation. Mr. Watson was no more; and his four daughters were left to
all the evils which Robert had so providentially pointed out to them. Their
feelings and their manner of expressing them, were as different as their
characters, and their ways of thinking. Emma, who knew the least of him,
certainly experienced the greatest grief—Elizabeth mourned too—but there
were so many things for her to think of—much to plan and arrange—so much of
economy to be mingled with a wish of doing every thing as handsomely as
possible, that she had no time to cultivate sorrow as a duty, or indulge in
its appearance as a recreation. Emma was active and useful likewise—but she
busied herself in spite of her grief—Miss Watson grieved only in the
intervals of her business.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch06
CHAPTER VI.
.sp 2
When first Robert came to Winston, Elizabeth had consulted him on the
subject of sending for Sam, but her brother opposed it. Emma had listened
in silent anxiety to the debate, and in keen disappointment to its
termination. From her sister's conversation, she had an ardent desire to
meet her unknown brother; she expected to be able to like him—Elizabeth
had, in speaking of him, told many little traits of character, which
convinced her that he must possess a generous disposition and an
affectionate heart; she longed to see him—to know him—to be loved by him.
But Robert had decided that though he was, of course, to be informed of his
father's illness, there was no need to say any thing which should induce
him to come himself—no doubt it would be excessively inconvenient to his
master—a needless expense to himself—perfectly undesirable in every way,
and quite unnecessary; for, of what use could Sam be when Robert himself
was there. He was nobody—a younger son—the most unimportant being in the
world. As to his wishing to see his father again, what did that signify?
People could not always have what they wished for—young men in their
apprenticeship must not look for holidays; he was sure he should
never have thought of any thing of the sort whilst he was serving his
articles; and now, how seldom did he ever take a holiday from the office?
Let Sam look to him and his application to business, if he wanted an
example of steadiness and good conduct.
But Emma's wish to see her brother was not fated to be entirely
disappointed, for no sooner did he receive the news of his father's death,
than he obtained leave of absence from his master without difficulty, and
arrived unexpectedly at Winston. She was sitting alone in the darkened
parlour, when an unknown step arrested her attention; it was not the slow,
measured consequential tread of Robert; it was quicker, lighter, more like
one which had sometimes made her heart beat before; at least so she fancied
for a moment, perhaps only because she had just been thinking of him. The
footstep passed the door, then paused, returned and entered slowly.
It was not more than the doubt of a moment, as to the identity of the
intruder; there was so strange a family likeness on each side, a likeness
of more than features, a likeness in mind and temper, a sympathy of
feeling, that the hesitation of the brother and sister was brief indeed.
"My dear Emma, how I have longed to see you," cried he advancing, "I am
your youngest brother, will you not welcome me?"
The cordial, fraternal embrace with which the words were accompanied,
overcame her firmness, and she burst into tears in his arms. He was much
affected likewise, but struggled for composure in order to soothe her,
opened the window to give her air, brought her a glass of water from the
side-board, and then sitting down with his arm round her waist, drew from
her all the circumstances of his father's death, and learnt that it was
Robert's doing that he had not been summoned sooner.
That hour repaid Emma for much that she had suffered mentally in her
father's house. She had found a friend in her brother. The dearest, the
least selfish, the most equal bond which nature ties; children of the same
parents, sharing the same fears, the same sorrows; from that moment was
laid the foundation of an affection which added so greatly to her
happiness; feelings till then sleeping unknown in her heart, were suddenly
awakened; and affections which almost unconsciously had been craving for
subsistence, having now found an aliment to nourish and satisfy them, grew
rapidly into strength and beauty.
One hour's delightful intercourse was theirs, before they were interrupted
by the rest of the family; but when her other sisters entered the room,
Emma could not but wonder at the indifference with which he was received
both by Pen and Margaret, and imputing to him the sensitive feelings of her
own heart, felt doubly pained by each cold word or careless look bestowed
on her new brother.
Robert's reception, however, was the worst of all.
"So you are come, are you—hum," that was his salutation.
"Yes," replied Sam quietly, "of course you were expecting me!"
"A most needless waste of time and money, I must say—a young fellow not out
of his apprenticeship, has no right to be flying over the country in this
way, without any suitable reason."
Sam controlled himself so far as not to answer.
"It's throwing away your master's time in a most unjustifiable way."
"Excuse me, Robert, Mr. Allen voluntarily gave me permission to come here,
and most kindly made me master of my own time for a week."
"Quite unnecessary, whilst you are an apprentice."
"I believe he thought that even an apprentice might have feeling,"
replied Sam with emphasis.
"You might at least have asked my opinion, I think—as your elder brother
you might have consulted me, before incurring so much expense."
"Robert, I am accountable to Mr. Allen alone for my time—as to my pecuniary
affairs, I am not answerable to you; and as to coming to this house,
Elizabeth, who is mistress here, has told me I am welcome, and I require no
more from any one. My
sense of duty led me here, but depend upon it, I will ask your
leave, before I intrude on your house at Croydon."
Robert turned away, and had recourse to his usual expedient when vexed,
namely, stirring the fire into a vehement blaze. It was in pursuance of a
system of counter-irritation, by creating a greater degree of external
warmth, no doubt he counteracted the internal heat from which he was
suffering.
The whole of the week which Sam spent at home, was one of consolation and
comfort to poor Emma; he listened to all she could tell him, made her
describe her past life, talked of her uncle and aunt, questioned her as to
the effects of her change, entered into her feelings, anticipated what they
must have been, sympathised warmly in them all, and was in fact a true,
warm-hearted brother to the forlorn girl. Together they talked of their
father, praised his amiable disposition, sorrowed for his loss; then Sam
told her his prospects and wishes, confided to her his attachment to Mary
Edwards, and his wavering hopes of success; his plans for his future
subsistence, and his anticipations of the brilliant success which was to
await him in his profession.
Emma's future prospects likewise were canvassed. He could not bear the idea
of her having to reside with Robert and his wife.
"You will tell me it's wrong, I dare say," said he, "but I detest Mrs.
Robert, she is so self-sufficient, so cold-hearted, and so
in-sincere—indeed I wish her no ill, Emma, I am not malicious; my
detestation does not go so far as that, but I cannot wish her to have your
society for a constancy—it would be thrown away on her, and she would
torment you to death."
"Oh no, I hope not; I trust if my home must be there, that I shall have
strength of mind and patience to bear with her. You must not weaken my mind
by commiseration; you should rather teach me to look forward with hope, or
at least resignation; do not pity me, that does me harm."
Sam protested that Emma was in every respect much too good for such a
situation, and that the moment he had a house and an income, however small,
she should share it with him. Her promise to do so was as cordially given
as it was required, and her heart already felt lighter and happier from her
acquaintance with her dear brother.
When their father's will came to be examined, it appeared that it was dated
three years previously, and that of the sum of two thousand pounds, which
Mr. Watson had to bequeath, neither Emma or Robert were to receive any
share. The latter had already been put in possession of all that he could
reasonably expect, his father having made considerable advances to
establish him in business, and at the time when the will was made, every
one supposed Emma would be provided for by her uncle, and though that
expectation had been entirely frustrated, it seemed that Mr. Watson had
never summoned sufficient energy to alter his will, and give her any share
in the little he possessed.
It did not transpire whether Robert was much disappointed at finding he was
to have no further benefit from being the eldest son; perhaps the idea that
Emma, by becoming entirely dependent on him, would be liable to be subject
to all his caprices, and might be made a complete slave of in his house,
soothed away the bitterness of his mortification. He took leave of the
family immediately, and returned to Croydon, having arranged, that when
everything was settled at Winston, three of his sisters should follow him
there; Penelope professing it to be her intention to return to Chichester
as soon as she conveniently could. Sam's week was not yet expired, and he
remained with his sisters. The morning after Robert's departure, as Emma
and her brother were sitting together, Margaret joined them, and sitting
down beside Sam, told him with a consequential air, that she wanted very
much to consult him.
"Well, Margaret, what can I do for you?" enquired he kindly.
"I want your advice on an affair of great importance, Sam, and you must
promise to give it to me."
"Readily, Margaret, that's a thing you know everybody likes to be asked
for, so come, let's have the whole history—I will not even require you to
follow my advice when I have given it: that would be too much altogether."
"Well, listen; I am engaged to be married—what do you think of that?"
"I will tell you when I know who it is."
"Oh, I assure you it is a very desirable match, a most excellent young
man—so amiable, and fashionable, and clever, as you will at once allow when
you hear it is—Mr. Tom Musgrove!"
"Tom Musgrove—indeed, I am surprised, Margaret—that he should marry,
and marry you, would, I own, astonish me."
"But I tell you it is a fact, Sam, we are engaged beyond all doubt, and why
you should be surprised at my being his choice, I cannot
understand."
"I beg your pardon, Margaret, tell me what you want my advice about—not as
to accepting him I presume?"
"No, indeed—but I am in an unfortunate situation; I am so miserable; ever
since the happy night at Osborne Castle, when he plighted his troth to me,
we have not met, and I have heard nothing of him."
"That is very extraordinary, Margaret—nothing at all—and can you not
account for it."
"No, otherwise than I am sure he is ill—nothing else could be the reason of
such unexampled silence. It was after supper when he made the offer, and I
cannot help fearing that the champagne and the lobster salad may have been
too much for his constitution."
"Did he take much champagne then?"
"Much—no, not much, that is, not enough to—to—just you know to raise his
spirits a good deal; I did not count the glasses!"
"And it was then he proposed to you—are you sure he was sober at the time,
Margaret?"
"What questions you ask, Sam—sober! you quite shock me—remember you are
talking to a young lady."
"Well, I will not forget that, but really I don't see anything so bad in
the question, and I know no more delicate way of putting it to suit you:
are you sure he was not drunk at the time?—will that do?"
"Upon my word—worse and worse, as if I should talk to a man who was drunk,
what do you take me for?"
"I am sorry to offend you, my dear sister, but I have known Tom Musgrove a
long time, and some times seen him very drunk. Indeed, in my opinion, he is
just the sort of man to make a fool of himself first, and then of any girl
who would listen to him."
"How excessively unkind you are, Sam," pouted Margaret, apparently on the
point of crying—"I am quite sure you are wrong. Tom never could or would
make a fool of me. He is not the sort of man at all; but, as I have heard
nothing of him since that evening, I wish you to go and call on him—tell
him how much pleased you are to hear of the engagement, and beg him to
come and see me—there is no occasion to shut him out of the house, though
we do not admit other visitors."
"That's your plan, is it? But suppose he declines altogether—suppose he
should say it was a dream on your part—a delusion—a mistake; suppose that
is the reason of his silence, what am I to do then?"
"Oh! if he were to do that, you must challenge him! You could not do less
for such an insult to your sister, you must send him a challenge, and I
could bring an action against him for breach of promise!"
"Well, if you mean to do that, I think I had better let the challenge
alone; because the one might interfere with the other; if I were to shoot
him, you know your action could not be brought."
"Do you mean that you will not do as I ask you?"
"Indeed I do."
"Then I think you most unkind and ungenerous; I always understood it was a
brother's duty to fight with every man who insulted his sister or broke an
engagement to her."
"But, allowing us such high privileges, my dear Margaret, I think I am
justified in
requiring proof; first, that the engagement was made; secondly, that it has
been broken. I am not clear yet on either of these points."
"I see what it is, you are determined not to help me; and I think it very
ill-natured and cowardly of you to stand by and see your sister insulted
and robbed of her best affections, and not interfere the least for her
sake."
"Indeed, my dear Margaret, I cannot see that my interference has the least
chance of doing any good; if Tom was serious and sober, he will need no
intervention of mine to remind him of his promises; if he was drunk and did
not know what he was saying, the less that is publicly known of such a
transaction, the better in every respect for your dignity."
"I see you will not take my part—you are no use at all; I shall just take
my own way, and see if I consult you in a hurry again."
Whilst the silence and indifference of Margaret's lover, gave her so much
concern—the attention and assiduity of Emma's, occasioned almost as much
excitement in the mind of the latter. Not a day had Passed without Lord
Osborne either calling himself at the door, or sending a groom
with a joint message of inquiry from his sister and himself; several kind
little notes had been received from the young lady, expressing concern and
sympathy, and it was quite evident that they did not wish to drop the
acquaintance. Nothing had been seen of Mr. Howard; but a note from Mrs.
Willis, assured Emma that they had heard every day through Lord Osborne or
they would have sent more frequently to enquire for her welfare.
This was consolotary, as serving to convince her that she was not forgotten
at the parsonage: but she could not help murmuring a little to herself,
that Mr. Howard should have so entirely withdrawn from personal
intercourse. Sam had received from her, a minute history of her
acquaintances at the Castle and Parsonage; and when he subsequently became
aware of the visits of Lord Osborne, he immediately formed the very natural
conclusion that the young peer must be in love with his sister.
Emma appeared to him so pretty and so amiable, that her being loved was the
most simple and probable event; and he only wished that Lord Osborne had
been more worthy of her; but the peerage and fortune of the supposed lover,
did not quite blind the
brother's eyes to the fact, that their owner was not distinguished by any
characteristic worthy of his high birth; and Sam could not wish his sister
to sacrifice domestic happiness for the glitter of a coronet, or the
harmony of a title. She must have a husband who united mental and
moral qualifications to those of birth, wealth and station; and if he
possessed the means of advancing Sam himself in his profession, it would be
so much the better.
"Did you ever, in your life, see such a fool as Margaret makes of herself,
Sam?" was Penelope's observation one day, when the whole family were
sitting together. "She will persist in asserting that she is engaged to Tom
Musgrove, though I have taken the trouble of ascertaining that he has left
home, and the servants are not sure whether he is gone to London or Bath. I
asked the baker's boy to enquire, in order to set her mind at ease. I must
say, I think her story very incompatible with facts."
"I am sure I am necessarily obliged to you, Penelope, for your kind way of
speaking to me; but I know very well what it is, you are all envious of my
good luck, and that's the reason you will none of you believe me; but, some
day, I shall pay you off, you will see."
"In the mean time, I will give you ample credit, Margaret, feeling
confident you will never forget a debt of that kind; but, if you are Mrs.
Tom Musgrove six months hence, I will admit that I know nothing of
you—nothing of Tom—nothing of men in general, and that I am little better
than an idiot."
"I do not see why you should doubt it at all," cried Elizabeth,
interposing, "I am sure I believe it entirely, don't you Emma?"
"The gentleman is probably gone to London to give instructions for
preparing the settlements," observed Sam, gravely, preventing, by his
interposition, any necessity for Emma to answer her eldest sister's
question.
Margaret assented to this proposition, and Penelope took no further trouble
to vex her at that moment.
Meantime all the necessary arrangements for the girls quitting their old
home were made, with all possible despatch. Margaret indeed took no
interest in the proceedings, contenting herself with wandering about, and
fretting for Mr. Musgrove; but the
others were busy from the time Sam left them; and towards the end of a
month, the time for removing to Croydon, began to be discussed. Pen still
held to her resolution of not visiting her brother, she determined to
return to her friend at Chichester, and marry from her house; and she
announced that the marriage would take place within a few weeks of her
quitting her home.
Emma was sorry at parting with her—she had got over the shock which her
coarse manners had at first inflicted; and they had always agreed very well
since the day at Osborne Castle. In fact, what Penelope had observed there
of the kindness and attention which Emma received from that family had
greatly raised her sister in importance in her mind; a girl so much noticed
and liked by people who had never stooped to them before must be worth
agreeing with; and as there was everything in Emma's own manners and temper
to recommend her to the kindly disposed, Penelope had always avoided
quarrelling with her, as she constantly did with her other sisters.
Consequently, Emma could not help wishing it was Margaret who was going to
Chichester, and Pen who was to share their home at Croydon.
Things, however, were really better arranged than she could have ordered
them, for it would have been impossible for Penelope and Jane Watson to
have continued in the same house, without the certain destruction of the
peace of all around. There was no one in the neighbourhood to regret,
excepting Mrs. Willis, for Emma would not allow even to herself that the
separation from Mr. Howard gave her any concern; and it was a satisfaction
to quit the vicinity of Osborne Castle, and the scenes where she had been
so happy. The Osborne family were all gone to town without her having seen
anything more of them; or the suit of the young nobleman having made any
progress. She did not expect ever to see them again. Her own plan for the
future was to try to procure a situation as teacher in a boarding school,
or private governess; anything by which she could feel she was earning the
food she eat, in preference to becoming as her brother expressed it, a
burden on his family. She began now to comprehend more fully than she had
done before, what an evil poverty might be, and felt a vivid sensation of
regret that her uncle had left her so entirely dependent on others after
giving her an education which quite unfitted her for
filling the situation of humble companion to her sister-in-law.
She struggled to suppress the feeling that she had been unjustly and
unkindly dealt with, but it would intrude, to her great discomfort.
But though there were few people to regret amongst her associates, there
were sufficient discomforts and worries of other kinds attending their
removal. The dismantling of their old home—the sale of the furniture—a
portion of which was taken by the succeeding rector, the rest was to be
disposed of by auction; the disputes about dilapidations; the finding
situations for their servants; the vain attempts to procure a purchaser
amongst their acquaintance for their old horse, even the parting with the
house-dog and their two cows made Emma sorrowful. Added to all this was the
incessant repining of Margaret, who was fretting herself almost into a
decline, at the disappearance of Tom Musgrove, and the ill-natured letters
of Robert Watson, who regularly quarrelled with everything Elizabeth did or
did not do; who disputed all their proposals, and suggested nothing but
impossibilities himself.
Emma could not make up her mind on
another point, and this was an additional worry to her. She knew that
Margaret's assertions were correct, that Tom Musgrove had really made the
offer which no one else believed, and she doubted whether it was not her
duty to support her sister's declarations by her testimony. But this
threatened to involve so great an evil, that she shrank from it; it was
evident that had Robert been aware she was a witness to the proceeding, he
would immediately have taken advantage of the fact to compel Tom to fulfil
his promise, or threaten him with an action, in case he refused. Margaret
seemed likewise to be much inclined to this course, as the determined
silence and prolonged absence of her lover naturally gave her doubts of his
fidelity. The idea was horrible to Emma, and the possibility of her having
to appear in a court of justice was most overpowering. Elizabeth, with whom
she consulted on the subject, and who, from her partiality to Emma, was far
more inclined to consider her feelings than those of Margaret, advised her,
for the present, at least, to hold her tongue, and see how the affair would
be settled without her intervention, and from not knowing what better to
do, Emma finally decided to take her sister's advice.
At length, just before quitting Winston, she had a farewell visit from Mrs.
Willis and her brother, whose plan for leaving home, she was already aware,
had been renounced. The lady was the same as ever, friendly and warm in her
manners; but Mr. Howard looked pale and ill, and was evidently out of
spirits. The visit was short; and when they parted, Emma found the
interview had only added an additional pang to all the sufferings she had
previously endured.
And thus, for a second time, was Emma Watson driven out from the home where
she had vainly hoped to find a continued shelter, and a second time
compelled to look for protection from strange relatives. It was strange
that though at this moment she really had more subjects of anxiety, more
sources of depression and sorrow, she bore it so much better than the
first. Then she had seemed overwhelmed—now strengthened by the blow. She
was learning to see life, its duties, and its trials, in a new light; she
discovered that suffering was not an accidental circumstance, like a
transitory illness, to be cured and forgotten as soon as possible; it was
the condition of life itself—peace was the exception—and she had enjoyed
her share; henceforth, she
must look forward to trial and endurance, she must struggle as millions had
struggled before her, and learn to draw contentment not from circumstances
but from temper of mind.
Conscious that whilst in her brother's house she should probably have much
to bear, she sought for strength greater than her own to go through with
it; and endeavoured by viewing her expected trials, as a system of mental
discipline which would benefit her, if well supported, to bring her mind
into a frame to endure them with patience.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch07
CHAPTER VII.
.sp 2
The journey to Croydon was safely performed and as expeditiously as could
be expected by three young ladies and a quantity of luggage travelling
through cross roads with post-horses. Margaret was quite at home in the
streets of Croydon and its neighbourhood, and pointed out to whom the
various houses belonged with a feeling of exultation, as if knowing the
names of the owners when her sisters did not were the next thing to
possessing them herself. The bright green door, with its brass-handled
bell, was easily recognised by the large plate bearing the owner's name
which adorned it.
The door was opened by a footman who informed them that master was at the
office, missus was out in the town, but they could step into the
drawing-room whilst they waited for her return. With evident nonchalance,
and something like insolence, he assisted the post-boy to unload the
carriage, and summoning the house-maid, enquired if she knew what was to be
done with all them things. The waiting-woman decided that nothing
could be ventured on till the missus came home; she had changed her mind so
often about the rooms, that it was quite uncertain what would be settled on
at last; and if she should happen to alter her arrangements whilst she was
out, it was evident they would have had all their trouble for nothing. The
three girls were therefore sentenced to sit in the parlour during the
interval, which Emma could not help feeling might have been more profitably
employed in unpacking and arranging their property.
There was little to amuse them during their temporary confinement. A copy
of "The Lady's Magazine," containing the recent Parisian fashions, was
instantly seized on by Margaret; a cookery-book and a child's doll were
lying beside it, and a cat and a kitten were reposing on the hearth
rug, which, judging from its texture and the ugliness of its pattern, was
probably the work of some domestic needle. Some uncommonly rare paintings
hung against the walls—rare from the total want of taste harmony and merit
which they displayed. Beside them were two most striking portraits which
were considerately labelled as intending to represent the master and
mistress of the house, thereby preventing such mistakes as to identity as
might have occurred. The carpet was faded, the chairs and couch covered
with slippery black horse-hair, bumping up into hard offensive things
called cushions; the table was covered with green-baize much stained with
wine, and the easy chair by the fire showed the exact spot where the owner
was accustomed to repose his powdered and pomatumed head.
Presently the door opened and the little girl appeared. Margaret instantly
rushed up to embrace her, but the child, who seemed peculiarly
self-possessed for her age, repulsed her.
"I did not come here to see you, aunt Margaret," said she. "Which is Emma?"
"I am," said Emma advancing, and pleased to be called for.
Her niece considered her attentively with an air of surprise, then said,
"But you are quite tidy and clean—not ragged and dirty!"
"No my dear," replied Emma smiling at her puzzled look; "why did you expect
to see me otherwise?"
"Because the people my nurse tells me are beggars in the street go without
shoes, and wear old clothes."
Emma coloured slightly and made no reply, but Margaret, pressing forwards,
again asked what that had to do with aunt Emma.
"Papa and mama said she was a beggar, and I thought she would look like
them—but she is nice and looks good, and I will not mind you teaching me at
all: will you make me pretty frocks?—mama said you should."
"I shall be very glad, love," replied Emma, "to do anything I can for you
and your mama too; will you sit on my knee and tell me what I shall make
your frocks of?"
Whilst Emma was making friends with her little niece, Mrs. Robert Watson
herself arrived. She received her sisters-in-law with more cordiality than
Emma expected from the epithet applied to herself, which the child had just
betrayed. In fact she was rather pleased than otherwise at this
accession to her family; she felt that she had secured a careful assistant
to the cook in Elizabeth, who was well versed in the mysteries of pastry
and custards, cakes, jellies, and raised pies; and in Emma she hoped to
find a competent nursery-governess who would relieve her of all cares as to
the child, and supply, unsalaried, the place of the nurse-maid, to whom,
under this impression, she had already given warning.
After chatting some time with them, she rang for the house-maid to show
them to their rooms, and the child declared she would accompany them as
aunt Emma's room was close to the nursery. And so Emma found it was, for
she was shown into a small closet containing a bed with room to walk round
it, an old chest of drawers and a high stool. This was her apartment. There
was no chimney, and the window looked out upon a small space of flat leads,
surmounted by high, black, tiled roofs. It had commenced raining since they
entered the house, and the gurgle of the water in the gutter, and drip from
the window on the leads had a peculiarly monotonous sound. Emma looked at
the forlorn and cheerless closet, and felt she was a beggar indeed. She
hoped, however, that when her boxes and books were brought up she
should be able to make it a little more comfortable; at least she had it to
herself, and should be able to pass her time there in peace.
Her niece dragged her off to see the nurseries—the two rooms devoted to her
occupied the rest of that floor, they were spacious and in every respect
comfortable, except that they were littered with playthings which their
owner apparently had not learnt to value.
As it drew near to the dinner-hour Emma ventured down stairs, and found her
brother and his wife in the parlour. Robert received her in his usual
manner: in another moment her two sisters entered, and they sat round the
fire whilst waiting for dinner.
"I hope you like your rooms, girls," said Mrs. Watson; "I thought it would
not matter putting Elizabeth and you together, Margaret, because I know
it's only for a time. I have heard—a little bird whispered to me a certain
story which you need not blush about—of a certain young man—I know who—and
I am sure I congratulate you: when did you hear from him last, my dear?"
"Oh, my dear Jane I have not heard from him at all. Ever since the evening
when he proposed he has disappeared from
the country, and I cannot find out where he is gone, nor induce him to make
any answer to my repeated letters."
"Indeed! that's very odd—do you think he means to break his engagement?"
"I cannot tell what he means, for my own part; I think some one has been
slandering me to him, telling him things to my disadvantage, or perhaps
intercepting one of my letters. Oh, I have thought of a thousand reasons
for his silence, without charging him with infidelity, and I console myself
with the hope that when the romantic interruption to our correspondence is
removed, and the mystery which now envelops the affair is cleared away,
that I shall find he has been suffering as much from the misunderstanding
as myself."
"I am sure I hope you may—but are you certain there is no mistake on your
part?" said her sister-in-law; "are you sure that he really proposed to
you?"
"I am as positive of the fact," said Margaret, "as I ever was of anything
in my life."
"Well that is a good deal," observed Robert, "for you can be pretty
positive when you please. But I only wish, if it's true, you had had some
witnesses—then I could have helped you."
"Would you have called him out?" enquired his wife in a tone of
indifference which quite startled Emma.
"No, I should have called him in," said Robert laughing, "if the
fellow refused to marry her, I would have had him up for a breach of
promise, without ceremony."
"And what should I get for that?" said Margaret eagerly.
"You might perhaps have got a couple of thousands—I think I would lay the
damages at three."
"Only three, Robert! I am sure that is not enough for deceiving me, robbing
me of my best affections, betraying my trust—oh, three thousand pounds
would be no compensation for such conduct, no adequate compensation. I am
sure my heart is worth more than that."
"I dare say you think so, Margaret," replied Robert coolly; "but you might
not persuade a jury to think it likewise; there would be the difficulty."
"But would you really go to law about it?" enquired Emma. "Only think how
it would make you talked about."
"Well, so much the better," replied Margaret sharply; "why should I mind
that? I am not afraid of being spoken of."
"It would be much better to make him
pay damages than compel him to marry you," observed Elizabeth. "I always
wonder women venture to do that—I should be afraid he would beat me
afterwards."
"Two or three thousand pounds would secure you a respectable husband,
Margaret," continued Robert. "My friend, George Millar, would perhaps take
you then."
"I think I would rather marry Tom Musgrove than anybody," replied Margaret.
"George Millar is only a brewer, after all, and Tom is a gentleman and has
nothing to do."
"But Millar has a capital business, I can tell you," cried Mrs. Watson; "I
should not mind my own sister marrying him. Why I know he used to allow his
late wife more than a hundred a month to keep the table and find herself in
gowns—a very pretty allowance—and very pretty gowns she used to wear."
"Aye, George Millar could count thousands for Musgrove's hundreds," said
Robert, "and a capital fellow he is. I only wish you might have such luck
as to marry him, either of you girls."
The conversation was interrupted by the dinner, which was a welcome sight
to the hungry travellers, who had tasted nothing since their early
breakfast at Winston. Their brother looked at the table with evident pride.
"Well, Elizabeth, I promised you rather a better dinner than you gave me at
Winston," observed he. He had the habit of reverting to past grievances.
"You have kept your word too," replied she good-humouredly.
"Oh, my dear creature," cried Jane, "Robert told me of the shocking dinner
he had—poor fellow, you certainly always managed very badly about such
things; perhaps it might do you no harm if I gave you some lessons; I have
rather a genius for housekeeping—at least so my friends tell me—my uncle
Sir Thomas used to like me to order his dinner."
"My dear Jane, I am afraid your instructions would be quite wasted on me,
unless you would give me your income to supply my wishes—when any one
allows me a hundred a month for the table expenses, I will give capital
dinners," said Elizabeth.
"You are not thinking of what you are doing, Jane," said her husband
reproachfully, "you know I cannot eat the wing of a fowl unless it is torn
properly—Emma, I'll trouble you to cut some bacon—good heavens, I cannot
eat it so thick as that-you are not helping a Winston plough boy remember!"
Emma endeavoured to comply but she grew nervous, and her brother was angry,
and sent for the dish that he might help himself. Emma coloured and
apologised.
"You should try to oblige, Emma," said Jane coolly, "a little pains
bestowed on such things, is quite as useful and essential to good breeding
as painting or books. Careless ways of carving are very detrimental to the
comfort of a family, and though it may seem of no importance to you, it
makes all the difference to a delicate palate—one used to the niceties of
life—a gentleman in fact."
Emma felt, though she did not say, that there was no delicacy of
feeling, whatever there might be of palate, in her sister-in-law—but she
wisely held her tongue on the subject.
After dinner the little girl made her appearance, and immediately required
of her mother a share in the walnuts on the table.
"My precious one, you must have them peeled for you."
"Yes, mama, peel them."
"No, my darling, they stain my fingers—ask your aunt Emma, I dare say she will do it."
The child crept to Emma, "Good-natured aunt, peel me some walnuts."
Emma readily agreed to do so, wishing, so far as lay in her power, to shew
that she really was anxious to oblige. The little girl seated herself on
her knee, and endeavoured at first to assist in the operation, but soon
relinquished the attempt, and contented herself with slyly dropping the
walnut shells down Emma's neck, and slipping them under her gown, a playful
trick which amused her mother excessively when she discovered it, and gave
Emma the trouble of going to her room to undress, before she could free
herself from the disagreeable sensations they occasioned.
The conversation before dinner still dwelt heavy in her mind; she felt
persuaded that the time would come, when she and Miss Osborne too must step
forward to prove the truth of her sister's words, and she shuddered at the
idea. She felt that she must make some apology, or at least some
announcement of her intentions to Miss Osborne, before she could venture to
risk such very unpleasant consequences to them both: and she determined to
write to her, and tell her the circumstances as they occurred, and ask her
to support and substantiate her word when it came to be questioned.
Her head was too weary and dizzy to undertake anything of the kind that
night, but she resolved not to defer it very long for Margaret's sake.
A day or two passed on, and Emma began to wonder when she should find time
for writing the projected letter. Her sister-in-law kept her so fully
employed, that a spare quarter of an hour was not to be had; her talents
with needle and scissors had attracted Jane's observation when at Winston,
and now they were put into constant requisition in mending the child's
wardrobe, or improving the mother's. Her niece's lessons were likewise
turned over to her, for she was to learn her alphabet, her parents
expecting her to be a little prodigy, and Emma must spare no pains to
produce the desired result. Take this as a specimen of their usual routine.
"I wish, Elizabeth, now you seem to be at leisure," said Jane entering the
parlour, "you would just go and teach my cook to make those custard
puddings, and if you would put her in the way of making almond
cakes, such as you had at your father's, I should thank you. We have some
friends coming to tea, and I should like them to taste those."
Elizabeth, who was just taking up her needle to mend a garment of her own,
very good-temperedly put it away, and repaired to the kitchen to
superintend her sister's confectionary affairs.
"Now, Emma," cried Jane, turning to her, "I'll call Janetta, and you shall
give her a lesson, I should like her to know the 'Busy Bee' to say to the
visitors to-night."
"That little darling," exclaimed Margaret, as her sister brought in the
child, "has quite her mother's talents—my sweet pet," stroking down her
hair as she spoke, "my little beauty will grow up a clever, good woman like
mama some day, will you not, dearest."
"Like me, dearest Margaret? do not wish her such an evil, a poor weak
creature like me—the child of impulse, the slave of excitement. May she be
better and happier than her poor mother!"
Emma commenced the painful task of cramming infant brains with what they
could not comprehend, for exhibition to people who did want to hear it.
Jane shewed Margaret a piece of work she wanted done, and then threw
herself into a lounging chair.
"Who do you expect here this evening, Jane?" enquired Margaret, "I did not
know you meant to have company."
"It's a country client of my husband's who is coming to dine," replied Mrs.
Watson, "and I asked one or two friends to meet him; one cannot very well
help that, or else I don't know that just now, considering how lately your
old father died, that I should have had any company—but Mr. Terry is a man
of much influence!"
All Emma's sensitive feelings recoiled at this indifferent reference to
their recent loss; that he was Robert's father likewise, did not
seem to occur to his wife, who had never looked on him with either
affection or respect. Meantime the little Janetta—for such was her niece's
name, made but small progress towards acquiring the much desired learning;
and presently, her mother, turning sharply round, cried out:—
"I am sure, Emma, you are taking no pains about that child—for she is so
quick in general, at learning any thing; I must say, considering the
circumstances, and the liberality with which your brother has received you,
it is not asking such a very wonderful favor, requesting you to attend a
little to his child."
"I am sure, I am very happy to do so," replied Emma, meekly; "but your
little girl does not seem disposed to attend to me."
"That must be the fault of your manner of instructing then; you do not
adopt an interesting way; but I have observed, constantly, where most
gratitude is due, least is paid; Janetta, darling, does not your aunt teach
you nicely?"
"I want to look at aunt Emma's watch," replied the child, "I hear it
ticking in her pocket, and she says I must not see it till I have done!"
"How came you by a watch, Emma?" enquired Mrs. Watson, in a tone which
seemed to imply a suspicion of its being honestly acquired. "Let me see
it!"
"It was a gift from my uncle," replied poor Emma, producing it rather
unwillingly.
It was a very handsome one, and had her name engraved inside the lid.
"I want a watch very much—mine is not to my taste," observed Mrs. Watson,
greedily eyeing her sister-in-law's property. "You would not like to
exchange, would you, Emma?"
"Certainly not," replied she hastily; "it was a keepsake from him, and I
would not willingly part with it for any thing."
"Don't you think you had better take Janetta to the nursery?" said Mrs.
Watson, "I am sure she would learn a great deal better there than here,
where we are talking. There, darling, go with Emma like a pet."
Emma saw that her sister-in-law wanted to get rid of her, but she really
thought the quiet of the nursery would be preferable to the drawing-room
worries, and she gladly withdrew.
"I don't quite understand that sister of yours, Margaret," said Jane, as
soon as they were left together; "I think she seems very proud and
unpleasant—a good deal of conceit and pertness, mingled in her manner."
"Exactly so, dear Jane, with your usual candour and penetration, you have
precisely described her character."
"Yes," said Mrs. Watson, with an air of great satisfaction, "I hope I can
see through people a little. If there is one quality I pride myself on, it
is my penetration. I am blessed, I acknowledge, with a singular facility
for discerning characters, and what I think I must say. I speak my feelings
almost unconsciously!"
"You are a wonderfully clever creature, Jane; I am sure I never knew any
one to be compared to you; but, as to Emma, I think it's her intimacy with
the Osbornes that has set her up so abominably; really, since she has been
there so much, there is no speaking to her sometimes."
"That is often the case where young girls are much noticed by those above
them in rank, Margaret; I wonder what they saw in her to like so much—even
if they thought her pretty—which I do not—I don't see why they should
notice her for that—do you think Lord Osborne liked her?"
"I really don't know—he used to look at her—and he danced with her—and
called on her—I sometimes thought he did care for her."
"I wish I could devise any means of bringing them together; if I were quite
sure on that point, it would make a great difference; but I don't suppose
anything will come of it now. There's the postman's knock—just step out in
the passage and bring in the letters here; I know Mr. Watson is out, so I
can get a peep at his dispatches now."
Margaret did as she was desired and returned presently with a handful of
letters. Mrs. Watson took them on her lap and examined the post-mark and
address of each. Several were, from their size and appearance, letters of
business—she put them aside—over one she paused:
"Here's one in a lady's hand," said she, "and to my husband! London, I
wonder who that's from? I never saw the seal before or the hand
writing—there's some mystery there. I wonder whether it's from some
mistress or improper person? I dare say it is—men are always deceiving
one!"
"Oh, Jane!" cried Margaret, "that's impossible! You, of all people, cannot
fear a rival. Robert could not serve you so!"
"Oh! the best of women, my dear, fare no better than the worst, with some
men; the best of men are worth very little; and, as to Mr. Watson, he's no
better than his neighbours. I can tell you I would not trust him without
watching—and I'll see him open and read that letter, or my name is not Jane
Watson; but let's see—" turning again to her letters; "what else have we
here? One for me—one for Elizabeth—who's that from? look Margaret!"
Margaret readily obeyed, and kneeling down besides her sister's chair,
looked at the letter in question.
"I think," said she, "it's from the upholsterer who purchased some of our
old furniture, that's H on the seal, and his name was Hill."
"Very likely, but look, Margaret, here's one for Emma—a lady's hand too—the
London post-mark, and a coronet on the seal—good gracious, that must be
from Miss Osborne, or perhaps from her brother—I wonder if one could see
anything inside. You see Lord Osborne has franked it, and it's in an
envelope, how tiresome: if it had only been folded like another letter we
could have read some of it."
"So we might, I dare say Emma will never tell us a word, she's so close,
she never chats comfortably with one about anything; I am sure to this day
I know nothing at all about what she thinks of Lord Osborne, or any of his
family—it's so provoking and disagreeable."
"So it is, I hate such nasty close dispositions; I, who am all openness and
frankness, cannot comprehend anything secret and underhand: well, we cannot
help it, and I suppose we shall not know what it is about. Take those
letters to the office, Margaret, and tell the clerk they were brought into
the drawing-room by mistake."
Whilst Margaret fulfilled this commission, and stopped to flirt with the
young clerk who received them, an old acquaintance of hers, Mrs. Watson,
having first carefully laid aside the suspected epistle to her husband,
proceeded up-stairs with Emma's letter, and after turning it over in every
direction, and even holding it up to the light at the stair-case window,
but without benefit, she suddenly entered the nursery. There she found
Janetta had dropped asleep on a bed, and Emma taking advantage of the
leisure thus afforded, was preparing to write a letter.
"Janetta asleep, oh!" said the anxious mother, "well then you will have
time, Emma, to do a little job for me, I want some alterations in the
trimmings of my bombazine gown, and I wish you would do it for me before
evening."
"I shall be happy," replied Emma, "to do anything in my power to oblige
you, if you will only explain it to me."
"Very well, come with me, and I will shew you what I want; oh, by the bye,
here's a letter for you, I think it must be from Miss Osborne from the
seal—does she write to you often?"
"No," replied Emma, surprised at hearing this, and holding out her hand for
the letter which Mrs. Watson still detained to examine, "I never heard from
her before since she left the country!"
"Indeed, what do you suppose she writes about—by the way, I suppose you are
not accustomed to receive letters and give no account of them, are you?"
"Indeed I am," replied Emma, quite ashamed at the idea of supervision in
such a particular, "I have never been controlled in either receiving or
writing a letter."
"I consider that an exceedingly improper liberty for a young girl,"
observed Mrs. Watson drily, "at your time of life, under age, I should hold
your guardian as very culpable if he took no account of your letters, and I
am much mistaken if your brother does not expect, as a matter of course, to
overlook all the correspondence you chose to carry on."
"Surely he cannot consider it necessary," remonstrated Emma seriously, "at
my age—it is not as if I were a baby quite, but I am almost twenty."
"Possibly so, but whilst you are under age you are his ward, and must have
to submit to any restrictions he lays on you with a good grace. It's no use
colouring and pouting, there's nothing like bearing things with a good
temper, and not giving yourself airs and graces about it. There's your
letter!"
Emma took the letter, and observed, as she put it in her pocket:
"If you will show me what you want done, I shall be happy to oblige you."
"Read your letter first, Emma, it may be a matter of business, and you
should never delay business—your brother always says, 'do what is to be
done directly, and do it yourself.'"
Emma silently drew forth the letter, and breaking the seal read the
following words:
.sp 2
.in 6
"My dear Miss Watson,
.sp 1
.ll 60
.ti +6
"I am sorry to trouble you with
any unpleasant subjects, but I cannot forbear
mentioning a circumstance which
nearly concerns your family; and when
you know the particulars, you can judge
for yourself. Mr. Tom Musgrove, whom I
had, as you know, reason to suppose engaged
to one of your sisters, is now in town,
and has not only been for some time past
paying great attention to a young lady of
fortune, a friend of my own, but, as I understand,
has denied all engagement to Miss
Watson, spoken very disparagingly of her,
and even shewn letters written by her under
the impression that such an engagement
existed. Not knowing precisely
how affairs stood between your
sister and Mr. M., I dare not interfere,
lest by revealing what she may perhaps
wish concealed, I should injure her, and
mortify you. I shall not, however, feel
justified in preserving silence much longer,
unless I am positively assured that all
engagement is at an end between them.
If she has released him from the promise
to which we both are witnesses, it may be
important to preserve silence on its previous
existence, but if, as I cannot help
suspecting, he has only released himself,
has deceived or deserted her, I cannot allow
my friend to be misled by him, and must
insist on having his conduct cleared up and
set in a proper light. I am sorry to be
obliged to trouble you, as I feel convinced
that whether secretly deceiving, openly
deserting your sister, he is certainly using
her extremely ill: you know I never had a
good opinion of his character. I am over-whelmed
with gaiety, and look back with
a feeling of regret to the tranquil hours at
Osborne Castle.
.sp 1
.in +6
"Anxiously expecting your answer,
.sp 1
.in +2
"I remain, dear Miss Watson,
.sp 1
.in +2
"Your sincere friend,
.sp 1
.in +2
"Rosa Osborne."
.sp 2
.in 6
"P.S. Mr. Musgrove's address is, 75,
Bond-street.—My brother and Sir William
desire all sorts of proper messages to you;
have you seen the Howards lately?"
.in 0
.ll
.sp 2
Whilst Emma was reading these words, Jane was standing near her, playing
with the sheet of paper in which it had been enveloped, and anxiously
watching Emma's countenance to see the effect produced by the
communication. She saw enough to discover that the emotion occasioned by
the contents was not of a pleasurable nature. It was something which
required deliberation and consideration. Mrs. Watson grew impatient.
"Well, what is it?" cried she. "You sit there pondering and pondering as if
it were a dispatch from the king himself; tell me what your difficulty is,
and I will help you!"
"I think," said Emma, hesitating and embarrassed, "I think I must speak to
my brother about this, and, perhaps, I had better—I mean, he would like me
to consult him first, before speaking even to you!"
"Tell me what it is," said Mrs. Watson, burning with curiosity, "let
me know all about it, and I can tell you if it is necessary to
consult him first!"
"But if I tell you now, I cannot apply first to him," remonstrated Emma,
"and so that will not do."
"Oh, but you need not tell him that you told me," said Jane; "and as I am
his wife, I should be sure to know it eventually."
"Can I not go to him at once?" said Emma, rising; "it would be much better,
and as it must be done, the sooner I get over it the better."
"Is it anything you are afraid of telling him then?" enquired Mrs. Watson,
still more eagerly, as she followed Emma from the room. "Is it about
yourself? or Miss Osborne? oh, I know—it is for Mr. Watson to draw the
marriage settlements—they say she is going to be married to Sir William
Gordon, is that true? or is it an offer from Lord Osborne, I wonder? how
obstinate the child is; and how fast she runs, I must make haste, or I
shall lose some of it."
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch08
CHAPTER VIII.
.sp 2
Mrs. Watson overtook Emma at the door of the private room, where so many
important matters were settled by her husband, in time to hear an impatient
"Come in," and to enter in her company. Robert was pacing up and down the
room, and looked excessively surprised to see the intruders.
"What in the name of all that's troublesome brings you here to-day?" was
his courteous salutation to his wife and sister.
"I wished to show you this letter, brother," said Emma, very humbly, with
Miss Osborne's letter in her hand; "and as it seemed to me, no time should
be lost in acting on it, I have ventured to intrude—"
Robert did not allow her to finish her sentence, but took the paper from
her hand, and read it deliberately and attentively through. Anything in the
shape of business received his strictest attention, or he would never have
occupied the position which he now held. When he came to the conclusion, he
looked up, and observed,
"I don't see that Jane has anything to do with this, and shall therefore
beg she will leave the room—directly," added he, seeing that his wife
hesitated.
She knew the tone, and was obliged to withdraw; but it was with a mental
determination to plague her husband for a resolution so contrary to her
wishes, though she could not settle whether the punishment should consist
of boiling a leg of mutton, omitting his favorite pudding, or spoiling his
chocolate.
Whilst she was arranging her plans for vengeance, her husband was holding
council high on the subject of this letter.
How came Miss Osborne to know anything about it? what did she mean by
saying that she and Emma were witnesses to the engagement? was that really
the case? why had Margaret never alluded to it?
Emma explained as briefly as possible when and how they two had overheard
the whole conversation. Robert rubbed his hands with inexpressible glee.
"He's caught then, fairly caught—that is good—we shall soon bring him to
terms now: capital, to think of your eavesdropping with so much effect; but
why did you never mention this before, child, when you heard me lamenting
the want of witnesses?"
Emma asserted that she was only waiting to consult Miss Osborne on the
subject, for as they had been mutually pledged to secrecy, she could not
divulge it without her agreeing to it. Robert was in an ecstasy of hope and
enjoyment; he saw a brilliant perspective of litigation, an action for
breach of promise of marriage to be conducted, with all the éclat
that could be given to such a proceeding, and damages given to his sister
which would enable her to marry decently out of hand. This was delightful.
His first step he determined should be a letter from himself to the
culprit, claiming his promise to Margaret, but without alluding to the
witnesses to be produced, and he instructed Emma to write to Miss Osborne,
and tell her that her sister had never released Tom from his engagement,
but was still acting on the belief that it existed, and that therefore she,
Miss Osborne, was at liberty to inform her friend—indeed had better do so
at once—that Mr. Musgrove was acting an equivocal part in paying attention
to any other woman, as his hand was positively pledged to Miss Margaret
Watson. This assurance from a party whom he naturally supposed unacquainted
with the fact would alarm Tom, and it was possible, but Robert did not
depend on it, that it might bring some offer of a compromise. Emma enquired
what would be the result if, as was very probable, Mr. Musgrove should deny
the engagement altogether, and trusting to there being no witnesses, refuse
to fulfil it. Robert assured her that in that case he should have the means
of compelling him either to fulfil the contract or pay large damages; he
should not have a moment's hesitation in commencing an action against him,
and with Miss Osborne and Emma to support Margaret's evidence there was no
doubt of the result.
She was horrified to hear what was impending over her, and enquired, in a
tone of something between fright and incredulity, whether he really
contemplated forcing Miss Osborne to appeal in a public court of justice.
"Why should she not?" was his cool answer; "she is as capable of giving
evidence, I presume, as any other woman, and her appearance will give a
great publicity to the proceeding."
"But do you think she will like it?" suggested poor Emma, trembling for her
own share of the trial as much as for her friend's.
"I shall not trouble my head about that—I will have her subpœned as a
witness, and she must come, whether she likes it or not."
Emma was silent, but looked extremely uneasy. Her brother observed her
distressed appearance, and after thinking a few minutes, addressed her.
"As you know so much of the Osbornes, Emma, and it really appears that you
can keep a secret, which considering your age and sex is rather remarkable,
I will tell you my whole plan, and we will see whether your wit can help me
carry it out. Look here—suppose Tom Musgrove refuses all acknowledgment of
the engagement, I threaten an action, call on you and Miss Osborne as
witnesses; if it really comes before a jury she will be compelled to
appear; but say she dislikes it—is too fine or too delicate—well let her
family use their influence with Musgrove to induce a marriage, and they may
succeed. By threatening to make his perfidy public, by menacing him with
the indignation of the family, if he compels us to resort to such
extremities—possibly even by the judicious application of family interests
to procure him some situation, some sinecure appointment, or in many
similar ways, the Osbornes may work upon his feelings in a way which we
could never do. Meantime say nothing; I will explain enough to Margaret,
and you have only to answer all enquiries by the assurance that you are not
allowed by me to mention the matter. Go now."
Emma would gladly have retreated to her own room, but Jane was too sharp
for her.
"What an immense time you have been," cried she impatiently clutching hold
of Emma's shoulder; "I thought you would never come out; and I could not
hear a word you said. Now tell me all about it."
Emma assured her that she dared not—her brother had so strictly forbidden
all allusion to the subject; she really was not at liberty to mention a
single word.
"Well really that's great impertinence of Mr. Watson—I'll give it him well
for that: what can it signify whether I know it or not—I dare say a mighty
matter to make so much fuss about—any affair you are concerned in must be
so very important: no, don't go up-stairs, I want you in the parlour, child."
Emma reluctantly returned to the parlour. Elizabeth and Margaret were both
there; but before Jane had time to expatiate upon the injustice and tyranny
of her husband in denying her knowledge which did not concern her, a
morning visitor was announced.
The lady who entered was a Mrs. Turner, a widow, with an unfashionable
black dress, a good-humoured but unmeaning face, and a cheerful manner.
"Well, Mrs. Watson," cried she, "here you are, amiable and industrious as
ever; I am sure your husband must thank his lucky stars which gave him such
a wife—I always consider you quite as the pattern for all housekeepers and
married ladies. And such a cheerful party as I find—who are these sweet
girls?—charming creatures I have no doubt."
"Mr. Watson's sisters," said Jane laconically.
"Ah I remember—poor things, orphans—Miss Margaret I beg your pardon, I
ought to have known you—I believe it was the
black gown deceived me—elegant—black always looks well—and Miss Margaret's
slender figure sets it off to advantage. What a sweet pretty face," (eyeing
Emma) "really you must be quite proud of your new sisters, Mrs. Watson. Now
I don't know anything pleasanter than a pretty face—it's so cheerful—all
three so remarkably good-looking too—they are not the least like you, Mrs.
Watson."
Mrs. Watson made no other answer than an enquiry for Mrs. Turner's
son-in-law—Mr. Millar.
"George, oh, he's charming, thank you," replied the merry lady, who seemed
to view everything couleur de rose, "up to his
elbows in hops and malt—I often tell him, it's well if he be never
smothered with his business. I do believe it's the most flourishing one in
the town. Those little darlings, his children—you cannot think what angels
they are; but they do want a mother sadly; now, Mrs. Watson—you could not
recommend one, could you?" looking slyly at the three young ladies; "any
nice, steady, sensible young woman of six or seven and twenty—George need
not look out for a fortune, thank Heaven—he's a plenty, and to spare, of
his own—but a nice, good-humoured wife, who would not thwart him, or vex
his children—that's what he wants."
"Well," cried Mrs. Watson, with delight, "let him come here; I dare say
either of the girls would not say him nay—they have no money, so they must
take what they can get. It does not do for such to be too nice; not but
what even the nicest might well be satisfied with George Millar."
"Aye, indeed, well they might. Do you know I am at him, day and night, to
marry again; and he always says I must chose him a wife, for he has not
time to see for himself. Now I'll make him come here to-night, and see what
he'll say."
"Do so pray," said Jane, "we are expecting a few friends to dinner and tea;
let him come in the evening when his business is over; but don't say a word
of our plans, let him be taken by surprise, you know."
"Well," exclaimed Elizabeth, "I like your plan amazingly, and I give you
fair warning, Mrs. Turner, that I shall do my utmost to please your
son-in-law, and take the situation of Mrs. Millar. I am convinced he is a
most delightful man, and well worth looking after."
"Well done my dear," cried Mrs. Turner, "I like honesty and candour of all
things, and am delighted to find you are not too proud to own that you,
like all other girls, want to be married. Some pretend to deny it; but it
makes no difference, I know what they think secretly, and see through them
all the same."
"We will not try to trifle with such penetration," said Elizabeth,
laughing—"ask my sisters if they agree to your assertion."
"Oh, I know Miss Margaret does," cried Mrs. Turner; "she is longing to be
married at this moment—and I could point out the gentleman too—my George
has no chance with her."
Margaret giggled, and twisted about.
"Only think of my affairs becoming so public, as my wishes to be known like
that. You are a dangerous person, I know of old, Mrs. Turner!"
"Well, I must be going—I have to call on the Greenes this morning—sweet
girls, the Greenes, ain't they—amazingly clever—very plain though—well,
well, one can't have everything; do you know, I plague George about being
in love with Ann Greene, and he cannot bear the sight of her in
consequence—it is such fun."
"I know very little of the Greenes," observed Mrs. Watson, grandly, "they
are not in our set. I dare say soap-boiling is a very good trade; but I
have a fancy it must soil the fingers. Mr. Millar will not meet the Greenes
here at all."
Mrs. Turner did not stay to defend the Greenes from the aspersions cast on
them by the amiable Mrs. Watson, but hurried away to praise them to
themselves, certain that in this case her eulogy would be well received.
Hardly had she left the room, when Robert entered, with an open letter in
his hand, and enquired of Emma, if she had written as he desired her to do.
Emma acknowledged that she had not.
"Then do it directly," said he, "and learn never to delay letters of
business—always do what you have to do at once—it is idle, and worse to put
it off."
Emma did not attempt to offer any excuse, but was preparing to leave the
room to obey, when Jane stopped her, and recommended her remaining where
she was to write; there were plenty of paper, pens, and ink in the room,
and there could not be the smallest occasion for leaving the parlour.
She could not very well avoid yielding to this request, which, however, she
suspected strongly was only made in hopes of obtaining some information
relative to the letter in question. Meanwhile, Robert, going up to
Margaret, showed her the letter he held in his hand, and desired her to
read it.
"Oh, how very good of you," cried Margaret, when she had run through the
contents, "how kind of you to take it up so warmly; you who never believed
that what I said was true; how glad I am that you have come round at last
to believe my assertions; now, I trust, Tom will relent, and my blighted
affections will once more revive and flourish!"
"Don't talk to me of blighted affections," replied her brother,
impatiently; "don't bother me with such nonsense; do learn, if you can, to
think of matters of business as business; and in an affair of this
kind, try to speak in a rational, sensible way. Do you think Musgrove will
yield to this representation?"
"Oh, no doubt of it," said Margaret, "at least, I dare say he will; but
suppose he should not, what will you do then?" fixed
"It appears," replied Robert, "that both Emma and Miss Osborne heard what
passed between you, and as, in that case, they can both appear as witnesses
for you, I have no doubt of getting a verdict in your favour, and very
considerable damages from any jury in the county."
Margaret sat staring at her brother in amazement, and then repeated,
"Miss Osborne and Emma, are you sure," and turning to Emma, she exclaimed,
"Where were you then, I should like to know."
"We were concealed from your sight," replied her sister, "by some orange
trees, and thus we heard all you said without intending it."
"Listening were you—very pretty indeed—honorable conduct—from you too, who
make such a fuss about propriety and honesty, and all that; but, after all,
you are no better than your neighbours, it seems," said she, spitefully.
"I am sure I am very sorry," said Emma, with tears in her eyes, "if I have
done anything to vex you; but indeed, though it may seem strange, I really
could not help it."
"Oh no, of course not!" pursued Margaret, tossing her head back; "people
never can help doing any thing which happens to suit their fancy—however,
before I venture to talk another time, I will take care and ascertain if
you are in the room or not—such meanness listening!"
"It appears very strange to me," cried Mrs. Watson, anxious to understand
it all; "that we should suddenly hear that Emma knew all about it, when
Margaret was so long wishing to have some evidence to prove her words; why
did not Emma say so sooner, then?"
"And it seems still more extraordinary to me," interposed Elizabeth, "that
Margaret should be so angry when she thus, unexpectedly, finds what she
wishes for. Emma told me of this long ago, and told me that Miss Osborne
had induced her to be silent on the subject for several reasons; but I
know, from what she told me then, it was quite accidental, and could not be
avoided, their overhearing Tom's conversation with you, Margaret."
"And it appears strangest of all to me," observed Robert, contemptuously,
"that women never can keep to the point on any subject, but must start off
on twenty different branches, which have nothing to do with the end in
view. What does it signify to you, Margaret, when, how, or why your
conversation was overheard—when, on the fact of its being so, depends your
chance of getting two or three thousand pounds in your pocket? What does it
matter as to Emma's motive for listening, so long as she did listen to such
good purpose?"
Margaret pouted and replied only by some indistinct murmurs.
Her brother then went on to explain to her the circumstance of Miss
Osborne's interposition—shewing her, greatly to Emma's annoyance, the
letter that morning received from London, and informing her of what he had
desired might be written in answer. Margaret's feelings on the occasion,
formed a most comic mixture of pleasure and indignation.
She was excessively gratified at being talked about, and made the subject
of letters to and from Miss Osborne; and the notion of being plaintiff in
an action at law, seemed to have almost as great a charm for her
imagination, as being married; but then, she was sorely mortified at the
information that Tom Musgrove's infidelity was so open and evident; she was
vexed, bitterly vexed, at the idea of a rival; and she could hardly console
herself for such an indignity, by the expectation of the damages which were
to be awarded her. She looked very foolish and very spiteful when her
sister-in-law made some ill-natured observations about overrating the
powers of her own charms; and still more so when Robert added:
"That he had no doubt the fellow was drunk when he made the offer, but it
did not matter if he was."
Emma was very glad when she had finished her letter, and was able to escape
from the subject by quitting the house for a walk with Elizabeth. Jane had
some errands for them in the town; but, as soon as they were fulfilled,
they were able to turn their steps towards the country, and escaping into
green fields and pleasant lanes, refresh their eyes and their tempers by
watching for the first appearance of the spring flowers. Such a stroll was
a real treat to Emma, and gave her strength to endure the numberless petty
annoyances which Mrs. Watson heaped on her. She felt, whilst she could
still enjoy a few hours of quiet converse with her sister—still breathe the
fresh air of Heaven, and seek the simple, but unalloyed, satisfaction, to
be derived from contemplating the works of Providence, that she had still
blessings to be thankful for; that her situation, with all its drawbacks,
ought still to call forth feelings of gratitude, when compared with the
misfortunes of others of her fellow beings; and that it became her to be
ready to acknowledge this, lest she should be taught to prize the comforts
she still enjoyed by their withdrawal.
With these sentiments in her heart, she strove to act upon them; and when
Elizabeth would have turned the conversation, to past times, and reverted
to Mr. Howard and his sister, she had the strength of mind to turn away
from the dangerous pleasure, and pursue some other topic.
They stayed out rather late—that is to say, they were not in the house till
rather more than half past four, and they were to dine at five. They met
their sister-in-law on the stairs in a great bustle.
"Oh dear! I have been in such a worry for you, Emma," cried she, "how very
tiresome that you should be so late; I want Janetta dressed and her hair
curled, and Betsy has not time to attend to it, because she has to dress my
head—and here have I been waiting and waiting whilst you have been
wandering over the country amusing yourselves without the least regard to
me or my comfort."
"I am sorry to have put you to any inconvenience, but I had not the least
idea you wanted me," replied Emma, "what can I do for you now?"
The wrath of any one but Mrs. Watson, must have been disarmed and pacified
by Emma's good-tempered answer, and the sweetness of her manner, but Jane's
was a disposition which yielded only if violently opposed, but became every
hour more encroaching when given way to. To Elizabeth, who boldly spoke her
mind on all occasions, she was far more submissive—but over Emma she could
tyrannise without fear of a rude or thoughtless retort, a rebellious
action, or even a discontented look; consequently, Emma was now dispatched
to the nursery to perform the office of maid to her little niece, whilst
the woman, whose business it was to attend to this matter, was occupied in
arranging her mistress's toilette.
At length, Mrs. Watson was ready, and sweeping into the nursery with as
much finery as her mourning would allow her to display, she took away her
little girl, and allowed Emma time to arrange her own dress for dinner.
On descending to the drawing-room she found her sister-in-law engaged in
talking and listening eagerly to the important gentleman from the country,
for whose sake the dinner party had been arranged.
He was a broad-faced, portly man, who filled up the arm-chair in which he
was seated, with perfect accuracy of adjustment, and whose countenance
seemed to Emma to express a sort of hungry tolerance of Mrs. Watson's
attentions. Whenever the door opened, and admitted with each fresh arrival
a strong scent of dinner from the kitchen, he seemed to imbibe the odour
with peculiar satisfaction, and after inhaling sundry times the teeming
atmosphere, heaved a sigh indicative of anticipation and comfortable
assurance for the future.
The fluttering of Mrs. Watson's trimmings, the waving of her ringlets, and
the affected little bursts of merriment in which she indulged for his
amusement, hardly discomposed him at all, so intent was he on the
forthcoming dinner. Robert Watson was standing over the fire talking to a
gloomy, dark-browed young man, a stranger to Emma, who seemed to consider
that in conferring the favor of his bodily presence on the Watsons, he was
doing them so great an honor, that there was no occasion for him to trouble
himself with any further efforts, and that the absence of mind in which he
ostentatiously indulged, was due to his own dignity, impaired, or at least
endangered by the situation in which he had suffered himself to be placed.
There was also a thin, white-faced individual, something between a man and
a boy, who was chattering to Margaret with all the ease and volubility of
an old acquaintance. Emma remembered that she had heard Jane and Margaret
speaking of a Mr. Alfred Freemantle, whose family were "quite genteel
country people," as being articled to Mr. Watson, and concluded that the
individual thus mentioned was before her. Just as she had settled this
point in her own mind, and seated herself near Elizabeth, she perceived the
young man make a prodigious theatrical start, and heard him exclaim in a
tone which could not be called low:
"For heaven's sake who is that exquisitely beautiful creature?"
"It's only Emma—my sister Emma," said Margaret evidently vexed, "do you
think her so very pretty? well I don't think I should call her so."
"She blushes divinely," cried he, fixing his eyes on her, "what a glorious
complexion—and her name is Emma—sweet Emma."
Emma was half amused, but almost angry at his impertinence; had he been a
little older, her anger would have been more decided, but he seemed such a
mere boy, that she attributed his offensive behaviour to youthful
ignorance; a charitable construction for which he would certainly not have
thanked her.
Having stared at her for some minutes with unwavering perseverance, he
rose, and crossing the room, let himself drop into a chair close by her,
with a weight and impetus quite astonishing to Emma, when she considered
the slight figure which produced such a concussion.
The next moment he opened a conversation with her by saying:
"I have just experienced a most delicious sensation, Miss Emma Watson, the
sight of you has exactly recalled the image of a cousin of mine, from whom
unfortunate circumstances have so imperatively separated me. Poor girl—you
have no idea how lovely she was."
"Indeed," was Emma's reply, quite willing to admit the truth of this
assertion, and equally ready to let the subject rest; but he had no
intention of the sort.
"It is charming to be reminded of an absent friend,
delightful—exquisite—are you likely to make a long stay at Croydon, Miss
Emma Watson?"
"It is uncertain," replied Emma.
"And you are actually living in the same house in which I spend the greater
part of my weary days, and nothing but these envious walls conceals you
from my sight. Is not that hard?"
"Really no," replied Emma, unable to control a smile at the absurdity of
his manner, "I cannot say I think so at all."
"You don't—what a monstrous bore Mrs. Watson is—I am sure you will agree to
that."
"She is my sister-in-law," said Emma.
"Yes, I know, but that's the very reason you should hate her—I detest
mine."
"And you consider that an infallible rule, of course, since you suggest it
to me."
"I am certain," said the young man, "that our sympathies are strong: there
is something in the turn of your head, the sparkle of your eye, the
formation of your upper lip, that betokens decided participation in the
feelings which corruscate, burn, and almost consume your humble servant."
"What a fine day it has been," observed Emma, purposely chosing the most
common-place subject in reply to his rhapsody.
He looked astonished and perplexed, then said slowly:
"I fear after all we are not kindred souls—do you love music?"
"Pretty well," replied Emma, determined to keep down to the most
common-place level in her conversation.
He cast up his eyes, and turned away for a moment, throwing himself back in
his chair, and elevating his chin in the air, whilst he carefully combed
his hair with his fingers. Presently, however, he returned again to the
attack.
"I suspect you are funny."
"I beg your pardon," said Emma, looking perplexed in her turn.
"I say I suspect you are laughing at me all this time."
"Oh," said she.
At this moment dinner was announced, and whilst the fat gentleman was
slowly emerging from his chair to accompany Mrs. Watson to the dining
parlour, Emma's new acquaintance was pouring out a voluble strain of
nonsense in her ear.
"To think of reasonable and reasoning creatures lowering themselves to an
equality with the beasts of the field, by indulging in what is falsely
called the pleasures of the table—to think of their voluntarily assembling
only to eat; degrading their intellects by sitting down to spend two hours
over roast mutton or apple pie—really it is inconceivable—allow me to
conduct you, and
your fair sister Margaret to the dinner-table. Sweetest Miss Margaret,"
presenting her his hand as he spoke, "my felicity is beyond expression—I
can only equal my situation between you two, to love amongst the roses."
At the dinner-table Mrs. Watson appeared in all her glory. The dinner was
really good, and as the favoured guest inhaled the odour of the soup, it
was evident from the complacent expression which stole over his features,
that he was well satisfied with the prospect now before him. Mrs. Watson's
tactics were suited to the occasion; she devoted her attention to helping
him to the best things on the table—the most dainty morsel, the epicure's
piece, was in every case heaped on his plate. It would have been amusing to
an observer to watch the struggle which in some cases occurred between
Robert's self-interest and self-love. His appetite was at variance with his
policy; it was difficult for him to yield the precedence at his own table
to the love of good eating exhibited by another. To see his wife thus
liberally disposed to another man was a severe blow, and whilst he
acknowledged the justice, prudence and propriety of thus acting, it went to
his heart to behold it. Her attentions, her flattery, her winning smiles
she was welcome to indulge him with, but the dainty morsel from the cod's
head—the largest share from the sweet-bread fricassee, the liver-wing of
the spring chicken, these he could not resign without a sigh.
Mr. Alfred Freemantle, however, did not leave Emma much leisure to make
remarks; he had seated himself by her side at table, and was paying her an
infinite number of what he considered delicate attentions; calling
incessantly to the footman to bring her vegetables—urging her to try every
dish on the table, helping her to salt, and filling her glass with wine to
the very brim, as he asserted all ladies liked bumpers; at the same time
pouring into her ears the most common-place nonsense about his devotion to
the fair sex, his zeal in performing his devoirs,
and sundry other observations of the sort.
Emma gave him no encouragement, but he did not require any; perfectly
satisfied with his own charms, and accustomed to consider himself as
superior to his ordinary companions, he was well convinced that her
shyness, not her dissatisfaction, kept her silent, and never for a moment
supposed she could be otherwise than charmed with his conversation and
company.
The dinner appeared to her, consequently, very dull, but at last the moment
of release came; her sister-in-law gave the signal for departure, and the
four ladies returned to the drawing-room. Here they were no sooner
assembled than Margaret commenced a violent attack on Emma for her
scandalous flirtation with Mr. Freemantle. He used to be a particular
admirer of Margaret's, and she could not with patience resign his
admiration to another. In fact she had not strength of mind to see with
composure any woman engross the attention of a man with whom she was
acquainted, all whose words and looks of admiration she wished to
appropriate to herself; for having been for a couple of winters the
reigning belle of her small neighbourhood, she still fancied her charms
supreme, and was quite insensible of the fact, obvious to every one else,
that she was now only exhibiting the remains of former beauty. Her bloom
had been of short duration; she was too fretful to preserve the plumpness
necessary to show her complexion to advantage, and she early lost the glow
and the fairness which had formed her greatest charm.
Alfred Freemantle was not now to be won by all her wiles; Emma's newer
face, and the sort of wondering indifference with which she heard his
compliments, and his ready-prepared jokes formed an irresistible charm to
him; he declared her freshness was piquant, her
innocence was exquisite, that it was delicious to meet with a pretty girl
so perfectly unhacknied in the ways of the world; little suspecting that
the simple manner which he took for ignorance of life resulted entirely
from her just appreciation of his little talent, and the total want of
interest excited by such flattery as he was capable of administering.
But she could make no impression on Margaret by declarations of
indifference, or assertions that she had thought him decidedly
disagreeable. Her sister considered such words as a mere subterfuge, and
would not believe that Mr. Alfred Freemantle was a sort of person to slight
one girl for another, a stranger, without some special encouragement to do
so.
Jane took up Margaret's cause, as she was always delighted to have an
opportunity of finding fault with Emma, of whom she felt a decided
jealousy, and a long and serious lecture was the consequence, which was
only interrupted by the arrival of some of the evening visitors. The
reproaches which were showered on Emma were, it is true, parried in some
degree by Elizabeth, who although greatly respecting her sister-in-law, did
not feel so much afraid of her as to refrain on that account from
expressing her opinion. She vigorously defended Emma to the best of her
abilities, and there was no saying how long the dispute might have been
carried on but for the arrival of Mr. George Millar and a young lady, his
half sister, who accompanied him.
Emma was obliged, as well as she could, to conceal the tears which were
swimming in her eyes and anxious to avoid any further animadversions, she
seated herself as far as possible from the gentleman, and occupied herself
with some work which she had undertaken for Mrs. Watson.
She could not, however, restrain her attention which was speedily engaged
by the young lady, whom she now saw for the first time. Annie Millar was
not regularly pretty, but there was an expression of liveliness and spirit
in her face, which would have won the palm from twenty professed beauties.
Her manners suited her face exactly; lively, arch, and yet perfectly
unaffected, she did not seem to know what constraint and fear were. She
said whatever came into her head; but that head was so overflowing with
good-humour and kindness that there was no room for malice or ill-will to
abide there.
"Well, Mrs. Watson," cried she, "as I found you had invited my brother for
this evening, I have invited myself; I cannot imagine why you left
me out; but feeling certain you would be delighted to see me, I
slipped on my second best gown, and came. Now I expect you to make me a
civil speech in reply."
She was very certain of having a civil speech made. Mr. George Millar was a
man of too much consequence amongst his own set, for his sister to be
slighted in any degree. His fortune was large, and his disposition liberal;
he was a widower, and he was very fond of his sister; Annie, therefore, was
certain of compliments and welcomes, and was precisely the person to be
received by Mrs. Watson with extreme rapture.
"I did so want to be acquainted with your other sisters," added Miss
Millar, "that I think I should have ventured here had I been even certain
you would scold instead of caressing me; I always envy every one who is
blessed with a sister, and think it must be the most delightful
relationship in the world."
"And I dare say your brother agrees with you," said Mrs. Watson, smiling
graciously.
"Do you, George?" cried the young lady; "no, no, he considers me, without
exception, the most troublesome of all his encumbrances; a charge which he
is always trying to get rid of, by inducing some one else to undertake it.
There is no telling you the pains he is at to throw the burden on some
other unhappy man."
Her brother shook his head at his young sister, who only smiled in reply,
and continued—
"Hitherto I have defeated his arts, and preserved myself from the snare;
how long such good luck may continue to attend me I cannot tell."
"Well, Miss Millar, there's a good opportunity to-night," said Mrs. Watson,
"for we have, amongst our visitors, a young and single man, who, I believe,
is quite ready for any one who takes the trouble of catching him; so if you
think him worth the trouble—"
"He must be very different from any man I ever saw yet," interrupted Annie.
"Do you mean your charming young clerk, Mr. Alfred Frivolous, as I call
him."
"Oh, dear, no," cried Mrs. Watson; "a very different person—he is very well
off—has large property in Suffolk—quite a grand estate there—with no near
connections—no sisters to be in your way—a most beautiful house—respectable
family—I believe quite one of the first families in the county—and bears a
high character."
"And may I ask the name of this desirable individual?" enquired Miss
Millar, assuming an appearance of intense interest.
"Grant, Mr. Henry Grant—I am sure you will be charmed with him."
"Describe him—I am rather particular as to appearance."
"Why, I cannot say that he is absolutely handsome, but very dark—dark and
genteel—quite genteel, I assure you."
"Lively?" enquired Annie.
"Perhaps he may be—but I do not know that I have heard him speak."
"Charming!" cried Annie; "dine with you, and yet not address you—his must
be the very refinement of good manners—the very cream of gentility
indeed—tell me some more about this delightful personage. Does he like
ladies?"
"I cannot say—but though he seems rather shy of them now, depend upon it,
he is all the easier caught."
"Ay, by those who try; I can fancy that certainly—I really must exert
myself—your fascinating description quite rouses my energies."
"And I am sure if you do set about it, your success is certain," continued
Mrs. Watson.
"Thank you, my dear Madam, for your encouraging opinion. I fear you rate my
powers too highly," laughed Annie, bowing with mock ceremony—"a young and
inexperienced girl like me, cannot pretend to anything so wonderful as the
captivation of a dark Mr. Grant, with a large estate, and a contempt for
women—you must not expect such a triumph for me."
"Indeed, I am certain you will succeed to admiration," cried Mrs. Watson,
eagerly.
"Show me how to begin then," pursued Annie. "Teach me the first step."
"I should recommend your catching his eye in some striking attitude—as I
dare say he is fond of paintings—something very elegant to attract him at
once," replied the married lady quite sincerely.
"Indeed—let me practice," cried Miss Millar, placing herself in an affected
attitude in an arm-chair. "Will this do—or this—do I look sufficiently
captivating now? which becomes me most, languor or liveliness."
"You, I see, are determined to make game of the whole thing," said Mrs.
Watson. "Will nothing induce you to think well of a single man? are you so
devoted a follower of celibacy yourself? ah, you are quite right—liberty,
charming liberty! no one knows its value till, like me, they have
sacrificed it. Ah, I say you are quite right—only, as you are so uncommonly
fascinating, I cannot wonder if others should seek to win you."
"You are far too complimentary, Mrs. Watson," said the young lady, with
affected gravity, and rising from her chair, she walked up to Emma, and
commenced an acquaintance with her by admiring her work.
Emma was almost afraid to speak to her, lest the doing so should excite her
sister-in-law's wrath again; but Annie Millar had taken a fancy to her
face, and was not to be repulsed. Her lively chat soon drew off her
companion's thoughts from the disagreeable circumstances which had
previously occurred, and half an hour passed pleasantly. Meantime Mrs.
Watson, with judicious precaution, had set Elizabeth down to back-gammon
with George Millar, and guessing from the lively conversation carried on
amidst the quick rattle of the dice, that all was going right there, she
left them to improve their acquaintance in peace.
Very soon after this, the gentlemen strolled into the room—Mr. Grant first,
as if anxious to make the more impression by his appearance. He looked
round the room—and, as if satisfied by this survey that there was no one
sufficiently attractive to induce him to engage in the labour of
conversation, he walked away and took refuge in a small inner apartment,
which opened from the drawing-room, and which was lighted by a single lamp.
Miss Millar shrugged her shoulders slightly and gave Emma an expressive
look, but had no time for words, as they were at that moment joined by
Margaret and Mr. Freemantle.
The latter made Annie a flourishing bow whilst exclaiming:
"Miss Millar, by all that is fair and felicitous, this is an unexpected
pleasure."
She did not seem to find it so; but looked cold and careless, whilst
she made him as slight a return for his salutation as possible.
"Would that I possessed an artist's pencil to pourtray the group before
me," continued the young man, with affected rapture. "The graces exactly—it
does, indeed, deserve to be commemorated on canvas or in marble. At all
events, it is for ever impressed on the tablet of my heart."
Margaret giggled—Emma looked immoveably grave, whilst Annie smiled
scornfully and said:
"What is that, Mr. Freemantle? Pray repeat that last sentence again, that I
may commit it to memory."
It certainly is a thing very repulsive to human nature to repeat a sentence
twice over—especially if it is a flourishing speech which only answers when
thrown off hand at once.
Annie was perfectly aware that she could not have found a more effectual
way of tormenting Mr. Freemantle; he looked very silly, and replied in a
qualifying tone,
"I only said—I only meant, that I should never forget it!"
"Oh!" replied the young lady, "was that all? I am sorry I gave you
the trouble of repeating it."
"Miss Millar is too much accustomed to homage," continued he, "for my
feeble attempts to create any sensation in her mind. She despises such a
humble worshipper as her poor devoted servant."
"I beg your pardon," returned she, "but I never despise any thing
humble—quite the contrary; and your overwhelming complimentary
speeches really raise such a variety of sensations, by which, I suppose,
you mean sentiments in my mind that I positively know not which way to
look."
He really thought she meant to flatter him, and smiled in a way that showed
all his white teeth: yet, in conversing with Annie Millar, he always had a
lurking suspicion that she was laughing at him, and therefore, never felt
quite at his ease with her.
"Do sing to us," said he presently, in an insinuating tone; "it is such
ecstasy to hear you sing! Pray indulge us with the 'Flowers of the Forest,'
or one of your other charming Scotch melodies."
Annie compressed her lips and only bowed her head slightly in reply; then
turning to Emma, addressed her on the subject of music. Several other
people joined the party, and the tray with tea, pound cake and muffin, made
its progress round the room. Mr. Freemantle insisted on helping each lady
"to the refreshing beverage," as he called it himself, and passed many
small and rather pointless jokes on the subject of the quantity of sugar
they each required. "Sweets to the sweet," was a favorite quotation of his,
and one which he usually found well received.
"Look at that man," whispered Annie, pointing to Mr. Grant, apparently fast
asleep on the sofa; "should you not like to throw a cloak over his head,
that his slumbers may be undisturbed. Oh! I'll tell you what I will do—look
now!"
And stealing quietly into the inner room, she softly, but effectually,
extinguished the lamp; and then returning closed the door, and placing a
chair against it, seated herself there, leaving Mr. Grant in complete
darkness "to finish his nap," as she said, "without risk of being roused by
intrusive visitors." Mrs. Watson did not see this manœuvre, but Margaret
and Emma laughed quietly—whilst Alfred, overcome by excessive amusement,
dropped on a sofa, and rolled about in ecstasy.
George Millar, whose table was near, looked round.
"What naughty trick are you about now, Annie?" said he suspiciously.
"I!" cried the young lady, with well affected surprise; "who so quiet and
well-behaved in this room as myself! Your suspicions are derogatory to me,
and disgraceful to yourself, George."
And she drew herself up in an attitude of offended dignity, crossing her
hands in her lap, and looking straight before her.
George went on with his game; and Mr. Alfred Freemantle, having recovered
his composure, resumed his station by Miss Millar's side. He enquired how
long she intended to keep the poor man in the dark? Miss Millar said he was
in the black hole, and should continue there till he asked to get out; for,
indeed, his voice had never yet been heard, and she was anxious to settle
the question whether he was or was not, dumb.
Presently afterwards another of the party came up, and begged in the name
of Mrs. Watson that Miss Millar would favor them with a song.
Annie possessed the rare talent of singing without accompaniment; and
without affectation, when requested by the mistress of the house, she
immediately complied, and warbled some beautiful old ballads to the great
delight of the company.
She did not change her position, but sat with her back to the door, when,
in the midst of her second song, a loud crash was heard in the little room
where Mr. Grant was confined; this was followed by vociferous and angry
exclamations—at which every one started forward with various intonations of
surprise, wondering what was the matter. Miss Millar did not cease singing
or move her seat, but merely waved her hand to keep back those who pressed
on her, and finished her song with perfect self-possession.
When, however, a second part was suddenly taken to her performance by a
strange voice in the next room, every one was still more astonished, and
insisted on opening the door to discover the minstrel. When this was done,
they saw Mr. Grant leaning quietly against one chair, whilst another
overthrown beside him revealed the origin of the noise which had at first
arrested them; he was in the dark, of course, and seemed as he stood there
so sleepy and dull, that they could hardly imagine he was likewise the
author of the melodious sounds they had overheard. How he came there, why
he was in the dark, and why he remained so, were questions rapidly asked by
such as knew him well enough to speak to him—but he could give no
explanation—he only knew that he had woke up and found himself on the sofa
in the dark, and thought he was in bed, until rolling off convinced him
that he was not; that he had fallen on the floor and made a noise he
supposed, and that he should be particularly glad to know whether Mrs.
Watson was in the constant habit of locking up her guests in the dark.
Mrs. Watson came forward full of apologies and regrets; she really could
not imagine how it had happened, or who had shut the door—it must have been
so purely accidental; she was excessively shocked, and particularly
grieved, and she hoped it would never occur again.
Nothing could be more admirable than the air of perfect innocence and
ignorance which Annie Millar assumed through the whole scene; to have seen
her face no one would have imagined that she was in the smallest degree
inculpated in the false imprisonment which so afflicted poor Mr. Grant, and
his slumber had been far too real and unfeigned for him to have any idea of
the offender. Alfred Freemantle indeed drew all the suspicions on himself
by his immoderate laughter and the facetious observations which he made at
the discovery. Soon after this card-tables were formed, and the whole party
sat down to different games, which occupied the rest of the evening.
Emma felt on parting that she should like to know more of Annie Millar, and
she found the next morning that her wish was likely to be gratified, for
the young lady called in the course of the forenoon, and expressed the
strongest desire to carry on an acquaintance with both the sisters.
Margaret, whom she had known previously, and for whom she certainly
entertained no very strong predilection, did not seem inclined to join the
party which Annie tried to arrange for a walk.
The feelings of jealousy and dislike which any pretty girl awakened in
Margaret's mind were peculiarly vivid towards Annie Millar, and she
naturally shrank from bringing herself much in contact with her.
Mrs. Watson came into the room just as Miss Millar was pressing the two
other sisters to join her. As soon as she understood how the case stood,
being at that time peculiarly cross with Emma on account of the admiration
she had excited on the previous night, she interposed in this way:
"Indeed, my dear Miss Millar, it is most kind of you to propose such a
thing, and I have no doubt but that the girls feel excessively obliged to
you, but it is impossible for Emma to accept it. Loth as I am to refuse any
request of yours, I cannot really accede to this one. Her duty must confine
her within doors this morning, she has calls upon her time which must not
be set aside; she must therefore forego the gratification you propose."
Emma could not help feeling rather astonished at hearing such a
declaration, as she was quite unaware of any particular duties which would
compel her to remain in the house that morning, and she was quite puzzled
what to answer, when Annie Millar said coaxingly,
"Why can you not put off your business till the afternoon, and go with us
now? What have you so very particular to do?"
"I suppose my sister-in-law wants me," said she colouring and hesitating;
"and of course, if so, it is necessary I should stay."
"Oh, I thought it might be some penance you were to perform—something quite
wonderful and romantic—but really I think you might contrive to delay it,
and accompany us to-day."
"You are uncommonly kind," again interrupted Mrs. Watson, "but there is so
much of regularity and system absolutely necessary where very young people
are concerned, that whilst Emma continues under my care I cannot
allow her to be running out at all hours—though if any one could tempt me
to relax in my rules it would be you I assure you."
The idea of a young woman of Emma's age not being at liberty to walk or sit
still according to her own fancy, appeared to Annie Millar very
extraordinary, and her wonder and annoyance were equally shared by Emma
herself, now hearing for the first time of rules that had never to her
knowledge existed at all; and feeling unable to contend against the
assumption of authority which her sister-in-law exercised over her
proceedings, without the risk of causing an actual quarrel with her on the
subject, she began to look forward with considerable dread, and to wonder
what would come next.
"Well," said Miss Millar, "if it is not convenient for Miss Emma to walk
now, will you tell me when and at what hour I may look forward to that
pleasure? Exceedingly as I regret that your rules have disappointed me
to-day, there is this comfort, that they ensure my gratification at some
other time, when I understand your arrangements. At what time does
your sister take exercise?"
Mrs. Watson was completely caught, and excessively puzzled what to say. She
hesitated for a moment, and then observed,
"Well, as I do not like to thwart any plan of yours, I will try another day
and make arrangements to gratify you, my dear Miss Millar; in the meantime
I recommend you to take your walk to-day without any reference to Emma."
Miss Millar assented with a sigh, and she and Elizabeth set off together.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch09
CHAPTER IX.
.sp 2
"A very pretty thing indeed," exclaimed Mrs. Watson the moment the door
closed on them, "a very pretty and reasonable thing for a girl like you,
Miss Emma, coming into this house as a dependent, without a farthing in
your pocket, or an expectation of any kind, a very pretty thing I say for
you to go flaunting and jaunting about with all the best company in the
town; I can tell you if this is the way you go on, I shall take care and
keep you up stairs when I have visitors. I suppose you hope for an
opportunity for carrying on your acquaintance with Alfred Freemantle, or
perhaps you are looking out for George Millar himself. I see I must keep a
firm hand over you, or I shall have some disgraceful proceedings no doubt—a
girl of your age to be so given up to flirtation; it is quite shocking."
"I do not know what I have done," replied Emma, struggling with her
feelings, "to deserve your reproaches; Miss Millar asked me to walk with
her, but how am I to blame for that?"
"Don't answer me, Miss, it is exceedingly impertinent and disrespectful,
and I will not put up with it from you. If you imagine because you have
been acquainted with the Osbornes and those grand folks, that you are to be
mistress here, and do as you like, you will find yourself excessively
mistaken. I shall allow nothing of the kind I assure you. Go to the nursery
and take care of the little girl, and tell the nurse-maid I want her to go
on an errand for me. Try and make yourself useful if you can, and show some
gratitude for the extraordinary liberality of your brother, in receiving a
beggar like you into his house."
Emma's spirit rose and tempted her strongly to rebel; her first impulse was
to go to her own room, and shut herself in there; but she remembered that
she was powerless, and totally without effectual support in the house.
Elizabeth, it was true, would take her part, but she could only talk, not
act, and as any contention must be fruitless, ending inevitably in her own
defeat, she wisely determined to submit as quietly as possible,
endeavouring to suppress her unavoidable feelings of repugnance and
mortification, and trying to remember that since she was actually indebted
to her brother for food and shelter, it became her to try by every means in
her power to lessen the unwelcome burden. She went accordingly as she was
desired to the nursery, and remained the rest of the morning in charge of
Janetta, whose encreasing attachment towards her kind, new aunt, really
gave her satisfaction, and made the time pass as pleasantly as was possible
under such circumstances.
It distressed Elizabeth a good deal that Emma was not allowed to walk with
her, and as she could never disguise her feelings, she immediately
expressed this to her companion, adding that she was afraid Emma could
never be happy at Robert's house, as Jane seemed to have taken a decided
dislike to her.
Annie exclaimed at the idea; she could not conceive it possible that any
one could dislike Emma; those delightful dark eyes, those elegant ringlets,
and the general grace of her appearance were in her opinion, so strongly
indicative of an amiable, lively and ingenuous mind, that nobody could take
offence at her. She was most enthusiastic in her praises, and Elizabeth
felt gratified. This conversation passed on their way to Miss Millar's
home, where she wished to call before starting for a country walk. She led
her companion up at once to her own apartments, and whilst she left her for
a moment in her dressing-room, to make some arrangements in private,
Elizabeth, who to pass the time was looking at some books on the table, was
suddenly interrupted by the entrance of George Millar. Her back being
turned towards the door, the disguise of her bonnet and cloak prevented his
recognising her, and concluding it to be his sister, he advanced hastily,
and laying his hand on her shoulder he said:
"My dear Annie," when on her turning her face towards him, he of course
discovered his mistake.
He looked excessively confused for a moment, but Elizabeth laughed and took
it so easily, that he soon recovered himself; she explained to him why she
was waiting there, and on hearing that they were preparing to take a
country walk, he declared that it was a holiday with him to-day, and if
they would not object he would accompany them.
"Indeed," he added, "I think it my duty to go with you, or that wicked
sister of mine would infallibly walk too far, and make herself ill. She is
not to be trusted in the country I assure you."
Elizabeth did not feel inclined to raise any objection to this arrangement,
as she was quite as well satisfied with what she saw, as with what she had
heard of Mr. Millar, and did not feel disposed to retract her previous
declaration in his favor. Their walk proved as agreeable as she could
desire, and only left her the wish that she could have such another, and
Emma with her.
They were out a considerable time, as George Millar proposed visiting a
small farm in which he took much pride, and which particularly delighted
Elizabeth. The arrangement of his dairy, the welfare of his lambs, the
progress of his poultry, were all subjects exactly to her taste, and she
entered heart and soul into the matter: her interest was far too sincere
for him to be otherwise than flattered by it, and he
came to the conclusion that she was a very delightful young woman, with
more intelligence and a clearer head than any town-bred young lady of his
acquaintance. He determined to take her opinion and advice on the subject
of making cream cheeses, and resolved to rear a calf which she had admired,
instead of sending it to the butcher's the following week. They were left a
good deal to entertain each other, as Annie had chosen to unchain a large
Newfoundland dog kept at the farm, and gone off in company with it for a
gambol in the meadows.
When every part of the establishment had been carefully visited, and some
of the hops in the nearest fields inspected, Elizabeth began to think it
was time for her to go home; but Annie had not yet rejoined them, and
having quite lost sight of her during the last hour, they had nothing to do
but to sit down, and wait patiently, if they could, for her appearance. The
house, which was only inhabited by a bailiff and his wife, was small but
pretty, and Elizabeth was eloquent in her praise of everything she saw,
declaring with perfect unreserve how very much she should prefer living in
that charming little house, to inhabiting the best mansion in the town.
However, as time passed on, and she remembered the distance she had to walk
before reaching home, she began to be rather uneasy, well knowing how
extremely displeased Robert would be, if they were late for dinner, as
seemed probable. She confided her fears to George Millar, confessing, with
perfect candour, that she was very much afraid of her brother's
displeasure. He immediately suggested, as a remedy, that if their return to
Croydon was deferred later than she liked, she should give them the
pleasure of her company at their own family meal; assuring her that there
was not the smallest risk of Mrs. Turner's being angry, even if they kept
her waiting an hour. At the same time, he said that, for that very reason,
he should be sorry to do so, and he, therefore, hoped his sister would soon
join them.
At length, after trying their patience till Elizabeth was surprised it did
not fail, the truant girl returned; and when her brother attempted to scold
her, she laughingly placed her hand over his mouth, and desired him to
behave well before her friends, at least; there would be time enough for
him to find fault in the course of the evening—he could keep awake on
purpose.
He called her, in reply, a saucy girl, and threatened that another time he
would not take her out walking with him; whilst she persisted in asserting
that it was she to whom he was obliged for his excursion, and that she and
Miss Watson could have done perfectly well without him.
They then commenced their return homewards, and George told his sister to
invite Miss Watson to dine with them on the plea of being too late for her
own dinner. Elizabeth expressed herself exceedingly ready to comply, and it
was so settled.
When within half a mile of the town, they met Alfred Freemantle, who was
enjoying a stroll on his escape from the office. Uninvited, he joined them,
and placed himself by the side of Miss Millar, who was leaning on her
brother's arm. She put up her lip in a very contemptuous way, and a moment
after, changed to the other side, and found a refuge for herself between
Elizabeth and George, where she was safe from him. He saw the manœuvre,
and mortified at it, tried in his turn to mortify her, by enthusiastic
praises of the absent Emma.
"What a sweet, charming girl she is—I don't know when I have seen anything
which pleased me better—those sparkling black eyes, and the clear olive
complexion, are perfection in my eyes; and her manners—so sweet—so
ladylike, she is quite bewitching."
"You cannot praise her too much for me," replied Annie, quite sincerely; "I
have been raving about her ever since last night, and so long as you make
use of suitable and judicious terms, you may extol her beauty till you are
worn out with fatigue."
"I intend to write an acrostic on her name," said he, in a most
self-satisfied tone, "perhaps you did not know it; but I am considered
rather to shine in that way; I have made capital verses."
"So you have told me, Mr. Freemantle, before; indeed, I remember, on one
occasion, your presenting me with some lines which, from the style and
manner, I should have judged impossible to be your own composition, but for
your affirmation of that fact; of course, therefore, I am aware of your
talents."
"I am only too much flattered by your remembering the circumstance at all,
Miss Millar—you don't happen to recollect the lines, do you?"
"No, indeed: I remember the fact, because I know a cousin of mine who was
staying with us at the time, amused himself with cutting the paper into the
smallest possible morsels, and I only read the lines once in consequence."
The utter carelessness with which this assertion was made, would have been
sufficient to overwhelm an ordinarily modest man, but he did not appear
distressed, only interposing with a declaration that he thought he could
remember the little poem—accordingly he commenced reciting—
.in 4
.nf
"A nimated airy angel
N otice now my humble line;
N ever was there such a feeling
I n my breast, as now is stealing,
E re I saw that form divine."
.nf-
.in 0
"Pray spare me the rest," exclaimed Annie, almost suffocated with laughter,
which she vainly tried to repress, "my modesty is too sensitive to stand
such praises, so I entreat you to allow us to exercise our imaginations as
to the remainder."
"Do you know when I began that I wanted to make every word in the line
commence with the same letter, but I could not manage it; it was too much
for me."
"I can easily believe that," replied Mr. Millar, gravely. "I think it was
too much for my sister too; you should not indulge young girls with such
flattery: depend upon it, it's very bad for them."
"Oh, dear no," replied he, "a little flattery delicately administered makes
way amazingly amongst those whose hearts are soft and easily touched."
"Amongst which number I conclude you reckon me?" enquired Annie.
"No, indeed, you are hard-hearted and cruel to a degree to drive twenty
such men as me to despair."
"I hope I shall never be reduced to do so desperate a deed; twenty such men
would be a formidable phalanx—more than I could stand at all," said Miss
Millar, arching her eye-brows and apparently looking on the point of
laughing again.
He looked suspiciously at her, and said, after considering her countenance
a moment,
"I have not made more than the first couplet of my address to Miss Emma
Watson, do you think you can help me?"
"Let us hear your effusion—we will see what we can do," replied Annie.
.in 4
.nf
"Emma, elegant, enchanting,
Merry maiden, much is wanting—"
.nf-
.in 0
"But, then, I don't know what to say next—what do you think is
wanting?" said Mr. Alfred in the most earnest tone possible.
"I should finish it this way," suggested Annie.
.in 4
.nf
"My melodious muse to make
All I wish it for thy sake."
.nf-
.in 0
"Thank you, indeed," cried he, "what condescending goodness on your part to
stoop to such kindness as to assist me with such poetical rhymes. Do you
ever compose yourself?"
"How can you ask—have you not read a small volume of poems entitled,
'Way-side Flowers?'—and did you not know they were mine?"
"No, indeed! How delighted I am to be acquainted with a real author! I
shall never rest till I have procured and read your poems."
"I wish you success in the search then," replied Annie, "and repose and
quiet when you have succeeded."
In those days, Authors and Authoresses were far less plentiful than now;
when not to know, or be nearly related to one, is a more remarkable
circumstance by far, than the contrary; and Alfred Freemantle really
believing Annie's assertion, looked and felt most highly exalted at the
supposed discovery.
He continued, during the rest of the walk, to plague her with questions as
to what species of stanzas—what measure—what style of writing she
preferred, until Annie on getting free from him at length, burst into a
strong invective against his stupidity and want of common sense.
Her brother quietly told her she deserved it—she liked to play on his
dullness of perception, and it served her right when it recoiled on her own
head. Annie denied that there was any malice in what she said, it was only
a little fun, and was not really, at all naughty.
They reached their house at last, and the two ladies, being both tired and
hungry, were extremely glad of rest and dinner. Elizabeth could not help
wondering at herself for what she was doing, and where she was; but the
human mind soon gets accustomed to any circumstances, and she enjoyed
herself too much to feel any regret at the change of scene. Their little
quartette was extremely pleasant and good-humoured; she was introduced to
Mr. Millar's children, and was much pleased with them; and the little
things, with the intuitive perception peculiar to children, clung to her
with great delight and affection.
After spending, by far the most cheerful evening which she could remember,
since they were snowed up at Mr. Howard's she was escorted home by George
Millar, and parted from him with so friendly a feeling, that she could
hardly believe he was only a two days' acquaintance.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch10
CHAPTER X.
.sp 2
Very different was the evening her sisters had been passing. Robert was
engaged in his office—Margaret engrossed with a new romance that morning
procured—and Jane, being tired, and having nothing to amuse her, was more
than usually cross to Emma; finding fault with the manner in which she had
performed some needle-work, and going on from that to a general charge of
indifference, indolence, and constant inattention.
Emma sighed, and could not help throwing back a mournful thought to passed
times, when she had felt herself the pet of her dear uncle, and the idol of
a whole household; or later, when she had flattered herself with the notion
that she was the first object with Mr. Howard. It seemed now, quite like
recalling a dream, when she looked back to those happy days; so suddenly,
and entirely, had the scene been changed. Then she began to wonder when she
should hear from Miss Osborne—and what she would say—how she would bear the
idea of being called into a court of justice; whether her family would not
be angry at it—and what the result would be. Would Tom Musgrove yield or
not?—or would Robert persist in his determination; and in these silent
meditations the evening passed heavily away. She was glad when Elizabeth
came home; her entrance brought some little diversion to their scene, as
she had something new to tell; and Jane, though rather inclined to resent
any one having so much enjoyment without her, was too well satisfied with
the union which she anticipated between Elizabeth and Mr. Millar, to feel
any very strong indignation on this occasion.
Bed time came, and Emma, feeling wretchedly depressed and miserable, could
not refrain from the luxury of finishing the evening with a good fit of
crying, which relieved her heart, and soothed her to sleep.
Early the next morning Elizabeth went to Emma's room, and began to express
to her how very much she was pleased with George Millar, his sister, his
children, his house, his farm, and all that belonged to him. Then she
declared that, of all situations she had ever seen, she thought she should
like the neighbourhood of Croydon for a home,—and, indeed, she should not
object to live in the town altogether.
Emma listened and acquiesced in it all; she had not recovered her
spirits—and though trying to enter into her sister's hopes and wishes, she
could hardly summon energy sufficient to do so.
The morning passed much as usual until post time, when Emma received an
answer to her note to Miss Osborne, and Robert at the same time was favored
with a letter from Tom Musgrove. The four ladies were in the drawing-room,
and Emma was looking over the dispatch from Miss Osborne, when her brother
entered and communicated to them all the contents of Tom's letter. It was
short and decisive.
.sp 2
// letter in images - 255.png
.ll 60
.in 6
"Dear Sir,
.sp 1
.ti +6
"The receipt of your letter of
yesterday surprised me a good deal. I am
extremely sorry that there should have been
any misunderstanding of the sort; but I
am sure your amiable sister will at once
admit that my attentions to her have always
been limited within the bounds of
friendship, such as our long acquaintance
justifies, and such as I have paid to twenty
other young ladies before her eyes. With
kind compliments to the ladies of your
family, I have the honor to remain,
.sp 1
.in +2
"Dear Sir,
.sp 1
.in +2
"Yours faithfully, &c. &c."
.ll
.in 0
.sp 2
Margaret thought it incumbent on her immediately to go off in a fit of
hysterics on hearing this read, sobbing out between whiles, that he was a
cruel, cruel man, and she never meant to care more about him.
"Do have done with that confounded noise," said Robert impatiently, "for
there's no getting a word of sense from a woman when she's in that state,
and heaven knows it's little enough one can reasonably expect at any time."
Margaret's sobs did not cease at this gentle request, and Robert grew more
angry.
"By Jove, Margaret, if you don't stop, I'll leave you to make the best of
your own matters, and neither meddle nor make any more in it."
Afraid that he might really keep his word, she ceased at last, and he then
enquired what Emma had heard from Miss Osborne. Emma read the passage in
which Miss Osborne replied to her assurance that Margaret still considered
Mr. Musgrove engaged to her; it merely thanked her for the information,
stated that she would warn her friend, and wished Miss Margaret a happy
termination to her engagement. The rest of the letter was about subjects
quite unconnected with Tom Musgrove, and uninteresting to any one but Emma.
Miss Osborne mentioned one thing which gave her peculiar pleasure; her
marriage with Sir William was to take place after Easter, and they were
going down to spend the spring and summer months at Osborne Castle, which
her brother had lent to them, whilst Sir William Gordon was determining on
the plan and elevation of a new mansion, which he intended to build on his
property. Miss Osborne earnestly hoped that Emma would once more visit
there, and declared she quite looked forward with impatience to a future
meeting.
She did not wish to read this aloud, as she shrunk from the appearance of
boasting about her grand acquaintance, but neither Jane nor Margaret would
allow her to rest in peace until she had made known the principal contents
of her letter; and a sentence containing the information that they had seen
Mr. Howard, who had spent a few days in town lately, was the only
information she eventually kept to herself.
Margaret's curiosity having materially aided in restoring her composure,
she was soon able to enquire of her brother what he intended to do. He
repeated all he had formerly asserted, and Emma heard it with horror; she
escaped from in the room to consider what she had better do, and after much
thought, decided on writing at once to Miss Osborne, informing her of what
was threatened. She sat down and wrote accordingly:
// letter in images - 258.png & 259.png
.sp 2
.in 6
"Dear Miss Osborne,
.sp 1
.ll 60
.ti +6
"I hope you will not consider
me in any way to blame, if the information
I have to communicate is disagreeable to you.
I am sorry to say that Mr. Musgrove has
been so unprincipled as entirely to deny
the engagement, which we know subsisted
between him and my sister; and what
grieves me still more is, that my brother,
convinced that there actually was an engagement,
declares he will bring an action
against Mr. Musgrove, unless he immediately
fulfils it. The idea that we shall have
to appear in a court of justice, frightens
me very much, and I thought it right to
give you early notice of his intention that
you might not be taken by surprise. My
brother is so fixed in his resolution, that
I cannot see the smallest probability of an
escape for us, unless Mr. Musgrove can be
persuaded to act up to his promise. I
know Lord Osborne has great influence with
him, and for the sake of your family, and
his own character and respectability, he
might perhaps be persuaded by him to do
so; but with a man of such a character,
my sister's chance of happiness would be
small, and I cannot wish for their marriage,
even to save myself from what I so greatly
dread. I feel I am wrong and selfish in
shrinking from an exertion which I suppose
is my duty, and perhaps after all, when
there are so many troubles in life, one difficulty
more or less ought not to disturb me
so much. I am truly rejoiced at your bright
prospects, and shall indeed have great
pleasure at any time you name, in witnessing
your domestic happiness; I assure you
that your kind invitation has given me
more pleasure than anything I have lately
experienced.
.sp 1
.in +6
"Believe me, dear Miss Osborne,
.sp 1
.in +4
"Very truly yours, &c. &c."
.ll
.in 0
.sp 2
We must follow this letter to London, and describe the effect which it
produced on the parties concerned, and the results which arose from it.
Miss Osborne was sitting in the breakfast-room in Portman Square when it
was brought to her. Sir William Gordon was beside her on the sofa,
assisting at her late breakfast, in the English sense of the word, and
playfully telling her that he never meant to wait so long for his, when he
was settled at home. As she looked at the address.
"Here is a letter," she observed, "from that charming Emma Watson with whom
you were pleased to carry on such a flirtation just before you proposed to
me."
"I flirt with Emma Watson," exclaimed he, "I deny it entirely—I never
flirted with any girl in my life."
"What have you forgotten it all—did you not take a walk with her in the
park—a sketch in a cottage—and a drive in a cart? do you mean to deny all
that?"
"By no means, I only deny entirely all flirtation whatever—what time—what
spirits—what inclination could I have to flirt with her, when I was doing
hard service to win your most intractable and hard-hearted self."
"Not so very hard-hearted, I think, Sir William," said she, blushing.
"Stern enough to drive an ordinary man to despair, Rosa," replied he,
looking admiringly at her; "and had I not been as obstinate as yourself, we
never should have been sitting as we now are."
"Well, you may as well let my hand alone, I think, for I want the use of it
to open my letter," and accordingly the young lady broke the seal, as soon
as she could get possession of her hand.
"Let me look over you," said he, leaning forward with his cheek close to
hers.
She repulsed him, and placed herself in the corner of the sofa, where he
was forced to be satisfied with watching her face. He saw her cheek glow,
and her eye flash, whilst her brow contracted with repressed indignation,
and she seemed on the point of tearing the letter in two. She did not,
however, but dropped her hands in her lap, and sat for a minute looking
upwards earnestly, as if trying to recall some past event, then frowned
again. Her lover extended his hand towards her, and exclaimed—
"My dear Rosa, what is the matter, your looks quite frighten me—do
let me see this letter."
"Take it," said she, "and see what intolerable impertinence is threatened
me."
He read it attentively, then said—
"I am quite bewildered—completely mystified—what have you got to do with
all this—and what does it mean?"
"Ah, you may well be astonished," she replied; "don't you see what is
threatened? imagine me, a peer's daughter, dragged into the Assize
Court as a witness in an action between Margaret Watson and Thomas
Musgrove, for a breach of promise of marriage. Can you realise the scene?
It would be novel and interesting, I think."
"Extremely so, and I do not see why you should mind it: you will, of
course, be treated with all proper respect and consideration, and justice
must be done. Don't make yourself unhappy about that."
"You are joking, Sir William; and I shall be angry presently."
"No, don't pray; I should not like that—but tell me how you happened to
become the confidante of this charming Margaret; I did not know your
friendship extended to the whole family."
"Neither does it—it is only Emma I care for," replied she; and she then
proceeded to explain to Sir William all the circumstances attending their
involuntary audience of Musgrove's courtship, and her reason for keeping it
quiet.
"Caught listening, eh!" ejaculated Sir William; "I do not wonder that you
shrink from being called on to avow it in public. What a pity that you did
not start out and cry 'bo!' to them both; from all accounts they deserved
it."
"That's all very well, and you may amuse yourself with laughing at me, if
you like; but tell me how can I avoid this difficulty—must I appear in
court?"
"Certainly, if you are subpœned to appear—there is no help for that."
"How coolly you treat it—why is it not you instead of me it has happened
to?"
"Only because I was not one of the eavesdroppers."
"I assure you, Sir William, if you go on laughing at my distress, I will
punish you for it."
"I am excessively sorry for your distress, my dear Rosa, but I must think
it quite unfounded."
"Well, there's one thing certain, I warn you: if I have to appear in this
business, we must defer our marriage; I could not appear as a bride and a
witness during the same month."
Sir William started up from the cushion where he was lounging, and looking
fixedly at her, exclaimed—
"You are not serious."
"Perfectly so, Sir William; and I see you are so now," replied Miss
Osborne.
"Then you shall have no occasion to put your threat in execution," said he,
with an air of determination; "let us talk the matter over seriously,
Rosa."
"Ah, I am glad I have brought you to your senses, at last; now consider, if
we could do as Emma advises, and persuade this Mr. Musgrove to marry, as he
ought, there would be an end of all trouble in the affair."
"To you, perhaps, but not to Miss Margaret; I dare say her amiable husband
would beat her every day."
"Now don't relax into your indifference again, and be provoking! Oh, here
comes Osborne; let's explain the case to him, and see what he says on the
subject."
Lord Osborne, at the moment, entered the room, and his sister tried to make
him comprehend the facts that had occurred.
"I think," said he, after hearing her story, "that Musgrove has behaved
very ill—very ill, indeed."
"No doubt of that, my dear brother," replied she; "but what do you think of
this Mr. Watson's proposal?"
"Just what we might expect from a lawyer, that he would go to law; it's his
business, Rosa," replied her brother.
"But it's not my business to be obliged to appear in public is a witness in
this ridiculous matter. If he likes to make his sister's affaires de
cœur the subject for conversation and coarse jokes through the
county, it is all very well, but I cannot see
why I am to be implicated in a transaction which reflects nothing but
discredit on all the parties," said Miss Osborne, with encreasing
dissatisfaction.
"Especially to those who are detected in listening, Rosa," suggested Sir
William Gordon.
"And poor Emma too," continued she, pretending not to hear him, "she
evidently dreads the threatened exposure; I am quite concerned about it for
her."
"Naturally enough," said the lover, in the same tormenting tone; "it makes
every one sorry to be found out."
"Really, Sir William Gordon," said Miss Osborne, drawing up her slight
figure with an air of great indignation, "if you can suggest nothing that
is more agreeable than such reflections, we shall be better without you;
and I recommend you to leave us to take care of ourselves."
It was haughtily said—for her quick temper was roused; he knew her well,
and did not mean that she should obtain a sovereign rule over him. He loved
her for her spirit—but he was determined not to crouch to it—and rising, he
made her a grave bow, and left the room. She looked after him anxiously,
expecting he would return, or at least, give her one more glance, but he
did not, and the door closed before she could make up her mind to speak
again.
"What do you want me to do, Rosa?" said her brother, "I think it will be
easy to prevent all this, if it plagues you and your friend so much; I will
speak to Tom myself, and see if I cannot persuade him to keep his promise."
"Ah! do, if you can, Osborne; of course the girl wants to marry him; and if
he will do that, we shall be left in peace. Poor Emma seems very
unhappy—look at her letter."
Lord Osborne received it eagerly and read it through.
"Poor thing," said he, quite compassionately, "how soon, Rosa, may girls
marry after their father's death?"
"Oh! that's a matter of taste! and I don't think it signifies in this
matter at all. If we could only get Mr. Musgrove to acknowledge his
engagement, he may take his own time for marrying."
Her brother was on the point of saying that he was not thinking of him, but
he let it pass—and, after a moment's consideration, added:
"Then you think there would be no harm in engaging a girl, even if
she could not marry immediately."
"Oh! I don't know, this engagement was formed before old Mr. Watson died,
and that makes a difference. Perhaps, if people are very particular, they
might not like to commence a courtship under such circumstances."
"Well, what can I do?"
"Find Mr. Musgrove—tiresome man that he is—and tell him that, as the fact
of his engagement is known, and, consequently, he is as certain to have a
verdict against him, as this Mr. Watson is determined to try for it, the
only thing for him to do, to avoid such a result, is to act like a man of
honor. If he refuses, and by that means draws me into any thing so
repugnant to my feelings as appearing in a court, he can never expect to be
noticed by us again; and if we set the example, every one will throw
him off—he will be scouted in the neighbourhood, and can never dare to shew
his face again at home. Tell him this, and if I do not greatly mistake the
man he will yield."
"I will try what I can do, Rosa, but I wish Gordon had undertaken it—he has
so many more words than I have?"
"And if you cannot succeed with him, we must have recourse to Mr. Watson,
the attorney, and try what we can do to stop his proceedings," continued
Rosa. "Perhaps a little bribery, judiciously applied, might induce him to
relinquish his intention, and save any further trouble."
"We shall see about that," replied he, "but, in the meantime, I will look
for Musgrove, and try my skill on him."
"Could you find Sir William, Osborne," said Rosa, blushing, "and tell him
that I should like to speak to him—or no, perhaps, if you tell him only
what you are going to do, it will be better."
"I heard him leave the house, Rosa," said Lord Osborne, quite innocently,
"but, if I see him at the club, I will tell him what you say."
Miss Osborne bit her lip and made no reply; she did not like to shew the
empire which Sir William had over her feelings—nor would she readily have
acknowledged the anxiety she could not avoid entertaining with regard to
his quitting her so gravely. She had discovered that he would not be played
with and tormented for her amusement, and she dared not attempt to trifle
with him as she might have done with a less resolute man. Her brother left
her and she spent the rest of the morning alone, and very uneasy. She was
in no humour to receive visitors, and was entirely disinclined for any
occupation. She kept on telling herself it was not because Sir William was
absent that she was dissatisfied, it was only because she herself was
threatened with a disagreeable incident; then she fell into a train of
wondering thought as to what Sir William intended to do, where he was gone,
and whether he would soon return to Portman Square. Her heart beat every
time she heard the knocker, though she knew his hand too well to be
deceived in that. At length, a note was brought to her with an assurance
that the bearer was waiting. It was in his handwriting, and she opened it
with trepidation. The style surprised her.
.sp 2
.ll 60
.in 6
.ti +6
"Sir William Gordon's compliments to Miss Osborne, and he has the happiness
of informing her that affairs are placed on a satisfactory footing with
regard to Mr. Musgrove; but, as Sir W., has undertaken to communicate the
result of the interview to Miss Watson and her sister, he wishes to know
whether Miss Osborne would recommend him to go in person to Croydon—and if
so, whether she has any commands for him."
.in 0
.ll
.sp 2
Rosa read the note over three times before she could make up her mind to
the answer she should return. She felt it deeply; the tone, the meaning,
all conveyed a sort of covert reproach to her. She was sorry and angry at
the same moment; and she was quite undecided whether to yield to or resent
his conduct. After much deliberation she hastily wrote:
.sp 2
.ll 60
.in 6
.ti 6
"Miss Osborne's compliments to Sir William Gordon, and as she finds it
impossible to give an opinion without understanding more of the
circumstances, she begs he will favor her with a call this afternoon, to
explain what arrangements he has made."
.in 0
.ll
.sp 2
No sooner was this note despatched than she bitterly regretted having sent
such a one, and felt she would have given anything in the world to recall
it, when too late. She could think of nothing else, of course, and being
quite indisposed for any amusement she refused to accompany her mother in
the afternoon drive, but remained sitting alone in the drawing-room.
Engrossed with her own thoughts, she did not hear him enter, and was not
aware of his presence till he spoke, and gravely observed,
"I am here, Miss Osborne, according to your commands; may I request you
will let me know your further wishes."
"You are still offended, Sir William," replied she, looking up at him; "I
thought you would have recovered yourself by this time."
"I cannot so soon forget the repulse I received; and I presume you intended
it to be remembered."
"Nay, now don't look like that, I cannot bear it, I was wrong;" said she
extending her hand to him. "Forgive me and sit down."
Miss Osborne had not to say she was wrong twice over, nor to repeat the
request for forgiveness. He was not tyrannical, though he could not submit
to slavery, and a reconciliation was soon effected. When they were able to
talk of anything besides themselves, he described to her his interview with
Tom Musgrove. He had found him insolent and angry—disposed to resent Mr.
Watson's threats as insulting, and Sir William's interference as
uncalled-for. His tone, however, was considerably lowered when he
ascertained for the first time that his conversation with Margaret had been
overheard by two who were quite able to prove the fact. Sir William told
him he was authorized by the family of one young lady—indeed as her
affianced husband he considered himself bound to step forward and endeavour
to prevent the necessity of her appearing as a witness in a public court:
should she, in consequence of Mr. Musgrove's persevering in denying the
truth, be compelled to perform so unpleasant a task, it would bring down on
him the enmity of the noble family of which the lady was a member, and the
universal contempt of the county; whereas, whilst affairs stood as they did
at present, the fact of his inconstancy being known to so few, it was
evident the whole business might be hushed up, and when he and Miss Watson
were married, they might be certain of the countenance and favour of the
family at Osborne Castle, and all their connexions.
Tom had hesitated much, and evidently deeply repented the unguarded conduct
which had placed him in such an unpleasant predicament; and though he had
yielded at last to a conviction of the necessity of the thing, it was with
a reluctance which augured ill for the domestic felicity of the future Mrs.
Musgrove. Indeed he had told Sir William, with an oath, that if she really
compelled him to marry her, Margaret Watson should rue the day; so that
upon the whole Sir William was of opinion that the young lady had much
better not persist in her claim, if she had any value for a quiet home.
"I dare say he will not be worse than other men," replied Rosa saucily; "I
have a notion that they are all tyrants to women at heart, only some wear a
mask in courtship and some do not take that trouble. But they are all alike
in the end, no doubt."
"Very possibly, Rosa; suppose you were to carry out your theory and change
places with Miss Margaret."
"Thank you; your liberality is overpowering; but though they may be all
alike in temper, they are so neither in person nor name—and in neither of
these particulars does Mr. Musgrove please me."
It was then settled that Rosa should write to her friend and inform her how
matters were going on—it being understood that Tom Musgrove was by the same
post to assert his claim to Miss Margaret Watson's hand in a letter to her
brother.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch11
CHAPTER XI.
.sp 2
Had Margaret Watson possessed one particle of proper spirit, the tone and
manner in which Tom Musgrove fulfilled his part of the bargain would have
been sufficient to cause a total rupture between them; but far from this
was the case with her. The fact of being now believed in her declaration,
of being known as an engaged young lady, of having a right to talk about
wedding-clothes, and sigh sentimentally at the prospect before her; the
distinction which all this would give her in a small country town, where
every occurrence, from a proposal of marriage down to the purchase of a new
pair of shoes, was immediately known to all the neighbours—this delighted
Margaret's weak mind, and set her heart in a flutter of gratified vanity.
To be able to inform all the morning visitors at her brother's house that
indeed she was contemplating this important change, that she was yielding
to a long and well placed affection, that she had known her dear Tom all
her life, and that their mutual attachment had been of many years'
standing—to sigh over the prospect of soon leaving her sisters, and trying
a new situation, seeking a new home, entering on new duties—all this was
perfect ecstasy to her, and on the strength of her engagement she became
more than ever peevish and disagreeable to her sisters in private, and more
affable and smiling to her associates in public.
Her dear Tom—her absent friend—was introduced on all occasions in her
speeches, and most happy would she have been had she been able to introduce
him personally to the admiring young ladies of Croydon. Miss Jenkins was
dying to see him; Miss Lamb was certain he must be a charming beau; Miss
Morgan and her sister were never weary of hearing the colour of his hair,
and the style of his equipage.
This was highly gratifying to Margaret, but she had her little discomforts
too. There were some young ladies who shrugged their shoulders and wished
Mr. and Mrs. Tom Musgrove might have a quiet house of it—there were others
who whispered strange things about the courtship. Miss Lascomb thought it
very odd indeed Mr. Musgrove did not come to see his betrothed—of course
they knew their own affairs best, but she hoped if ever she were in such a
situation, to see a little more devotion and warmth in her swain. Miss
Johnston said she knew how young men were sometimes caught, that she
did, and till she heard the gentleman declare his engagement with a smile,
she should not be persuaded that it did not cost him a sigh.
These speeches, though not made to Margaret, were all carefully repeated to
her, by some of her many kind friends, who delighted in retailing small
ware of the kind. She coloured and pouted, tossed her head, and recommended
people to leave affairs alone which did not belong to them, and wondered
any people could take such pleasure in interfering in other people's
concerns. But she knew what it came from, that she did, it was all
envy and spite, because she was going to marry a real gentleman, who had
nothing to do, and Mr. Johnston was only an apothecary, and all the world
knew that Miss Lascomb had been setting her cap at the writing master for
the last three years, and all to no purpose. In her heart, she was really
troubled with some misgivings on account of not receiving any communication
from Tom—she would have delighted to parade his letters before her admiring
confidantes, and her envying female friends, but this pleasure was denied
her. All she could do, was to write very often herself, and take care to
have a letter directed to him beside her, whenever any of her gossipping
acquaintance came to pay her a visit of inspection.
The news from Chichester which about this time arrived gave a very
flourishing account of Penelope's affairs. Her lover, notwithstanding his
advanced age, appeared far more ardent and energetic than the youthful Tom
Musgrove.
In accordance, it was said, with his earnest solicitations, their union was
to take place very speedily, and Penelope hoped that the next time she had
occasion to write to her sisters, it would be to inform them that she no
longer bore the same name as themselves. In the prospects of her two
sisters, Emma saw little to console her for the blight which had fallen on
her own; she would have rejoiced with all her heart had she been able to
suppose they would be happy, but she could not reconcile herself to the
proceedings of either, nor persuade herself, try as she would, that in
either case, the motives which led them to engage in a connection so
important as matrimony were such as could ensure a blessing with them. In
Penelope's case especially, she could view it as nothing but a sale of
herself for a certain amount of settlements; she knew there was neither
love nor esteem on her side, for she had heard her, in unguarded moments,
express sentiments quite the reverse, speaking of her future husband in a
slighting tone, and with a contemptuous accent, as if she held him little
better than an idiot for the very act of marrying her. As to Margaret,
though she really seemed in love, after a fashion, with Mr. Musgrove, there
was too evident a reluctance on his part, and too much want of delicacy on
hers, to leave, as Emma imagined, the least chance of anything happier than
a total rupture between them; and taking everything into consideration it
seemed to her that such an event would be by much the most desirable
circumstance that could occur.
Emma herself was, for some time, a close prisoner. Mrs. Watson found so
much for her to do, that she had scarcely time to stir from the nursery,
except when she took a walk with Janetta, who was now almost entirely
confided to her care. The child loved her dearly; and had her exertions as
nursery governess given the smallest satisfaction to her sister-in-law, had
they even been treated by her as an equivalent for board and maintenance,
she would have been less uncomfortable.
But whilst she was spending her whole time in unremunerated, and indeed
unacknowledged services, she was perpetually reminded of her entire
dependence on Robert, and taunted with her uselessness, her idle habits,
and her fine lady manners. The numerous visitors, who dawdled away a
morning hour in Mrs. Watson's parlour, were apt to expatiate on her
extraordinary liberality and kindness in receiving her three sisters as her
guests, little imagining that the two elder paid for their board out of
their scanty incomes, and that the younger compensated for the misery she
endured, under the show of patronage, in a way yet more advantageous to her
grudging but ostentatious relatives.
At length, a grand event occurred. Mr. Millar invited them all to a dinner
party, and Annie hinted that it was to be followed by a dance and a supper.
They were all asked, and though Jane demurred about Emma, Robert overruled
her.
"We must let the girl have a chance," said he; "if she is never seen,
there's no chance of any of those young fellows proposing for her."
Jane had no wish that they should. She felt Emma's value far too strongly
to be at all inclined to part with her. Her caps had never been so nicely
made—her stockings so carefully darned—or Janetta's wardrobe so well
attended to, as since she had turned over every trouble of the kind to
Emma. But as she did not choose to own these considerations, she was
obliged to assent to Robert's proposal, and Emma was to go to the Millars'.
In spite of their mutual wishes, she had seen very little of Annie Millar;
their meetings had been hindered in every possible way by Mrs. Watson, who
was always apprehensive that Emma would complain, aware, as she was, that
she had real reason to do so; but Mrs. Watson had skilfully contrived that
the drawing back from her acquaintance should appear the voluntary act of
Emma, a notion which cooled Annie's friendship towards her, until
Elizabeth, with her usual frankness, had on one occasion afforded an
explanation of the matter. The result of this was an energetic attempt, on
Miss Millar's side, to secure her society for the evening in question, and
as she had appealed to Robert as well as Jane, she was successful.
They went accordingly, and Emma's quick eyes were immediately caught by the
difference of manner which George Millar displayed towards Elizabeth,
compared with the rest of the party. To the others he was open, cordial,
and kind, with an address which if not exactly polished, was at least far
removed from vulgarity; but to Miss Watson he was hurried and awkward,
apparently eager to please to a degree which deprived him of the
self-possession necessary for that end. Elizabeth too, looked shy and
conscious when their eyes met, though evidently expecting and wishing that
he should take his stand beside her chair, which she had fortunately
secured in such a position, that after walking forward to receive his
visitors, he was able to fall back again, and resume his conversation with
her. Emma saw this with satisfaction, and venturing, in spite of her own
disappointments, to speculate on the future, she fancied that at least her
dear sister Elizabeth would secure a happy home for herself.
Annie Millar seated herself by Emma's side soon after the Watson party
entered the room, and began warmly expressing her pleasure in at length
seeing her in her brother's house. Emma assured her in reply, that it was
not want of inclination that had kept her away, but want of leisure, for
she added quite simply:
"I am governess to my little niece, and have not, therefore, much time to
spare for any other purpose. I dare say my sister-in-law told you so."
"No indeed," said Annie warmly, and colouring with indignation, "she never
said anything of the kind; she always excused you on the plea of studies or
occupations for your good which you had to pursue, and boasted of her kind
and attentive care for your benefit, without once hinting that she was
under obligations to you, which the hospitality of which she boasts so much
can ill-repay."
"Oh hush, Miss Millar," replied Emma blushing deeply, "you must not indeed
talk so: if my brother receives me into his house, the least I can do is to
take care of his child in return, and so lighten the trouble which I cannot
help giving."
"But, my dear Miss Emma, excuse my taking the liberty of saying that if you
were governess to any other lady's child, you would not only be supposed to
earn your board and lodging, but some fifty or sixty pounds in addition, so
that in fact Mrs. Watson is the obliged party in this concern."
Miss Millar was called away at the moment to receive some other visitor,
and when able again to return to her seat, she observed:
"That was a most fortunate interruption, for it certainly saved me from
saying something unpardonably impertinent. I am, I have been told, much too
apt to speak my feelings on all subjects, without sufficiently considering,
times, places, and persons. How well your sister looks to-night."
"Which sister?" enquired Emma.
"Oh Miss Watson; I never could admire your sister Margaret, though I know
many people who do; neither she nor Mrs. Watson, who is rather in the other
extreme, are at all to my taste."
"Elizabeth looks very happy," observed Emma.
"I am sure she deserves to be so," replied Annie with enthusiasm, "she is
such a very amiable person, I know few with whom I more enjoy a day's
intercourse. It always seems to do me good to hear her talk, she makes so
light of difficulties, and is so cheerful. To me, who I believe am rather
too apt to grumble, she is quite a lesson I assure you."
"I am delighted to hear you say so," replied Emma, with a look that shewed
how perfectly sincere was the expression she used.
Though Annie was frequently called away by the necessity of receiving other
visitors, she took every opportunity she could command of returning to
Emma's side, and conversing with her in the most friendly way. During the
intervals when she was obliged to withdraw, Emma looked round the room, to
see how the others were employed or amused. Mrs. Turner was discoursing
eloquently with Mrs. Watson, who was evidently bored exceedingly, and
hardly listening at all; her thoughts as well as her eyes seemed to turn
constantly to an individual of the party unknown to Emma, a tall and
pleasant looking man, who stood by a nice looking elderly lady, and seemed
to be making himself very agreeable to her. Margaret had no one to talk to,
and was busy in arranging her tucker in a satisfactory way, and smoothing
her gloves from the tips of the fingers upwards. Robert was hungry, and
consequently quite unable to enter into conversation with any one. He was
faintly trying to hide the violent yawns which were produced by the
suspension of feeling—the uneasy state of expectancy in which he was kept.
Emma could read his impatience in the peculiar twitching about his eyes,
and the spasmodic way in which his hands closed at intervals, as if
grasping some imaginary knife and fork. There were two other gentlemen of
the party whose names she ascertained from her young friend; one a tall,
stiff, elderly man, with an erect carriage, and rather disappointed
expression of countenance, she learnt was a Captain Tomlins, an old
soldier, who played a remarkably good rubber at whist; the other was the
clergyman of the parish, who had but just returned from Bath, and
consequently was unknown to Emma. He was a mild-looking, middle-aged man,
with a very bald head, and a small quantity of silver hair; his countenance
was singularly pleasing and inviting, and there was an earnest kindness in
his manner which charmed her. He stooped and was very round shouldered,
whilst a slight appearance of lameness arising from the gout which had
driven him to Bath, interested Emma peculiarly in him, because it reminded
her of her father. The other individual who occupied so much of Jane's
attention, Emma was likewise informed was the doctor of the parish, and one
of the principal objects of interest to half the ladies of the town. Annie
assured her his reputation as a doctor was wonderful; he made all his
patients pleased with themselves, and consequently pleased with him
likewise; indeed he had a sort of harmless way of making love to the ladies
under his care, which was very captivating to most people.
"And are you one of his patients?" enquired Emma, "or only an amateur
admirer of his?"
"Oh, I was never any one's patient," replied Annie; "I am never ill; and as
to being an admirer of his, indeed I do not think I ever could admire a
doctor—I have a decided aversion to the profession altogether."
"I never liked it," observed Emma, "until I became acquainted with my
brother Sam, and for his sake I have been quite reconciled to it."
"Yes I can understand that, I think George could reconcile me to anything,"
replied Miss Millar with an expression of feeling
resting on her open countenance, which Emma thought quite bewitching; "but
after all a doctor's is an odious profession: to be eternally dinned with
complaints and pains, and always administering drugs and mixtures in which
I dare say they have no faith all the time, must require a stock of
extraordinary patience. I wonder how that man can go smiling and
complimenting through the world as he does."
"But you look only at the disagreeable side of the profession," returned
Emma; "you should consider it as the means of alleviating suffering,
relieving distress—perhaps prolonging the most valuable life; if you think
of the good a doctor can do, you will form a higher estimate of the
profession."
"Yes, but then all those wise thoughts do not come of themselves into my
poor brain; it is only those as clever and sedate as you who can suggest
them, and in spite of it all, I am afraid I shall go on always hating the
profession all my life."
Their conversation was cut short by a summons to dinner, when owing to
there being a preponderance of ladies in the party, Annie and Emma walked
in together. At the table, however, they were separated, and Emma's
ill-luck placed her between her sister-in-law and her brother, a
mis-arrangement which was not perceived until every one was seated, and
which Mrs. Watson then insisted should not be changed.
Jane was particularly cross; she had expected the distinction of leading
the way to the dining-room in company with the master of the house, and she
saw instead a quiet-looking, plainly-dressed lady precede her. Not knowing
who the stranger was, and feeling all the right of being first, which as
niece to Sir Thomas she invariably claimed, the indignant blood mounted to
her cheeks. The hope, however, that Mr. Morgan the doctor would take care
of her instead for a moment tranquillized her mind; but when the place he
should have occupied was officiously filled by the whist-playing Captain
Tomlins, who cared nothing for the right of precedence and only desired to
reach the dining-room quickly, her indignation was with difficulty
repressed; and as she looked over her shoulder in leaving the room, and saw
Elizabeth following with Mr. Morgan, her anger rose to a climax.
"I wonder who that is walking just in front of me," said she to her
companion.
"I am sure I don't know, ma'am—I was thinking she must be a stranger;"
replied Captain Tomlins anxiously snuffing up the scent of dinner ascending
from the lower regions of the house. "The Millars always give such good
dinners."
"It's very odd," continued Mrs. Watson, "how little attention is paid to
rank; it seems to be getting quite the fashion now to set aside all the old
distinctions. Formerly neither men nor women thought of pushing themselves
out of their places, but now all that is forgotten, and one may be obliged
to walk in to dinner behind you don't know who, and often conducted by some
one who has no right to put himself forward."
"Very true, ma'am, such things may happen—but you know at least who is
leading you, and I conceive that as an officer in the service of his
Majesty, I have a perfect right to walk before any of our present company,
excepting always our host. I am sure you must agree with me."
"Upon my word," said Mrs. Watson, with an angry little laugh. "I was not at
all aware of your rank being so very high, or entitling you to such very
great distinction. However, I dare say it's all right, and I shall find
myself, no doubt, soon walking in behind the old sexton's wife, or taking
the hand of the parish clerk to the table."
As they had reached the table, by the time she had made this speech,
Captain Tomlins did not trouble himself to answer her, being intently
occupied in counting the dishes which stood before him, as resting his
hands on the edge of the table, and firmly compressing his lips, he bent
forward to take a survey of the shining covers, as if half-expecting to be
able to penetrate their substance, and ascertain their contents. Mrs.
Watson tossed her head in angry disdain, and was forced to soothe her
agitated feelings by scrutinising the way in which the party on the
opposite side disposed themselves. The doctor, whom she had vainly coveted
as a companion, was seated between Elizabeth and Margaret, the former
having a seat at the corner next her host's chair, so that Mr. Morgan was
not likely to be much engrossed by her conversation. Mr. Bridge, the
rector, and Annie Millar filled up the rest of that side, as Mrs. Turner
took the head of the table.
These were well placed, as Mrs. Turner delighted in carving, and Annie
being exceedingly attached to the old clergyman, whom she had known from
childhood, amply compensated to him by her respectful attention for the
total neglect with which he was treated by Margaret, and the rude repulsive
stare with which she received his first attempt at conversation.
In consequence of her situation, Emma's dinner was exceedingly dull, and
right glad was she when the time came for retiring to the drawing-room.
Here there was a change of scene, and also a change of companions; for she
was able to take a seat by Elizabeth, and learn from her, that she, at
least, had found the party very agreeable. Meanwhile Mrs. Watson was
venting her indignation against Captain Tomlins, in no very measured terms,
for his love of eating, his indifference to good society, and his
presumptuous and pushing manner.
The stranger lady, whose name had not yet been made known, enquired if it
was her neighbour of whom she was speaking, and having received from Mrs.
Watson an abrupt and haughty affirmation, she turned to Mrs. Turner, and
informed her that she formerly knew him, and added, that they had enjoyed
some agreeable conversation together about old times and former
acquaintances. Mrs. Watson, on hearing this, eyed her with increased
disdain and suspicion, and moving away to the other side of the fireplace,
she flirted her handkerchief before her face, as if the very air were laden
with impurity by her presence. With head thrown back, and lips closely
pressed together, she seemed determined to prevent any more of her words
being wasted in such a presence.
Their party was soon after joined and enlivened by a number of young
ladies, and a fair proportion of young men. The Miss Morgans, sisters to
the doctor, the Miss Jones and their brothers, children of a wealthy baker
deceased; the owner of a flourishing paper mill in the neighbourhood,
together with the whole of his large family, four sons and three daughters,
rejoicing in the name of Lamb, the eldest daughter being an enthusiastic
friend of Margaret's; and two or three families of great elegance and
distinction in the neighbourhood; families who enjoyed the advantage of
having houses quite in the country, surrounded with poplars and laurels,
and no connection with any trade or business; these formed the
élite of the party. There were several unconnected
young men, amongst whom Mr. Alfred Freemantle appeared conspicuous; and
swaggering up to Emma's side, declared that he meant to make that the
ne plus ultra of his hopes for the evening. Annie,
who heard him, maliciously desired he would translate the Latin for the
benefit of ignorant young ladies; but he pretended not to hear her request,
and went on talking to Emma without pity or cessation.
Whilst Annie Millar was busy dispensing the tea and coffee to her guests,
Mrs. Watson approached her, and enquired, who was that little old lady who
walked into dinner before her. A wicked light danced in Annie's eyes, for
she had noticed Jane's scornful manner, and was excessively pleased at the
surprise in store for her.
"Do you not know her?" she replied; "she is my godmother, and is now
staying with us on her road to London."
"And her name, tell me that—who is she—who was she—to have the precedence
over me, Miss Millar?'
"She is the widow of Sir George Barry, a baronet—who died a year or two
ago—there is no family, so the title becomes extinct—she is the kindest,
quietest, best old lady in the world, I am sure."
"Bless me," cried Mrs. Watson, growing very red in the face, "you don't say
so, sure: a baronet's lady! well really—I never thought of that—I am sure I
wish I had known it sooner. Why did you not introduce me."
"She did not think it necessary," replied Annie, quietly; "and we always
let her have her own way—indeed, I believe I ought not to have told you who
she is, only I saw you were annoyed at her having the precedence of you,
and I thought it would comfort you to find it was not without reason and
right."
"Well, I shall certainly go and talk to her now; but I am sure I don't know
why you should suppose I was annoyed about anything of the sort; I declare
I do not mind in the least what I do—or where I go—nobody can be more
indifferent about their place than I am, though, of course, I do not like
to see a mere nobody put over my head; but a baronet's lady is quite a
different thing; I wonder whether she knows my uncle Sir Thomas—I dare say
she does—people of rank usually know one another in London."
Miss Millar did not try to prevent her going to make the amende
honorable to Lady Barry, whose quiet features expressed some surprise
at the manner in which she was attacked by the hitherto scornful Mrs.
Watson; and the repetition of the word "your ladyship" met Annie's ear as
she contemplated them from the other side of the hearth rug.
Mr. Alfred Freemantle continued his battery of small talk in Emma's ear,
and, at length, in spite of the cold ungraciousness of her manner, which
was as far removed as possible from welcome or encouragement, the young
gentleman ended his tirade by presenting her with a paper which he declared
was a copy of verses in her honour. Emma coldly declined taking it, and his
most urgent entreaties could not prevail on her to look at the verses—just
at this juncture, Miss Millar joined them, and on understanding the subject
in dispute she seized on the paper, and commenced reading the lines aloud.
They consisted of the usual jumble about stars and flowers, streams and
bowers, wings and other things, hearts, darts, flames and names, which
might be expected in the valentine of a school-boy, and Annie read them in
such an absurd, mock-heroic tone as made those within hearing laugh most
naturally, really thinking, as they did, that it was intended altogether as
a burlesque. Alfred Freemantle writhed under this laughter, which he could
not take as a compliment, having intended the whole poem to be extremely
sentimental: he tried to smile too, but really felt far more inclined to
cry, and he shrank back into a corner, there to hide his confusion as well
as he could. Annie did not pursue her triumph farther, but left the poor
young man to the mortifying consideration of his own defeat.
When tea and coffee were dismissed, Annie declared it to be her intention
to have a dance, which of course all the young people seconded with zeal.
There was fortunately amongst the party one lady, who it was known excelled
in playing country-dances on the harpsichord, which stood in the
drawing-room, an heir loom from Annie's mother. The room was soon prepared,
and the young ladies all drew up their heads, and began to look straight
before them, as if they did not care the least in the world which of the
gentlemen asked them to dance, or whether any did at all. Emma having no
intention of standing up herself, drew farther back into a corner, without
perceiving that it was the very one where young Freemantle had hidden his
diminished head. He quite misinterpreted the action, and dropping down into
an empty chair by her side, said with an air intended to be very arch,
"I hope, Miss Watson, you were coming to ask me to dance."
"Indeed I was not," replied Emma, "for I did not see you, but I shall be
very happy to do so immediately. Pray, Mr. Freemantle, go and dance with
any one but myself."
"Unparalleled cruelty," cried he clasping his hands, and throwing up his
chin into the air. "To ask me to stand up with any other woman than the
fair, the captivating, the charming object of all my vows, of all my
wishes."
"If you mean me by those expressions," replied Emma quite calmly, "and that
you wish to stand up with me, allow me to save you all further trouble, by
the information that I do not intend to dance at all this evening."
"Impossible, you cannot be so hard-hearted—so cruel to your devoted slaves,
as all the men in this room must be—you cannot be so unjust to your own
charms, so unkind to your own attractions. That elastic figure, graceful as
the weeping willow, was formed to float through the dance like the water
lily on the surface of the stream. Those fairy feet—those—in short do you
really mean not to dance?"
"Really so," replied Emma.
"Your reason—tell me your reason, I entreat you, why should you shrink from
bewitching our eyes, and lapping our senses in Elysium."
"Excuse me, I think I have done enough in giving you one positive answer;
you have no right to require any reason from a woman: or let this suffice
you, I will not because I will not."
"Mr. Freemantle," said Annie, advancing towards them, and effecting an
agreeable diversion in Emma's favour, "I must request you to stand up; we
can harbour no idle young men in corners here; you are doomed to make
yourself agreeable to one lady for the space of two dances, and only on
this condition shall you remain in the room."
"Since then the beauteous Miss Emma will not do me the honor, will you
permit me to solicit your hand, Miss Millar."
"No indeed, I am engaged for the whole evening, so you must find a partner
somewhere else; go and ask Miss Morgan or Miss Lamb."
"I obey with the alacrity which your commands must always inspire," and he
went accordingly.
Miss Millar stayed a moment after him with Emma,
"I will not ask you to stand up," said she, "after the reason you gave me,
but both Mrs. Watson and your youngest sister have joined the set you see.
How shall you amuse yourself?"
"Oh, never mind me," replied Emma cheerfully, "where is Elizabeth—she does
not dance surely?"
"No, she's playing cards with my brother and yours, I believe; they went
into that little parlour on purpose. Will you join them and look on?"
Before Emma had time to answer, Annie was called away, and a moment after
Mr. Morgan came, and taking a chair near her, entered into conversation
with the ease of a man accustomed to see much of the world, and mix in good
society. She was interested and amused by his conversation, and more
especially so when she accidentally discovered that at college he had been
well acquainted with Mr. Howard, had since been visiting occasionally in
the neighbourhood of Osborne Castle, and knew the whole family. He was a
good deal older than Howard he told her, but he had remained some time in
the vicinity of Oxford after he began to practise; indeed he had adopted
his profession rather late in life, and having a fellowship he had
continued single.
All this he communicated to Emma, but he had tact soon enough to discover
that his own history, unconnected with the family and neighbourhood of
Osborne Castle, interested her but little. He soon therefore turned the
conversation to that channel again, and discovered that her feelings were
certainly deeply concerned in it. Yet he could not quite satisfy himself
whether it was the young lord or his former tutor, whose name raised a
tinge of blood to her cheek, which he saw to be very becoming. Indeed there
were so many reminiscences and peculiar circumstances associated with her
intimacy with Miss Osborne, and acquaintance with her brother, they were so
strangely implicated in Margaret's affairs, and so much that Emma was
ashamed of, was suggested by their names, that she was quite as ready to
blush at the memory of them, as at the dearer and more tantalising
recollections connected with Mrs. Willis and her brother. Well knowing the
art of pleasing, Mr. Morgan allowed her to lead in the subject of the
conversation, carefully following the turn which she chose to give it, and
trying to read her feelings with his scrutinising eye, whilst he seemed to
be all attention to her conversation at the moment. Annie's account of him
had not prepossessed her in his favour, yet now she could not deny that he
was on the whole an agreeable man. The interval of the two dances passed
pleasantly away, but when they were concluded Mr. Morgan left her, and she
soon afterwards stole away to the little room where the card-table was. For
some reason, however, which she could not learn, the whist party had been
broken up, and she only found sitting there George Millar and Elizabeth,
apparently deeply engrossed in a game at chess. She seated herself near
them; her sister looked up and smiled, and then resumed her game; no one
spoke. Emma took up a folio of prints lying on the table, and amused
herself with looking over them. At length her attention was arrested by the
sound of her own name. By the voices she learnt the speakers were her
sister-in-law and Mr. Morgan, and the first words she heard were, the
gentleman saying:
"A very charming girl indeed, Mrs. Watson, that young sister-in-law of
yours."
"You think so—do you admire her?" enquired the lady.
"Very much—she is very handsome, indeed!"
"I cannot agree with you," replied Mrs. Watson, rather tartly; "her
features are too irregular to be called handsome; good eyes, perhaps, but
her skin is coarse and her features insignificant. I cannot but wonder at
your taste."
"Indeed, I must beg leave to differ from you, my dear Mrs. Watson; her
features may, perhaps, be rather smaller than real beauty requires, but the
dark glowing complexion—the brilliant eye—the redundant hair, and rich red
lips, these reminded me so strongly of yourself, that I cannot give up
admiring them, even though you will not agree with me."
"Well, I don't know, I never was told she was like me before," said Mrs.
Watson, in a simpering tone, which seemed to speak her propitiated by the
incense thus offered to her. "Do you know how she is situated?" added she,
"It's a most unfortunate thing; she was brought up so very much above her
situation, in the most foolish, ill-judging way, by an old uncle who died
without leaving her farthing; and now she is a beggar, without a sixpence
to bless herself with, entirely dependent on her brother's and my charity.
I am sure I am sorry for the poor thing."
"Yes, indeed," replied Mr. Morgan, with a really feeling tone, "if that is
the case, she is, indeed, to be pitied. Poor thing you may well say."
"The worst of it is, that both her education, and I must say, her temper,
unfit her for her future situation; she must do something for herself—a
situation as governess seems the only thing—but with her fine lady notions,
I don't know what to do."
"If you are wanting to get her such a situation," replied Mr. Morgan, "I
think I know of one which would probably suit her. Lady Fanny Allston is
wanting a governess for her little girl. The child is extremely delicate. I
am in almost daily attendance on it, and I know Lady Fanny always says, 'I
don't care for accomplishments, Mr. Morgan; my child can have masters, but
it's manners I want—mind and manners—the feelings—the look—and the
behaviour of a gentlewoman.' Now would not this exactly suit your sister?
The salary is most liberal; and, altogether, I think she might be very
happy there."
"Perhaps so, I don't know—you are very kind to think of her—but, indeed, I
am not sure that she would be at all suited for the place—and how are we to
get it for her. I am sure I don't know."
"Oh! I shall see her ladyship to-morrow, and can mention it to her; only
give me authority to ask, and you shall see how soon it will be arranged."
"You are very kind—very obliging—but, indeed, I cannot answer at once; I
must speak to my husband about it; but don't mention it to any one else, if
you please—my intentions—my wishes with regard to her, are quite
confidentially entrusted to you, and I wish you not to say any thing on the
subject."
Mr. Morgan acquiesced, but Emma did not in this decision.
She had, at first, felt extremely hurt that Mrs. Watson should make her
circumstances and situation the subject of unreserved discussion with a man
totally unconnected with her family—and that in so loud a tone as to be
perfectly audible to any one within a dozen yards of where she sat. But the
accent of real interest in Mr. Morgan's voice—and above all, the prospect
which he held up of a release from the galling thraldom of her present
situation, served to compensate for the want of delicacy in her
sister-in-law. She immediately formed a resolution to profit by the offer,
if Mr. Morgan would really make good his word; whilst meditating on this
plan, she heard her sister-in-law invited to dance again; and her quitting
her seat, was immediately followed by Mr. Morgan's turning into the room
where she was sitting.
She looked up at him as he entered, and fancied she perceived a slight
shade of embarrassment on his countenance, as if he suspected she must have
overheard his recent conversation. He drew a chair by her side immediately,
and began complimenting her on her taste for silence and seclusion, as he
could not imagine that the two chess players, at the other table, had
proved very communicative companions. She readily admitted that they were
too much engrossed by their game, to have bestowed a word or thought on
her; and then added, that, in consequence of the quiet around her, she had
discovered that others were thinking and talking of her in her absence. She
colored a little as she added:
"My sister informed you so fully of my circumstances, that it is no use to
affect reserve, and you mentioned a plan to her, which, it appears to me,
would suit me perfectly well, if you really can make the arrangements you
talk of."
"I am sorry you overheard what, I fear, may have appeared impertinent to
you," replied he, with a grave and earnest kindness of manner, which would
have suited a parent. "But Mrs. Watson is accustomed to speak
confidentially to me of family matters; and though I certainly have no
right to intermeddle in your concerns, yet permit me to say, no one could
have the pleasure of conversing with you for even half an hour, without
feeling a degree of interest which would certainly lead them to do every
thing in their power to serve you."
Emma smiled and replied,
"If you really want to serve me, Mr. Morgan, the first step to it must be
leaving off complimentary speeches; keep them for those whom you have no
other means of serving, and speak to the point with me."
He smiled likewise, and rejoined,
"Well, I will keep them for Mrs. Watson, she will not reject them with so
much scorn."
"Hush, I will allow nothing personal," said Emma, "I am Mrs. Watson's
inmate, and must not listen to reflections upon her. But tell me, if you
know, exactly what are the particular qualities required by Lady Fanny for
the little girl's governess?"
"First youth, health, and good spirits—lady-like manners, a cultivated
mind—a thorough acquaintance with English literature, a taste for the fine
arts, and a love both of poetry and nature. Such, as well as I remember,
was the catalogue she gave me, and to that she had no objection to add
accomplishments, but on this subject she is not particular. She knows that
though a woman may perform as well as an amateur musician, may draw or
paint pleasingly, and may be tolerably well acquainted with modern
languages, it is not more than one in ten who can be so thoroughly grounded
in these accomplishments as to be really able to teach them with any
effect—one subject of study is as much as most women can compass, and those
who pretend to more are most likely to fail in all."
Emma listened in silence, and wondered mentally whether the entire oblivion
of everything relative to principles—morals—and religion were the result of
indifference to such subjects on the part of Lady Fanny, or Mr. Morgan.
"You are silent, Miss Watson," continued he, after surveying, for a moment,
her downcast look and thoughtful expression. "Am I to suppose that my
catalogue does not please you—or are you doubtful of my accuracy?"
"No, indeed, I was considering my own sufficiency for such a task."
"I do not imagine you need doubt that, so far as my judgment goes."
"But that must be a very little way, Mr. Morgan, the experience of this
evening cannot be considered sufficient by those who will require
information on the subject, however entirely it may satisfy yourself."
"You give me credit for less penetration than I would claim, if you suppose
my experience is limited to this evening. You possibly have never seen me
before, but we have often met, nevertheless—you did not know that I am a
particular friend of your little niece, and deep in her confidence."
"Well, I will allow you as much penetration as you choose to claim on this
subject—meantime, tell me when will the situation be vacant at Lady
Fanny's?"
"In about two months, I believe; I do not know exactly, but if you will
authorise me, I will make all necessary enquiries for you."
"You may do so, if you please, without absolutely committing me; and when I
know all the particulars I can consult my brother, to whom I hold myself
responsible, and whose approbation I must, of course, have."
At this juncture, the chess table was broken up, and Elizabeth joined Emma.
Mr. Millar walked away to make the amende honorable
to those ladies young and old, whom he had grievously neglected whilst
devoting himself to Miss Watson. Elizabeth looked very well pleased with
her game; but she did not seem disposed to talk; at this moment the noise
in the dancing-room attracted their attention, and they moved to the door
to look on. The party were going through Sir Roger de Coverley, in a high
state of excitement, especially some of the young gentleman, of whom Mr.
Alfred Freemantle was the most conspicuous. He rushed forwards with fury,
and rather tore than ran round the figure; at length, when advancing to
meet Margaret Watson, who was, like himself, dancing with more vigour than
grace, they ran against each other, her foot slipt, and she fell completely
into his arms. Not satisfied with this exploit, she made believe to faint,
and he was forced to support her out of the circle: one or two people
offered to assist, but he rejected their efforts, and half carried, half
led her to the little drawing-room, near which her sisters were standing.
Elizabeth and Emma tried to be of service, but, in fact, there was nothing
to do; she would have been quite well would she only have held up her head,
and sat upright; but whilst she chose to recline on Mr. Freemantle's
shoulder—and allow him to keep his arms round her waist, they could do
nothing but look on and feel very much ashamed of her.
Emma went to procure a glass of water from the side-board, and meeting Mr.
Morgan, asked him to come and see if anything was the matter with her
sister, as she hoped his presence would be an inducement to Margaret to
resume the use of her senses, and leave off the hugging in which she was
indulging Alfred.
Mr. Morgan accompanied Emma, and arrived just in time to see Margaret,
after making a slight effort to sit up, sink again on her companion's
breast in an attitude of the greatest exhaustion. Throwing an arch glance
at Emma as he took the glass of water from her hand, Mr. Morgan said, in an
extremely plaintive tone, "Poor thing—that is a complete faint—something
must be done for her," and without the smallest warning, he dashed the cold
water over her face and neck, plentifully bedewing the young gentleman's
coat and embroidered waistcoat at the same time. Margaret started up
instantly, and so did Alfred, each shaking off the water, and looking
excessively annoyed. Margaret was as red as fire, and whilst dabbing up the
drops from her neck and cheeks with her pocket-handkerchief, she exclaimed—
"Good gracious, doctor, is that the way you cure young ladies in a fainting
fit."
"Precisely so, my dear Miss Margaret," returned he, laughing; "and you are
a splendid example of the beneficial effects of my practice. What can be
more different, from the languid state in which I found you, than the
animation and colour which you now display."
"Upon my honour, Mr. Morgan," murmured Alfred, after he had done his best
towards getting himself in good order again, after the share he had enjoyed
of the sprinkling, "if that is the way you treat gentlemen, I must really
call you to account, sir;" and in a lower tone, he murmured something
further about "satisfaction and honour," which was quite indistinct.
"Oh, my dear sir," replied the doctor, quite blandly, "the libation was not
intended for you; though your proximity to Miss Margaret made you come in
for a portion of it, I assure you I did not mean to throw it away on you at
all."
Annie now entered to enquire for Margaret's safety, and expressed herself
rejoiced to find that she was apparently well, and without injury. She had
feared, she said, from Mr. Morgan being called in, that something very
serious had happened.
"Instead of which," whispered he to Miss Millar, "it was only something a
little comic. I wish you had seen it, Miss Annie."
It was soon after this time for the party to separate, Alfred Freemantle
insisting on seeing the fair Margaret home, after her accident, and
tenderly supporting her through the street. They had not very far to go—but
Emma, who was behind them, saw, if she was not very much mistaken, that he
had his arm round her waist the whole way, and how Margaret, a woman
engaged to another, could allow of such familiarity she could not
understand.
She went to bed, firmly resolving if Mr. Morgan's report from Lady Fanny
Allston was favorable, to speak immediately to her brother, and arrange
everything for her removing there. She thought, for full five minutes, on
what Miss Osborne would say, when she heard of her plans, whether she would
renew her invitation for her to spend some time with her after Easter; and
she spent double that time in considering whether, if she did, and she
should again meet Mr. Howard, his manners would be warm or cold, how he
would receive her, and what he would think of her undertaking such a
situation.
The result of her meditations was that she would write to Miss Osborne, and
explain to her, her plans and wishes, asking her, in case she failed in
procuring this situation as governess to Miss Allston, to use her interest
in finding her some other suitable to her abilities. This determination she
put in practice the next day, and her mind felt relieved when it was done.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch12
CHAPTER XII.
.sp 2
Mrs. Watson was so excessively cross after the excitement of last night,
that Emma's post in the nursery was really a subject of great
self-congratulation to her, for though she did sometimes intrude, and was
sure to worry when she did come, still it was better to be secluded from
her for several hours as was now the case. In the afternoon, as Emma was
walking in a quiet lane on the outskirts of the town, with her little
niece, for it was now considered a regular part of her duty to take the
little girl out for exercise, she was met by Mr. Morgan returning home on
horseback. He immediately stopped to speak to her, and dismounting, placed
himself by her side, and proceeded to tell her the result of his mission
that morning to Lady Fanny Allston's. He had been very successful: her
ladyship had expressed herself very well satisfied with his
representations, and had empowered him to say that she should like an
interview with Miss Watson on the first convenient opportunity. He
proceeded to relate to her all the particulars as to salary, the comfort
and the peculiarities of the situation, described the little girl, and, in
short, entered into the most minute particulars relative to it.
Emma, considering him as a man old enough to be her father, and thinking no
evil herself, felt no hesitation in listening to him, or allowing him to
walk beside her. She certainly would not have chosen to confide in him, but
since Jane had imparted her situation, she did not scruple to avail herself
of the advantage which that knowledge offered to her. They walked a
considerable time, for engrossed by the conversation, she did not reflect
where they were going, until Janetta's complaints of fatigue, and
entreaties to be carried, reminded her that they were a long way from home.
Emma prepared to comply with the request of the child in such a manner as
showed him immediately that the exertion was habitual with her, but he
interposed.
"Surely Janetta you do not want to make your pretty aunt ill," said he to
the child; "indeed I consider myself, Miss Watson, called on to prevent
that; it is enough to kill you. Janetta shall ride on my horse, that will
do as well, will it not?"
But Janetta was afraid of the horse, and cried for aunt Emma to carry her.
"She is so very light," said Emma, "I assure you I can do it with ease."
But Mr. Morgan would not allow of it; he took the little girl in his own
arms and they turned their steps homeward. The lane in which they were
walking opened on the little garden behind Mr. Watson's house, at which Mr.
Morgan privately rejoiced, whilst Emma, unconscious that she had done
anything in the least imprudent or remarkable in allowing him to walk with
her, felt no other emotion than satisfaction at getting Janetta quietly
home. She wished much to speak to her brother that evening about Lady
Fanny, but he returned to the office after dinner, and she was obliged to
postpone it.
Margaret and Mrs. Watson had an invitation out to tea that night, and in
consequence, Emma and Elizabeth spent a comfortable evening together. The
former told her sister of her plans, her hopes, and her walk with Mr.
Morgan. In the first of these she sympathised sincerely, but when she heard
of the latter she looked horrified.
"Surely Emma you never could be so excessively imprudent! Walk
tête-à-tête with Mr. Morgan—what could you be
thinking of! Did any one see you?"
"I do not know, I never thought about it—our meeting was quite accidental,
Elizabeth, and as he wanted to speak to me, why should I not take that
opportunity? I cannot see anything wrong in it: why he is old enough to be
my father."
"Your father! what nonsense! he is a single man, and a man at least six
ladies want to catch. I hope you were not seen by any one, for depend upon
it if you were, the account of your walk will be all over the town
to-morrow, and then you will get into a pretty scrape," said Elizabeth with
a look of sincere commiseration.
"Why, what harm have I done, Elizabeth?—I am sure I meant none."
"You will have put all the single ladies of Croydon in a passion, that's
all, and made yourself the subject of very unpleasant scandal."
"Well I am very sorry," replied Emma quite humbly; "but as I did not go on
purpose to meet Mr. Morgan, and I had little Janetta with me, I never
thought of there being any harm in it at all."
They were interrupted in their conversation by the entrance of Robert,
followed by a supper tray with oysters and porter, for he was determined to
enjoy himself in a comfortable way when his wife was out. When he had
discussed the oysters and was composedly seated with his feet on the fender
and a glass of hot brandy and water in his hand, Emma ventured to open the
case to him, and inform him of what she had learnt from Mr. Morgan, and her
wishes with regard to engaging in the situation he mentioned. Robert agreed
to it very readily; he never had intended to keep a nursery-governess for
his daughter. The trouble of educating her, would fall on Jane alone, if
Emma left them, but the expense of his sister's maintenance came out of his
pocket—therefore, though Mrs. Watson wished to retain her for the value of
assistance which she well knew she could obtain under no other
circumstances, Robert was quite willing to part with her, as it would be a
certain saving to himself, and would give additional trouble only to his
wife. He, therefore, gave her his entire approbation, commending her warmly
for thinking of exerting herself, as it was the duty of every individual to
do; and even promised, with great liberality, to make her a present of a
new cloak and bonnet, when she left his house, that her dress might shew
her to advantage. At the same time, he gave her strict injunctions not to
forget his interests when she was there; to recollect that it was always
the duty of each one of the family to help the others forward; and
therefore, if, on any occasion, Lady Fanny wanted an agent for her landed
property, or needed the advice of a respectable lawyer, it became Emma's
duty to say all she could for him.
Emma promised she would take every opportunity in her power to attend to
his injunctions; and soon after this, the girls went to bed without waiting
to see the others on their return home.
The next morning was ushered in with a violent domestic storm—such as she
never remembered to have witnessed before. How it began, Emma did not know,
but she was startled, when quietly sitting in the nursery with her niece,
by the sound of loud screams which greatly alarmed her.
Little Janetta looked up and said, very innocently, "Mama is in a fit—do
you hear? I dare say papa is cross to her."
Anxious to know the cause of the uproar, she ran down stairs, and entering
the parlour, the door of which was open, she saw Mrs. Watson stretched on
the sofa in a violent fit of hysterics, whilst Elizabeth and Margaret were
vainly endeavouring to hold her hands and arms, which she threw about with
convulsive energy, whilst her feet kept up a perpetual agitation in a way
as far removed from elegance as possible. As her head was turned away from
the door, Emma's entrance was unobserved, and her light step was quite
unheard by Jane, who continued to scream vociferously.
Fortunately, at that moment, one of the maids observed Mr. Morgan on the
opposite side of the street, and running after him, he was soon brought
back and introduced to the scene. Whilst he was applying sal volatile and
cold water, and soothingly holding the lady's hand, her excitement
gradually began to subside; and at length, she was sufficiently recovered
to open her eyes and look round her. But the moment she saw Emma standing
near, her languid gestures were suddenly changed into looks of rage, and
starting up, exclaiming:
"You little ungrateful vixen, I'll teach you to treat me so."
She aimed a violent blow at her, which, had not Mr. Morgan interposed, and
with one arm drawn Emma back, whilst on the other he received the slap
himself, would probably have been successful in its object.
"My dear girl," he whispered to Emma, as he withdrew the arm he had thrown
round her waist to protect her; "you had better leave the room; I must
manage her myself."
She readily obeyed the injunction, whilst the doctor, seating Mrs. Watson
on the sofa, placed himself by her side; and, still holding her hand in
his, he turned to Elizabeth and enquired, in a subdued and melancholy tone,
suitable to the occasion, how this sad affair commenced.
Elizabeth's account was not very clear—and, indeed, she was so puzzled and
frightened, that had she really understood the case, she would have been at
a loss how to explain herself. The facts were these: After breakfast,
whilst Elizabeth had been out of the room, Robert had informed his wife
that Emma was trying for the situation of governess to Lady Fanny Allston's
daughter, with his entire approbation.
This announcement was a severe blow to Jane, who did not at all like losing
her services. She argued hard against it, representing the impossibility in
her delicate state of health, of her doing justice to Janetta or attending
at all to her education; the certainty that no other terms would they get a
governess so cheaply, and the probability that the household expenses would
shortly be greatly diminished by the marriage, not only of Margaret, but of
Elizabeth likewise: but it was all in vain; the advantage was all to
himself—the evil only to his wife—so Robert was firm; and even when Jane
burst into a passion of tears, and began to shew symptoms of hysterics, he
was still obdurate. Suddenly the thought occurred to her, how did Emma
learn that the situation was to be procured?—and, at this point, began
Elizabeth's knowledge of the affair, for she entered the room just in time
to hear the question and to answer it. She explained that Emma had
accidentally overheard their conversation, and, consequently, questioned
Mr. Morgan about it. This announcement had put the climax to the lady's
rage, and brought on the screams and convulsions which had occasioned so
much disturbance. Mr. Morgan, however, knew how to manage her.
"My dear madam," said he, in a softly soothing voice; "you know I have
forbidden this violent excitement; to people of your nervous temperament,
it is decidedly hurtful, and should be avoided. I must give you something
to calm you. Miss Watson will be so kind as to bring me a glass of cold
water—quite pure water."
"Ah! my dear doctor," sighed the patient, "how could you use me so—join in
a conspiracy against me. I am astonished, I did not expect this from
you!"
"I, my dear Mrs. Watson! What have I done to deserve such censure?—surely,
you are under a delusion! I do not understand you."
"You betrayed about Lady Fanny, when I charged you not, you have been the
means of setting my husband cruelly against me; making him take part with
that little mischief-making vixen, Emma—"
"There, there," interrupted he, placing one finger on her pulse, "you are
agitating yourself again; I must forbid such excessive excitement. Thank
you, Miss Watson," taking the glass from Elizabeth, "now please young
ladies, open the window a hair's breadth or so, and then leave the room. I
always like to have the patient to myself."
Then taking a little case from his pocket, he said: "I have a fine sedative
powder here, which I shall give you to calm your nerves," then proceeding
to mix something in the glass—which it required a good deal of faith to
believe was anything but powdered sugar, he commanded her to sip a little
at intervals, and hold it as long as possible in her mouth without
swallowing it. Having thus succeeded in stopping her tongue, he proceeded
to explain the circumstances of his making Emma acquainted with what he had
proposed, taking particular care to allow no blame to rest on her, and
saying every thing he could to flatter and soothe Mrs. Watson. "And you
see," added he, "was I not quite right in thinking she ought to be removed
from you—this may happen again, and it is really too much for you—do you
not feel I am right—I am sure your own good sense must prove it—you cannot
speak, I know, but press my hand if you agree with me."
It is presumed the pressure was given, as Mr. Morgan seemed satisfied—he
raised her hand and looked at it.
"How each slender finger trembles," said he—certainly, there were few who
would have applied such an epithet to her plump and powerful hand. "Indeed,
it's a very naughty hand," added he, tapping it playfully with the tips of
his fingers. "It hit me very hard upon my arm—the hand should be made to
pay a forfeit for that; how shall I punish it?"
She smiled languidly.
"I was so provoked, doctor, you must forgive me."
"Forgive you? oh yes, dear madam, only you know, when a lady strikes a
gentleman she ought to pay the penalty attached," advancing his face very
close to her cheek.
"Oh, fie, doctor," cried she, affecting to be quite shocked, "you are
really too bad,—I am ashamed of you quite!" a form of denunciation which
would be, in nine cases out of ten, considered as positive encouragement.
At this moment the door opened and Robert entered the room.
"Doctor, I say, as Mrs. Watson appears a little better just now, I want to
speak to you in my room for a moment."
Mr. Morgan followed him directly; with a sort of dubious feeling as to what
was to follow; but he felt rather relieved by the interruption, as he was
conscious he had carried his tenderness quite as far as was necessary for
the good of his patient. Robert wanted to learn from himself about the
situation at Lady Fanny's, and questioned him with some interest on the
subject; for in a case where his own interest was in no way involved, he
was not exactly an unkind brother. He felt on the whole a tolerable share
of anxiety that his sister should be as safe and comfortable as
circumstances would admit, and was glad to hear from Mr. Morgan a very
favorable account of the family in question. At length, having satisfied
all the fraternal doubts and scruples of Mr. Watson, he returned to the
lady, and was immediately assailed by a shower of questions relative to
what her husband had wanted with him.
He only smiled and said it was nothing bad, but he was far too much used to
the enquiries and curiosity of ladies not to be expert at baffling such an
attack as hers.
"And now, my dear Mrs. Watson," said he, "I must insist on your keeping
your mind easy, and not worrying yourself about such things as the occasion
of this attack, it is of serious importance, indeed it is."
"But, doctor, how can I keep my mind easy, when I see that little
ungrateful thing there, Emma, coming round my husband and persuading him to
contradict me. Is it not enough to provoke a saint, to find one's own
husband turned against one by his sister, and that after all the kindness I
have shown her; but I knew how it would be from the first, that I did; I
always said so from the time those girls entered the house."
"It is very probable, your penetration, my dear friend, might lead you to
that conclusion, and you may be right; but in that case, is it not
satisfactory to you that there is an immediate prospect of their being
removed. Will not Miss Margaret soon be married—does not all the town see
that George Millar intends soon, if the lady prove willing, to ally himself
to your family. And supposing Emma is likewise removed, you will have
nothing left to vex you."
"That may be very true, doctor, but I do not think it is the case; if Emma
would only be tractable and obedient, she would be rather useful than
otherwise; and really she might be quite a comfort if she were better
tempered and more accommodating. But to go and say such things, to be bent
on having her own way, without caring about my convenience—to leave me with
that child in my hands, never considering my fragile health, and the
miseries I suffer, this is really more than I can bear, it puts me in a
nervous tremor which is very bad for me. See how my hand shakes still."
"I see," said the gentleman, contenting himself this time with simply
looking at the hand extended to him. "But now I must wish you good
morning—remember my prescriptions and pray keep quiet."
The rest of the day was spent by Mrs. Watson shut up
tête-à-tête with Margaret, bewailing her hard fate
in having such a husband and such a tiresome sister; she would not go down
to dinner, but indulged in a quiet little regale in her own bed-room of
some dainties of a very superior order to the plain boiled beef and suet
pudding, which was the family meal. Her husband took refuge with some
friends, and Elizabeth and Emma spent another quiet evening together,
during which Elizabeth, with open-hearted warmth, confided to her sister
how very much she liked George Millar, and how sanguine were her hopes that
George Millar did not dislike her. She had seen a great deal more of him
than Emma, for their walk to the farm had only been the precursor of
several others to different places, and they had enjoyed them all
exceedingly. He had not actually proposed to her yet, but he had both said
and done things which led her to expect that such a termination to their
acquaintance was in his contemplation. All this was truly the subject of
rejoicing to Emma, especially as she was convinced from what she had both
seen and heard of George Millar, that he was not a man to draw back from an
implied engagement, and hold himself privileged to carry his actions to any
point of particularity, provided he never committed himself by word. It was
true, had it been her taste to be consulted, she would have
preferred a quieter person, one more inclined to study and literature, and
in every respect more refined; but Elizabeth would indeed be well matched,
and the happiness of thinking this, led her to reflect with pleasure even
on their visit at Croydon, painful as it had been to herself in most
respects.
.sp 4
.h2 id=v2ch13
CHAPTER XIII.
.sp 2
The next morning was ushered in with less of domestic tempest than the
last; Mrs. Watson was tired of her own room, and quite ready to come down
stairs and mix in the world; she was perfectly amiable to-day, with only
the drawback of being a little sulky to her husband, and exceedingly
snappish to his sisters, except to Emma, whom she did not condescend to
address at all. Emma thought this silence decidedly better than the form of
invective which was the usual address to her, so that on the whole, the day
passed with tolerable comfort and peace to those concerned.
That afternoon, Mrs. Watson having occasion to send a note to an
acquaintance residing nearly a mile from the town, she chose to employ Emma
as a messenger, ordering her at the same time, to be sure and not allow
Janetta to over fatigue herself, but to carry her if the poor child was
tired.
The way led them through pleasant fields, and as the aunt and niece were
quietly sauntering along, the little girl filling her hands with daisies,
or stopping to watch the birds flitting in the hedgerow, they were again
overtaken by Mr. Morgan, who seemed prepared to join their walk. Emma
coloured deeply, and was considerably embarrassed by the recollection of
what Elizabeth had said about him. They had passed his house on their way,
and she could not but suspect that his joining them was the result of
design, not accident. With the vanity common to men, he completely
misinterpreted the blushes and embarrassment of the pretty girl who
interested him so much, and he fancied he was giving her peculiar pleasure,
when, after enquiring how far they were going, he assured her that his way
led in the same direction, and that he should be most happy to escort her.
Had she not been charged with the note from Jane, she would immediately
have turned back, but she had no recourse, and as she had not courage to
desire him to leave her, she saw nothing to be done but to submit in as
quiet and unconcerned a manner as possible.
"I hope," said he presently, "you do not feel any the worse for the
excitement and agitation which you went through yesterday."
She thanked him rather coldly, and replied she was very well. But he was
not to be so repulsed. He was bent on making himself agreeable to her, and
with a quick perception of the readiest means, long practice, and no
scruples on the subject, it was no wonder that he succeeded. There was just
the proper air of interest, joined to a respectful deference, at the same
time that he showed by his intimate knowledge of the family concerns, that
he was completely in the confidence of her sister-in-law, and deserving to
be treated as a friend of the family. The sympathy which he seemed
endeavouring vainly to suppress, and the knowledge of her situation and
difficulties, which he allowed her to discover he possessed, all tended to
throw her off her guard, and to abate the cold indifference with which she
meant to have treated him.
He was so kind—so considerately and properly kind—and then both her brother
and sister had allowed him to be so much connected with their affairs, that
it was impossible to repulse him, and gradually, she hardly knew how, she
found herself led on to speak to him with openness, which he in reality
little deserved.
Mr. Morgan was a man of no principles, whose ruling passion was vanity—and
this passion with him took one particular turn; he liked to be beloved by
all the women of his acquaintance. The self-complacency excited by the
worship of a woman, was to him the most agreeable feeling in the world. He
did not flirt merely for an idle amusement, like Tom Musgrove, with an
entire indifference to the feelings he excited; but he made downright
serious, but clandestine love to nearly all the good-looking women with
whom his practice brought him acquainted. He liked of all things to watch
the gradual growth of an ardent love in the unsuspecting heart, and more
than one interesting girl had had occasion to rue the day when illness had
first brought her acquainted with Mr. Morgan—more than one young wife had
been hurried abruptly from the neighbourhood, as was whispered, because her
husband thought her too fond of the Doctor. Yet so well had he managed, and
so general was the admiration he excited, that he never bore a
fraction of the blame which was unsparingly bestowed on the victims of his
arts. This was the man, who struck by Emma's beauty, and seeing her
helpless situation, had formed a deliberate plan to gain her affections,
though what was to follow when she was thus added to his list of triumphs,
he had not quite determined. One thing was certain, he did not mean to
marry her; but the necessary evils to which he saw she was exposed, laid
her he imagined, peculiarly open to temptation, and he certainly indulged
in hopes and speculations, for which even the phlegmatic Robert would have
kicked him out of the house, had they chanced to come to his knowledge. One
great object in his attempt to remove her to Lady Fanny Allston's was, that
it would give him so great an advantage over her. Lady Fanny and her
daughter were both invalides, and he was in the habit of visiting them
every day. This, could he place Emma there, was an important step, as it
would bring him in the most advantageous position before her eyes. She
would see no one else. Shut up for weeks together with an ailing child, her
only recreation being an hour's drive in the pony chaise every morning, she
would soon learn to look forward to his visit as the great event of the
day. He should see her eyes sparkle at his approach, and feel her hand
gently tremble as he pressed it. Such had been the case with her
predecessor, and now that the poor girl had lost her health and spirits
from disappointed affections and heart-sickening anxiety, he was coldly
turning to seek another to supply her place. Little did Emma, as she
listened to his sentiments of sympathy, his professions of philosophy, or
his insinuations of warm interest, suspect the real motive of his actions
and his friendship. His age, so much greater than hers, prevented her
supposing he would feel attachment, and her own preference for Mr. Howard
was a safeguard to her own affections.
After conversing some time with great apparent interest on the subject of
education, as appropriate to her peculiar calling, he gradually turned it
in an almost imperceptible way to the scene of yesterday. The necessity of
subduing passion, and the dreadful effects of it when unrestrained,
naturally brought on a comment on the conduct of her sister-in-law. It was
shocking, he protested, to think of such violence; it made his heart bleed
to imagine what a mild and gentle-tempered girl must undergo when dependent
on such a relative. Hers was a heavy hand as he had experienced; he was
delighted that he had warded off one blow from her, he only wished he could
more effectually protect her from the other hardships of her lot.
Emma assured him that such a scene had never occurred before, and probably
would never do so again; that he greatly magnified the evils of her
situation, and that she really did not require such intense sympathy as he
seemed inclined to bestow on her. This, so far from stopping him, only
brought on a more decided eulogium upon the sweetness of temper which could
endure such tyranny, and the self-denial which must be practised daily to
live in peace with one who could practise it. How much farther his
compliments would have carried him is not known, as they arrived at the
lodge-gate, and Emma was obliged to interrupt him to deliver the note which
formed her errand. Now she expected to part company, but to her great
surprise, she found on turning her steps homewards, that he was still at
her elbow, and that he seemed resolved to continue the conversation as well
as the walk. What was still more provoking, Janetta claimed his assistance
to carry her again, and Emma had no alternative but to continue with him;
and as he caught up the child with glee, and an appearance of positive
enjoyment.
"This, my dear Miss Emma," said he, "is a trouble which, I trust, you will
not long have to endure; at Lady Fanny's you will not be expected to do any
thing which would be more properly entrusted to a servant. You will be Miss
Alston's companion, not her slave; and I shall, indeed, rejoice to see it
so."
Emma thanked him with a sincerity rather greater, perhaps, than his own,
but she could not help heartily wishing that he would demonstrate his
interest in some other way than in walking home with her; she was in
continual dread of meeting some one who would know her; for, though she
really saw no harm in it herself, yet after what Elizabeth had said, she
was afraid of being misinterpreted or misjudged. He parted from her at the
entrance of the town, and Emma returned in some trepidation homewards.
The whole town of Croydon was, shortly after, thrown into a ferment, by the
announcement that George Millar, the rich, the popular, the good-looking
George Millar, was engaged—actually engaged to be married to Elizabeth
Watson.
It was so extraordinary, so incredible, so unheard of, that a young woman
like Elizabeth Watson—not so very young—for she was at least thirty, they
said, if not more—who had never been handsome, and was now decidedly
faded—without money, for every one knew she was dependent on her brother—in
short, with none of the requisites for matrimony, except a pleasing person,
an amiable and unselfish disposition, good temper, and a most affectionate
heart, that such a girl should have presumed to try for George Millar's
hand! and should have had the effrontery to accept him when he offered! She
was a stranger, an interloper—and for her to come, and thus carry off in
triumph, their best beau, it was too bad; as the oldest Miss Morgan
observed to one of her intimate friends, she was sure there was more than
they understood in the business; and she should like to know where they
were to look for husbands if their fellow townsmen deserted them in
that way for strange faces. It was the more hard upon Miss Morgan, because
she had been so very kind to the children; she had more than once asked
them to drink tea, and often kissed her hand to them from the drawing-room
window. Their houses were exactly opposite, and it would be too much to be
forced to sit in contemplation of another mistress ruling in the house
where she had long expected to reign supreme.
It was the elder young ladies of the neighbourhood who felt the affront
most keenly; and were most bitter against Miss Watson. They had long
regarded Mr. Millar as the lawful property of one of themselves; ever since
the second month after his wife's death; and, unfortunately for their peace
of mind, Mrs. Turner's habit of flattering every one, had given rise to
hopes in their minds, which it now seemed never would be realised. The
younger ladies felt it much less acutely; for, as a widower and a man
verging on forty, they regarded George Millar as a little past his youthful
and interesting days, but they felt for their friends and their sisters,
and sympathised in their indignation. Had Miss Watson been a stranger, in
reality, the affair would have been more endurable; had she been married
from Winston, for instance, they would have welcomed her to Croydon with
tolerable cordiality—nay, perhaps, with absolute enthusiasm. She might have
been pictured then in their imaginations with no colours less brilliant
than those belonging to a gay wedding, and making her first appearance in
new finery, she would probably have won popularity immediately.
But now, the case was very different; it had all passed before their own
eyes, so they naturally suspected something quite wrong, and Mrs. Watson
was involved in the blame—as it was supposed she must have aided to win the
point by some skilful manœuvring.
It was so unnatural, so improbable, that, out of four sisters, three should
be engaged to be married, that Miss Morgan declared, over and over again,
that she could not, and would not believe it happened in the due course of
events. There must be something wrong about those Watsons, and she was
determined to find it out.
Elizabeth was very unsuspicious of the storm her engagement had raised, but
went about as usual with a smiling face, looking forward to the termination
of her residence with her brother, with peculiar satisfaction—and rejoicing
especially, because she had a plan in her head for the advantage of Emma.
This was no less than that Emma should reside with them; and since she was
resolved against spending her life in idleness, that she should consent to
superintend the education of Mr. Millar's little girls—for which task,
Elizabeth felt she was more competent than herself. In the meantime, she
did not mention it to her, until their own plans were arranged with a
little more certainty, and the time of their wedding fixed; at present,
they could only say that it should not take place for a couple of months at
least.
A day or two after this grand event becoming known, Mr. Morgan called on
Mrs. Watson and found her little girl in the room. After praising and
caressing the child, he asked her if she should like to ride a donkey; and
turning to the mother with a winning smile, he added, that he had a very
beautiful Spanish donkey, for which, at present, he had no occasion—that it
was quite at the service of her charming daughter—for whom, he was
convinced, the exercise would be peculiarly salutary. He, therefore, begged
she would make use of it as her own. Mrs. Watson gratefully assented;
to-morrow Janetta should have a ride—but the little girl cried out for
to-day—she would go to-day—aunt Emma must take her out to-day—and she
always had her own way with her mother—and as Mr. Morgan was merely
following out a concerted plan, she of course, carried her point; and,
whilst she went up-stairs to make her aunt get ready for the excursion, the
gentleman hurried away to give orders to prepare the donkey. In about half
an hour, Janetta had the delight of seeing the promised animal at the door,
with a beautiful new saddle and white bridle, and she clapped her hands
with ecstasy as the doctor's foot-boy placed her on, hardly sitting
sufficiently still to allow him to fasten the strap in front of the Spanish
saddle. Emma felt extremely reluctant to go; she feared Mr. Morgan might
again join them, and tried hard to persuade Margaret to accompany her; but
Margaret "hated walking like a nurse-maid after the child," and Elizabeth
being out, Emma had no alternative but to set out alone.
The foot-boy said his master had ordered him to go with them to see how the
donkey went, and to save Miss Watson any trouble. Emma rejoiced at this
announcement—although it seemed to her, so unreasonable an encroachment on
Mr. Morgan's obliging temper, that she half dreaded lest her sister-in-law
should decline the lad's services. Mrs. Watson, however, accepted it all as
if, in allowing the favour to be confirmed, she were in reality the giver,
instead of the receiver of the benefit. She seemed rather to expect that he
would be grateful that his donkey had the honour of carrying her little
girl.
Emma's anticipations proved perfectly correct, for they met Mr. Morgan
again, and he again, uninvited, prepared to accompany them. She resolved
that this should not occur another time, as she determined at once to speak
to her brother, representing how extremely unpleasant it was for her to be
daily sent out walking where she was exposed to be joined by any one in
this way, and begging that in future the duty of walking out with Janetta
might devolve on one of the maids, when neither of her sisters could
accompany her. If it had not been that she feared it was wrong, she would
have enjoyed the walk extremely, as the day was fresh and invigorating,
whilst her companion was particularly pleasant. She found his conversation
both instructive and amusing, and as Janetta, on her donkey, kept a little
a-head of them, they were free from the incessant calls on her attention
with which the child usually interrupted them.
Their tête-à-tête did not, as usual, conclude at the
suburbs of the town, for emboldened probably by habit, he walked straight
home with her, with only the precaution of placing himself on one side of
Janetta; and lifting the child off at the door, he carried her in triumph
to her mother. Emma expected and hoped that some notice would be taken of
his having accompanied them, as she rather hesitated about introducing the
subject; but Mrs. Watson seemed satisfied with believing that it was a
refined compliment to herself through her child, as if a man of his age
could take such pleasure in the society of a girl not yet out of babyhood.
Emma was therefore firmly resolved to speak to Robert on the subject, and
that afternoon, finding him alone in the parlour, she, with some
hesitation, introduced the point. He heard her with considerable surprise.
"Well," said he, when she seemed to have done, "what do you want or expect
me to do? what's all this to me, child?"
"I want you, brother, to persuade Jane not to send me out without a maid or
some other companion, that I may not be exposed to long walks with him."
"But what harm does Morgan do you, I should like to know—are you afraid he
will eat you up—or what do you fear?" enquired he, in a very discouraging
tone.
"I am afraid it may excite observation and unpleasant reports, if I am seen
repeatedly walking with a single man," replied poor Emma, not liking to say
that she thought wrong what Robert seemed to regard as so innocent.
"Pooh, pooh, child—don't be absurd and prudish—there's no use in setting
yourself up for an immaculate young lady. I don't believe but that you like
it all the time, and are only wanting a little domestic persecution to make
you more interesting. I am not going to indulge you, so you must find out
some other way of making a martyr of yourself."
"Indeed, you are quite mistaken; but I do not think it right to throw
myself in the way of any man as I am obliged to do with regard to him, and
I would rather not go out of the house for a month than continue, as I have
done, meeting him."
"Morgan's a very good kind of fellow, and will do you no harm," repeated
Robert, as if rather at a loss what else to say; and Emma, thinking she saw
symptoms of wavering in his tone, began to hope that she should carry her
point, when Jane entered the room, and her husband at once appealed to her.
Emma's astonishment was great at the way in which she took it. She had
expected she would be angry at her walking with Mr. Morgan; but that was
not the case; her indignation seemed only roused by the fact of her wanting
to evade the walking at all: she was in a great passion at this.
"A very pretty thing indeed, Miss Emma Watson—a very pretty thing, that you
are to be fancying yourself too grand and too great to walk out with my
child—want a servant sent after you, do you—I wonder what your ladyship
will want next—upon my word, for such a little saucy minx as you, to be
giving yourself such airs, is rather too good, I must say."
"I have no wish to give myself airs—I only want—" but she was not allowed
to finish the sentence.
"You don't wish this, and you don't wish that—and you only
want something quite different from what I order—I see what it is, Miss, I
know you want to be mistress, that's all—and if Mr. Morgan does walk with
you, where's the harm of that?—are you such a conceited creature as to
fancy it is your beauty which charms him?—depend upon it, you are
very safe with him. It's for my child that he comes—out of compliment to
me, of course—so don't you go pluming yourself upon his attentions, or
expecting anything to come of that—you are greatly mistaken if you think
him in love with you, I can answer for it."
"I never, for a moment, supposed such a thing," replied Emma, with a
spirit, which was roused by her sister's injustice; "but I am sure that it
is not correct or respectable to be walking repeatedly alone with any
gentleman, even one of Mr. Morgan's age and character; and I have a
right, whilst I live with you, to have my respectability of
appearance attended to."
Mrs. Watson stood with a face of scarlet and her mouth open, contemplating
Emma as she spoke with unaccustomed energy—she seemed almost to mistrust
her senses at hearing such words, but Emma's firmness quite appalled her,
and she actually did not know what to say. Seeing she was silent Emma
added:
"Therefore, for the present, I must beg that when one of my sisters cannot
accompany me, you will send the maid in my place; when in company with any
one else, I shall have no objection to walk with Janetta as usual."
"Oh, well," said Jane after some hesitation, "as you wish it so much, I
will see what I can do, and perhaps Martha may walk with Janetta
to-morrow."
Emma thanked her, and the entrance of her sisters, fortunately prevented
farther discussion.
Emma was rather surprised that she heard no more from Lady Fanny Allston,
but the fact was, her ladyship was ill, and quite incapable of exerting
herself in any way; therefore her engagement with Emma was forced to remain
unsettled, until she recovered sufficient strength to think again.
Relieved from the care of Janetta's walk the next day, Emma enjoyed the
treat of accompanying Elizabeth and the two Millars, during a stroll in the
country. Annie of course was her companion, and she found it a very
charming change from the incessant trouble of looking after a young child.
They talked much of Elizabeth's future prospects, and of Annie's
likewise—she was delighted at the idea of the marriage, and anticipated
with pleasure the society of a sister. She told Emma she had hardly known
George's first wife, as she had been at school until after her death, and
often spent her holidays with her own mother's relations; but since there
would now be a chaperone for her on all occasions, her home would be much
pleasanter.
At the same time, she confided to Emma her secret wonder that any woman
should marry at all. Excepting her own brother, she did not believe there
existed a single man in the world good enough to serve as a reasonable
excuse for a woman becoming his slave. Emma remonstrated and protested at
this idea, but Annie laughed and persisted: she asserted that nearly all
men were dreadful and selfish, and that as it was impossible to be
thoroughly acquainted with their dispositions until after marriage, and it
was then too late to change, it was much better not to take the fatal step,
but to continue mistress of oneself and one's fortune. She never meant to
marry—that was her firm determination. Emma suggested that she might fall
in love—but Annie protested again that the fall, which she considered a
serious fall indeed, was only the effect of a pre-disposition to
commit matrimony, and that where the mind was firmly made up, as hers was,
on the subject, there could not be the slightest danger of such an
accident.
Emma smiled and said time would show, whilst Annie drew an animated picture
of the miseries of matrimony, dwelling on all the little trifles which she
could imagine or recollect, to convince her companion of the wretchedness
of the state. In spite of the nonsense she talked, Emma liked her very
much, and was quite sorry when their walk came to a termination.
Several days passed quietly, and there was, during that time, no solitary
walk for Emma; one of her sisters was her constant companion, and sometimes
Janetta accompanied her mother, sometimes went out with the maid. Neither
did Mr. Morgan plague her any more, they passed two or three times on the
road, but a friendly bow was all the intercourse they had together; and
when he called on Mrs. Watson, which Emma rather thought occurred pretty
often, she never saw him.
Her first interview was on the occasion of his coming to take a quiet
dinner, and the cause of his being asked to do so was so grand an event, as
to throw his presence quite into the shade. It was nothing less than the
first visit of Tom Musgrove to his betrothed. He had written to say he was
coming down to Croydon, and the announcement threw Margaret into such a
state of trepidation and nervous excitement, as to make Mr. Morgan and a
composing draught absolutely necessary for her. She was very near fainting
when she received the letter, and indeed was only prevented by not knowing
how to manage it. Her next idea was to go out, and see how many of her
acquaintance she could meet with, either in the street or their own houses,
to whom she might impart the interesting intelligence. She had intense
gratification in assuring them of the nervous tremors, the palpitations,
the painful excitement, the strain on the mental energies, the soft
sensibility, the affecting circumstances, and all other sentiments and
weaknesses, with which she was pleased to charge herself. She viewed with
much satisfaction, the envy and mortification with which her joyous
prospects were viewed by her sweet young friends; and the more cool and
indifferent they appeared, the more she enjoyed expatiating on her own
delightful situation. Some she kindly congratulated, because they had now
experienced her agitating feelings, some she fondly caressed, because she
could see they would feel the same in a similar situation, and some she
triumphantly hoped might ever be blessed with prospects as bright as her
own.
In all this excitement, Emma and her walks were nearly forgotten, and she
was suddenly asked, as a special favour, to take Janetta out for half an
hour. She could not refuse, and had the satisfaction of going and returning
without seeing any thing of Mr. Morgan, or encountering any acquaintance
whomsoever. This gave her courage, and she began to think her fears and
scruples were as imaginary as Jane had assumed them to be.
.ni
.sp 4
.ce
END OF VOL. II.
.pb
.sp 4
.nf c
THE YOUNGER SISTER, VOL III.
.nf-
.sp 4
.h2 id=v3ch01
CHAPTER I.
.sp 2
.pi
.nr psi 1.0em
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 tête-à-tête 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 prolonged absence 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
not have expected, from what I know, that you would be
charmed with him."
"From what you know of him or of me?" inquired Emma.
"Of you both, but especially of you: it is not for nothing that I
have been studying your character, and I am convinced that a man who would
attract you, 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 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 she 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 tête-à-tête 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 tête-à-tête" 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 out
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 might;
indeed of course we should 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.
She 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 not 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."
"You—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 must 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 your 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 tête-à-tête 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 our 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 me 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 very
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 now and
here 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 know 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 that 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 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 very 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 one 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 me 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 have not
time 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
tête-à-tête 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 where 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 how 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 so 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 not see, or from wilful blindness she would 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 him, 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:
"That 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 secure 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 my 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 her 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 bouquet 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 his 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 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;
your good sense, your 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
some friends left—my loss of fortune has not entailed the loss of
all 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 you 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
.in 4
.nf
"Friends in all the old you meet,
And brothers in the young."
.nf-
.in 0
.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 unhappy, 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 can 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 her 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
she 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 did 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
my 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, 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 how 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, "my 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, you 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 will 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 now, 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 you 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 more 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 always feel myself de trop when
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
your 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 you 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, tête-à-tête 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 me here; but I could not help coming.
You see we have got her 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 now—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—we 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,
"Fanny Carr 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 he 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 might
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 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 you 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 never 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 was 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 do 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 all 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 you," answered Tom, gallantly,
"I could 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 tête-à-tête 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 she 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 not a right to love her—have I
not a right to win her if I can? Though I am but a poor parson and
you are a peer, surely she 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 her feelings prevented me!"
"Then you are now 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
friend, 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 you 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 negotiator,"
replied Miss Carr with emphasis, "it was very friendly of him, no
doubt, to interest himself in your concerns; single men are often
friendly 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 ménage, 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 fête champêtre. I am certain we
could manage it; and the novelty of the thing would give it great
éclat."
"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 fête-champêtres 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 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 almost, 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
cavalier-servante, namely a doctor. Her
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 sans tache et sans reproche, 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
tête-à-tête 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 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
mise en pièce."
"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 tête-à-tête; 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
fête 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 marquée, 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 fête 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
fête—she always had such good luck at her
fête. 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 was 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 was 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
.in 4
.nf
"O'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown."
.nf-
.in 0
.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
.in 4
.nf
"Wisest, discreetest, virtuousest, best."
.nf-
.in 0
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, faute de mieux,
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 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 is 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 my
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 you 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 you 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 you, 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 you. 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 her
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 you
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
dead. 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
right 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
had 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 that 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 did 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 did 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,
she 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
know 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
fête, 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 was 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 not 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 me."
She spoke hurriedly, without considering the full value of her words; but
he 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, our 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 felt 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 did refuse me, and I loved her the
better for it, for it was entirely for your 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 know
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 tête-à-tête 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 sotto voce 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—
.in 4
.nf
"I have been in love three days,
And shall be three days more."
.nf-
.in 0
.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
bon-bons 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;
we, you know, are your nearest relations, and under certain
circumstances, we 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 fête, 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 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 that 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 will not—you cannot 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 no
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, "that 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 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 him 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 his 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 vis-à-vis,
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 not have thought of constancy as your
particular forte. 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 you 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 her; 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 you, 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 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 you are angry with me; have I sinned unpardonably?"
"I am not angry" 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 shall hear me; you shall answer
me by heaven!—Who has wronged me in your opinion?"
"Mr. Morgan, let go my hand—is this 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 love!"
"And if I do—what concern is that of yours?" retorted she.
"Of mine, it is everything in the world to me—you love
me—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 me; I am your equal in birth and education—aye! and in
taste and mental qualities too—and happily possessed of the fortune which
you 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, my
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 have said enough, Mr. Morgan, to warrant my
speaking plainly—and I will speak—from what extraordinary perversion
of reasoning, you have persuaded yourself I loved you I cannot tell,
but I trust you will believe me once for all—when I say my feelings
are entirely the reverse of yours—and when I add—I love and am
engaged 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."
"Tears, 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
T. C. Newby, Printer, 30, Welbeck-street, Cavendish-sq.
.pb
.sp 2
.rj 2
30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square,
London.
.sp 2
.nf c
MR. NEWBY'S NEW WORKS.
Now ready in Two Vols.
THE
LADY OF THE BED-CHAMBER.
A Novel. By Mrs. CRAWFORD.
.nf-
.pi
.nr psi 1.0em
This is a very excellently-written novel, and in tone and manner is far
above the ordinary standard of fashionable fictions that are still so
prodigal in their number. The title of the story does not imply the depth,
the intensity, and the fine passion which it certainly embodies, because it
is far more suggestive of gilded folly, of brilliant vanity and of
meretricious attraction. In itself, however, it is a worthy evidence of the
talents for authorship which the fair writer undoubtedly possesses. The
dialogues are good, the plots excellent, and bears upon them more than the
impress of probability. The descriptions are true to nature, when speaking
of nature and form, otherwise, absolute pictures in themselves, worthy the
pencils of Watteau or Laneret, or any of those charming triflers which the
age (and the one subsequent) of the grand monarque,
produced.... In the Italian scenery and in the Italian intrigue, there is a
freshness and attraction which the reader will find in these pages much to
his sympathies, while the fidelity and tact with which the accessories of
place, and character are blended together, constitute not the least
attractive charm of a very charming tale.—Despatch.
.sp 2
.nf c
2
In Three Vols.
OUR GUARDIAN.
A Novel. By Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel,
.nf-
One of the most striking and admirable traits of the authoress, is the
strength and yet severe simplicity of the diction. The reputation which
Mrs. Daniel has already obtained by her former works, such as 'My sister
Minnie,' 'Poor Cousin,' &c. will be considerably increased by the real
merits of this novel. Our extracts will give a fair specimen of Mrs.
Daniel's literary power.... Dispatch.
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
class.—Atlas.
.sp 2
.nf c
3
In Three Vols.
SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE.
By the Author of 'Lady Granard's Nieces.'
.nf-
.sp 2
.nf c
4
In Three Vols.
THE GOLDEN CALF.
.nf-
'It is a general attack upon all persons who have rendered their names well
known by railway enterprise. It will excite a sensation in drawing-rooms,
counting-houses, and circulating-libraries.'—Morning Herald.
.sp 2
.nf c
5
Price 5/.
THE NEW CHRISTMAS TALE
CHRISTMAS SHADOWS,
A TALE OF THE DISTRESSED NEEDLEWOMEN.
.nf-
The way in which it is worked out is worthy of Dickens in his happiest
moments—the scenes are graphic and life-like, and there are touches of deep
pathos and strokes of humour which bespeak a master hand.—Gloucester
Standard.
We have few Christmas books this season. The 'Shadows,' is the largest we
have seen. It is a very neat volume got up in the style of Dickens's works,
and well written.... The illustrations are good and numerous.... The
passages in the world of spirits, contain remarkably powerful writing....
The book will be popular.—Tait's Magazine.
It carries with it an excellent moral in favor of the working classes, and
especially of females doomed to starvation of the needle.—Literary
Gazette.
.sp 2
.nf c
6
In 2 Vols.,
LIFE'S SUNSHINE.
A Novel. By Miss M. H. RATHBONE.
.nf-
.sp 2
.nf c
7
In Three Vols.
THE UNCLE'S LEGACY.
A Novel. By John B. TORR, Esq.
.nf-
Mr. Torr's pictures of rural scenes are charming and life like as the
farm-yard of Moreland, but elevated and refined by an accomplished
taste.—Court Journal.
In all his pages there is an honest, cordial, healthy English morality. The
novel merits perusal.... Morning Herald.
This novel possesses a merit to which few of the present day even pretend
... its story is exceedingly well constructed.... Atlas.
.sp 2
.nf c
8
In Three Vols.
ROUGH AND SMOOTH.
By the Author of 'Recollections of a French
Marchioness.'
.nf-
.sp 2
.nf c
9
Now ready. In One Vol. 8vo.
Price 14/.
CIRCASSIA;
OR,
A TOUR TO THE CAUCASUS
By G. Leighton Ditson Esq.
.nf-
.sp 2
.nf c
10
In Three Vols.
KINGSCONNELL.
A Novel. By Mrs. GORDON.
Author of 'The Fortunes of the Falconers.'
.nf-
.sp 2
.nf c
Now ready. In three Vols.
THE
FOREST AND THE FORTRESS
A ROMANCE OF THE 19th. CENTURY
BY Miss LAURA JEWRY.
Author of 'The Ransom,' 'The Vassal,' &c.
.nf-
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
romance readers, can venture upon perusing the first chapter, without
feeling deeply interested in the progress of the tale, and anxious to
proceed with it to its close. In the perusal of this romance, there is the
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.
.sp 2
.nf c
12
In Three Vols. 8vo., price 31s. 6d.,
RIZZIO.
EDITED By G. P. R. JAMES, Esq.
.nf-
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.
.sp 2
.nf c
13
In Three Vols.
MATERNAL LOVE.
A Novel. By Mrs. LOUDON.
.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 Word combinations that appeared with and without hyphens were changed \
to the predominant form if it could be determined.
.it Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant \
form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.
.it "beant" volume I, page 70, word retained. A contraction of be not, probably. \
See also "woant" on volume I, page 143.
.it The spelling of Shakespeare was corrected. There were two instances of the \
name, one spelled correctly, the other incorrectly.
.it The second chapter of volume II was relabeled from CHAPTER XIII to CHAPTER \
II.
.it Volume 3, page 223: Rosa changed to Fanny ("You give me more credit than I \
deserve a great deal, Fanny;)
.ul-
.ul-