*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54066 ***

                          THE YOUNGER SISTER.


                                A Novel


                                   BY

                             MRS. HUBBACK,


                              VOLUMES 1-3.




                                LONDON:
                    THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER
                     30, WELBECK ST., CAVENDISH SQ.

                                 1850.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       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.


   _Aberystwith
   Feb._ 1850.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       THE YOUNGER SISTER, VOL I.




                               CHAPTER I.


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.




                              CHAPTER II.


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.




                              CHAPTER III.


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.




                              CHAPTER IV.


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.




                               CHAPTER V.


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.




                              CHAPTER VI.


"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.




                              CHAPTER VII.


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."




                             CHAPTER VIII.


"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.




                              CHAPTER IX.


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.




                               CHAPTER X.


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.




                              CHAPTER XI.


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.




                            END OF VOL. I.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                     THE YOUNGER SISTER, VOL II.




                               CHAPTER I.


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.




                              CHAPTER II.


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.




                              CHAPTER III.


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."

        "Sabrina, fair,
         Listen where thou art sitting—"

    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.




                              CHAPTER IV.


    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.




                               CHAPTER V.


    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:—


      "Dear Emma,

            "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.

            "Yours, etc.,

                  "E. WATSON."


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
can_not_ 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.




                              CHAPTER VI.


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.




                              CHAPTER VII.


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:


        "My dear Miss Watson,

            "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.

            "Anxiously expecting your answer,

              "I remain, dear Miss Watson,

                "Your sincere friend,

                  "ROSA OSBORNE."


      "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?"


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."




                             CHAPTER VIII.


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.




                              CHAPTER IX.


"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—

    "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."

"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.

    "Emma, elegant, enchanting,
     Merry maiden, much is wanting—"

"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.

    "My melodious muse to make
     All I wish it for thy sake."

"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.




                               CHAPTER X.


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.


      "Dear Sir,

            "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,

        "Dear Sir,

          "Yours faithfully, &c. &c."


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:


      "Dear Miss Osborne,

            "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.

            "Believe me, dear Miss Osborne,

                "Very truly yours, &c. &c."


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.


            "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."


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:


            "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."


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.




                              CHAPTER XI.


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.




                              CHAPTER XII.


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.




                             CHAPTER XIII.


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.




                           END OF VOL. II.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                     THE YOUNGER SISTER, VOL III.




                               CHAPTER I.


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.




                              CHAPTER II.


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!"




                              CHAPTER III.


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.




                              CHAPTER IV.


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.




                               CHAPTER V.


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.




                              CHAPTER VI.


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—

         "Friends in all the old you meet,
          And brothers in the young."

"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 _un_happy, I assure you," said she with spirit;
"the value I place on such fluctuating friendships is low indeed."

"In one single instance, perhaps, it may be so—but you had better not
dwell on such ideas; they will create eventually a habit of mind which
must tend to produce secret irritation and uneasiness. The allowing
yourself to think it—much more expressing that thought _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.




                              CHAPTER VII.


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.




                             CHAPTER VIII.


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.




                              CHAPTER IX.


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.




                               CHAPTER X.


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.




                              CHAPTER XI.


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

    "O'er manhood's noble head,
     O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown."

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

    "Wisest, discreetest, virtuousest, best."

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,

                    "His age is three times mine"—

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.




                              CHAPTER XII.


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.




                             CHAPTER XIII.


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."




                              CHAPTER XIV.


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.




                               CHAPTER XV


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.




                              CHAPTER XVI.


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—

    "I have been in love three days,
     And shall be three days more."

"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.




                             CHAPTER XVII.


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.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.


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.




                              CHAPTER XIX.


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.




                               THE END.




       T. C. NEWBY, Printer, 30, Welbeck-street, Cavendish-sq.

------------------------------------------------------------------------


                               30, _Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square_,
                                                               LONDON.


                        MR. NEWBY'S NEW WORKS.

                        Now ready in Two Vols.

                                 THE

                       LADY OF THE BED-CHAMBER.

                      A Novel. By MRS. CRAWFORD.

This is a very excellently-written novel, and in tone and manner is
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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,
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It exhibits Mrs. Daniel's wonted elegance of style and
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We must rank this production as one of the 'upper form,' of its
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                                  3

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                         SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE.

              By the Author of 'Lady Granard's Nieces.'


                                  4

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                           THE GOLDEN CALF.

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                                  5

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                        THE NEW CHRISTMAS TALE

                          CHRISTMAS SHADOWS,

                A TALE OF THE DISTRESSED NEEDLEWOMEN.

The way in which it is worked out is worthy of Dickens in his happiest
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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
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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._


                                  6

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                   A Novel. By MISS M. H. RATHBONE.


                                  7

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                         THE UNCLE'S LEGACY.

                    A Novel. BY JOHN B. TORR, ESQ.

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
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This novel possesses a merit to which few of the present day even
pretend ... its story is exceedingly well constructed.... _Atlas._


                                  8

                            In Three Vols.

                          ROUGH AND SMOOTH.

             By the Author of 'Recollections of a French
                            Marchioness.'


                                  9

                     Now ready. In One Vol. 8vo.
                             _Price_ 14/.
                              CIRCASSIA;
                                 OR,
                        A TOUR TO THE CAUCASUS
                      By G. Leighton Ditson Esq.


                                  10

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                       A Novel. By MRS. GORDON.
              Author of 'The Fortunes of the Falconers.'


                      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.

This is the best romance we have read since the days of Sir Walter
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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
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One of the finest, most powerful, most truthful romance of the
age.—The Naval and Military Gazette.

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                                  12

                 In Three Vols. 8vo., price 31s. 6d.,
                               RIZZIO.
                    EDITED BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

We have read it with a pleasure in which method and reason have as
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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
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which really carries the reader along.— Spectator.

These volumes will be read with avidity.—Economist.


                                  13

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                            MATERNAL LOVE.

                       A Novel. BY MRS. LOUDON.

A most amusing book.—Athenæum.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




 ● Transcriber's Notes
    ○ A few cases of inconsistent spelling were regularized.
    ○ Word combinations that appeared with and without hyphens were
      changed to the predominant form if it could be determined.
    ○ Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
      form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.
    ○ "beant" volume I, page 70, word retained. A contraction of be
      not, probably. See also "woant" on volume I, page 143.
    ○ The spelling of Shakespeare was corrected. There were two
      instances of the name, one spelled correctly, the other
      incorrectly.
    ○ The second chapter of volume II was relabeled from CHAPTER XIII
      to CHAPTER II.
    ○ Volume 3, page 223: Rosa changed to Fanny ("You give me more
      credit than I deserve a great deal, Fanny;)





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Younger Sister, Volumes 1-3, by 
Catherine Anne Austen Hubback and Jane Austen

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54066 ***