A week or ten days rolled quietly away after this visit before any
new bustle arose to interrupt even for half a day the tranquil and
affectionate intercourse of the two sisters, whose mutual regard
was increasing with the intimate knowledge of each other which such
intercourse produced. The first circumstance to break in on their
security was the receipt of a letter from Croydon to announce the
speedy return of Margaret, and a visit of two or three days from Mr and
Mrs Robert Watson, who undertook to bring her home and wished to see
their sister Emma.
It was an expectation to fill the thoughts of the sisters at Stanton,
and to busy the hours of one of them at least; for, as Jane had been
a woman of fortune, the preparations for her entertainment were
considerable; and as Elizabeth had at all times more goodwill than
method in her guidance of the house, she could make no change without
a bustle. An absence of fourteen years had made all her brothers and
sisters strangers to Emma, but in her expectation of Margaret there was
more than the awkwardness of such an alienation; she had heard things
which made her dread her return; and the day which brought the party to
Stanton seemed to her the probable conclusion of almost all that had
been comfortable in the house.
Robert Watson was an attorney at Croydon in a good way of business;
very well satisfied with himself for the same, and for having married
the only daughter of the attorney to whom he had been clerk, with a
fortune of six thousand pounds. Mrs Robert was not less pleased with
herself for having had that six thousand pounds, and for being now in
possession of a very smart house in Croydon, where she gave genteel
parties, and wore fine clothes. In her person there was nothing
remarkable; her manners were pert and conceited. Margaret was not
without beauty; she had a slight pretty figure, and rather wanted
countenance than good features; but the sharp and anxious expression
of her face made her beauty in general little felt. On meeting her
long-absent sister, as on every occasion of show, her manner was all
affection and her voice all gentleness; continual smiles and a very
slow articulation being her constant resource when determined on
pleasing.
She was now “so delighted to see dear, dear Emma,” that she could
hardly speak a word in a minute.
“I am sure we shall be great friends,” she observed, with much
sentiment, as they were sitting together. Emma scarcely knew how to
answer such a proposition, and the manner in which it was spoken she
could not attempt to equal. Mrs Robert Watson eyed her with much
familiar curiosity and triumphant compassion; the loss of the aunt’s
fortune was uppermost in her mind at the moment of meeting; and she
could not but feel how much better it was to be the daughter of a
gentleman of property in Croydon than the niece of an old woman who
threw herself away on an Irish captain. Robert was carelessly kind, as
became a prosperous man and a brother; more intent on settling with the
post-boy, inveighing against the exorbitant advance in posting, and
pondering over a doubtful half-crown, than on welcoming a sister who
was no longer likely to have any property for him to get the direction
of.
“Your road through the village is infamous, Elizabeth,” said he; “worse
than ever it was. By heaven! I would indict it if I lived near you. Who
is surveyor now?”
There was a little niece at Croydon to be fondly enquired after by the
kind-hearted Elizabeth, who regretted very much her not being of the
party.
“You are very good,” replied her mother, “and I assure you it went
very hard with Augusta to have us come away without her. I was forced
to say we were only going to church, and promise to come back for her
directly. But you know it would not do to bring her without her maid,
and I am as particular as ever in having her properly attended to.”
“Sweet little darling,” cried Margaret. “It quite broke my heart to
leave her.”
“Then why was you in such a hurry to run away from her?” cried Mrs
Robert. “You are a sad, shabby girl. I have been quarrelling with you
all the way we came, have not I? Such a visit as this I never heard
of! You know how glad we are to have any of you with us, if it be for
months together; and I am sorry (with a witty smile) we have not been
able to make Croydon agreeable this autumn.”
“My dearest Jane, do not overpower me with your raillery. You know what
inducements I had to bring me home. Spare me, I entreat you. I am no
match for your arch sallies.”
“Well, I only beg you will not set your neighbours against the place.
Perhaps Emma may be tempted to go back with us and stay till Christmas,
if you don’t put in your word.”
Emma was greatly obliged. “I assure you we have very good society at
Croydon. I do not much attend the balls, they are rather too mixed; but
our parties are very select and good. I had seven tables last week in
my drawing-room. Are you fond of the country? How do you like Stanton?”
“Very much,” replied Emma, who thought a comprehensive answer most to
the purpose. She saw that her sister-in-law despised her immediately.
Mrs Robert Watson was indeed wondering what sort of a home Emma could
possibly have been used to in Shropshire, and setting it down as
certain that the aunt could never have had six thousand pounds.
“How charming Emma is,” whispered Margaret to Mrs Robert in her most
languishing tone. Emma was quite distressed by such behaviour; and she
did not like it better when she heard Margaret five minutes afterwards
say to Elizabeth in a sharp, quick accent, totally unlike the first,
“Have you heard from Pen since she went to Chichester? I had a letter
the other day. I don’t find she is likely to make anything of it. I
fancy she’ll come back ‘Miss Penelope’ as she went.”
Such she feared would be Margaret’s common voice when the novelty of
her own appearance were over; the tone of artificial sensibility was
not recommended by the idea.
The ladies were invited upstairs to prepare for dinner. “I hope you
will find things tolerably comfortable, Jane,” said Elizabeth, as she
opened the door of the spare bed-chamber.
“My good creature,” replied Jane, “use no ceremony with me, I entreat
you. I am one of those who always take things as they find them. I hope
I can put up with a small apartment for two or three nights without
making a piece of work. I always wish to be treated quite _en famille_
when I come to see you. And now I do hope you have not been getting a
great dinner for us. Remember we never eat suppers.”
“I suppose,” said Margaret rather quickly to Emma, “you and I are to be
together; Elizabeth always takes care to have a room to herself.”
“No--Elizabeth gives me half hers.”
“Oh!” (in a softened voice, and rather mortified to find that she
was not ill-used) “I am sorry I am not to have the pleasure of your
company, especially as it makes me nervous to be much alone.”
Emma was the first of the females in the parlour again; on entering it
she found her brother alone.
“So, Emma,” said he, “you are quite the stranger at home. It must seem
odd enough for you to be here. A pretty piece of work your Aunt Turner
has made of it! By heaven! A woman should never be trusted with money.
I always said she ought to have settled something on you, as soon as
her husband died.”
“But that would have been trusting _me_ with money,” replied Emma, “and
_I_ am a woman too.”
“It might have been secured to your future use, without your having
any power over it now. What a blow it must have been upon you! To find
yourself, instead of heiress of eight thousand or nine thousand pounds,
sent back a weight upon your family, without a sixpence. I hope the old
woman will smart for it.”
“Do not speak disrespectfully of her--she was very good to me; and if
she has made an imprudent choice, she will suffer more from it herself
than _I_ can possibly do.”
“I do not mean to distress you, but you know everybody must think her
an old fool. I thought Turner had been reckoned an extraordinarily
sensible, clever man. How the devil came he to make such a will?”
“My uncle’s sense is not at all impeached in my opinion by his
attachment to my aunt. She had been an excellent wife to him. The most
liberal and enlightened minds are always the most confiding. The event
has been unfortunate, but my uncle’s memory is, if possible, endeared
to me by such a proof of tender respect for my aunt.”
“That’s odd sort of talking. He might have provided decently for his
widow, without leaving everything that he had to dispose of, or any
part of it, at her mercy.”
“My aunt may have erred,” said Emma warmly. “She _has_ erred, but my
uncle’s conduct was faultless. I was her own niece, and he left to
herself the power and the pleasure of providing for me.”
“But, unluckily, she has left the pleasure of providing for you to
your father, and without the power. That’s the long and short of the
business. After keeping you at a distance from your family for such
a length of time as must do away all natural affection among us, and
breeding you up (I suppose) in a superior style, you are returned upon
their hands without a sixpence.”
“You know,” replied Emma, struggling with her tears, “my uncle’s
melancholy state of health. He was a greater invalid than my father. He
could not leave home.”
“I do not mean to make you cry,” said Robert, rather softened--and
after a short silence, by way of changing the subject, he added: “I am
just come from my father’s room; he seems very indifferent. It will
be a sad break-up when he dies. Pity you can none of you get married!
You must come to Croydon as well as the rest, and see what you can do
there. I believe if Margaret had had a thousand or fifteen hundred
pounds, there was a young man who would have thought of her.”
Emma was glad when they were joined by the others; it was better to
look at her sister-in-law’s finery than listen to Robert, who had
equally irritated and grieved her. Mrs Robert, exactly as smart as she
had been at her own party, came in with apologies for her dress.
“I would not make you wait,” said she, “so I put on the first thing I
met with. I am afraid I am a sad figure. My dear Mr W. (to her husband)
you have not put any fresh powder in your hair.”
“No, I do not intend it. I think there is powder enough in my hair for
my wife and sisters.”
“Indeed you ought to make some alteration in your dress before dinner
when you are out visiting, though you do not at home.”
“Nonsense.”
“It is very odd you should not like to do what other gentlemen do. Mr
Marshall and Mr Hemmings change their dress every day of their lives
before dinner. And what was the use of my putting up your last new
coat, if you are never to wear it?”
“Do be satisfied with being fine yourself, and leave your husband
alone.”
To put an end to this altercation and soften the evident vexation of
her sister-in-law, Emma (though in no spirits to make such nonsense
easy) began to admire her gown. It produced immediate complacency.
“Do you like it?” said she. “I am very happy. It has been excessively
admired, but sometimes I think the pattern too large. I shall wear one
to-morrow that I think you will prefer to this. Have you seen the one I
gave Margaret?”