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
on 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 her 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 the 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 was 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 bedchamber.
"My good creature," replied she, "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 a 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 pounds 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 her
the power 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 with 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 if 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---- (addressing
her husband), you have not put 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 do not like to do what other gentlemen do. Mr.
Marshall and Mr. Hemming 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 nonsense easy)
began to admire her gown. It produced immediate complacency.
"Do you like it?" she said. "I am very happy. It has been excessively
admired, but sometimes I think the pattern too large. I shall wear one
to-morrow which I think you will prefer to this. Have you seen the one
I gave Margaret?"
Dinner came, and except when Mrs. Robert looked at her husband's head,
she continued gay and flippant; chiding Elizabeth for the profusion
on the table, and absolutely protesting against the entrance of the
roast turkey, which formed the only exception to "you see your dinner."
"I do beg and entreat that no turkey may be seen to-day. I am really
frightened out of my wits with the number of dishes we have already.
Let us have no turkey, I beseech you."
"My dear," replied Elizabeth, "the turkey is roasted, and it may just
as well come in as stay in the kitchen. Besides, if it is cut, I am
in hopes my father may be tempted to eat a bit, for it is rather a
favourite dish."
"You may have it in, then, my dear; but I assure you I shan't touch it."
Mr. Watson had not been well enough to join the party at dinner, but
was prevailed on to come down and drink tea with them.
"I wish he may be able to have a game of cards to-night," said
Elizabeth to Mrs. Robert, after seeing her father comfortably seated
in his arm-chair.
"Not on my account, my dear, I beg. You know I am no card-player. I
think a snug chat infinitely better. I always say cards are very well
sometimes to break a formal circle, but one never wants them among
friends."
"I was thinking of its being something to amuse my father," said
Elizabeth, "if it was not disagreeable to you. He says his head won't
bear whist, but perhaps if we make a round game he may be tempted to
sit down with us."
"By all means, my dear creature; I am quite at your service, only do
not oblige me to choose the game, that's all. Speculation is the only
round game at Croydon now, but I can play anything. When there is only
one or two of you at home, you must be quite at a loss to amuse him.
Why do not you get him to play at cribbage? Margaret and I have played
at cribbage most nights that we have not been engaged."
A sound like a distant carriage was at this moment caught; everybody
listened; it became more decided; it certainly drew nearer. It was
an unusual sound for Stanton at any time of the day, for the village
was on no very public road, and contained no gentleman's family but
the rector's. The wheels rapidly approached, in two minutes the
general expectation was answered; they stopped beyond a doubt at the
garden-gate of the parsonage. Who could it be? It was certainly a
post-chaise. Penelope was the only creature to be thought of: she
might perhaps have met with some unexpected opportunity of returning.
A pause of suspense ensued. Steps were distinguished along the paved
footway, which led under the window of the house to the front door,
and then within the passage. They were the steps of a man. It could
not be Penelope. It must be Samuel. The door opened, and displayed Tom
Musgrave in the wrap of a traveller. He had been in London and was now
on his way home, and he had come half a mile out of his road to call
for ten minutes at Stanton. He loved to take people by surprise with
sudden visits at extraordinary seasons and, in the present instance, he
had the additional motive of being able to tell the Miss Watsons, whom
he depended on finding sitting quietly employed after tea, that he was
going home to an eight o'clock dinner.
As it happened, he did not give more surprise than he received,
when, instead of being shown into the usual little sitting-room, the
door of the best parlour (a foot larger each way than the other) was
thrown open, and he beheld a circle of smart people, whom he could not
immediately recognise, arranged with all the honours of visiting round
the fire; and Miss Watson seated at the best Pembroke table, with the
best tea-things before her.
He stood a few seconds in silent amazement. "Musgrave," ejaculated
Margaret, in a tender voice. He recollected himself, and came forward,
delighted to find such a circle of friends, and blessing his good
fortune for the unlooked-for indulgence. He shook hands with Robert,
bowed and smiled to the ladies, and did everything very prettily;
but as to any particularity of address or emotion towards Margaret,
Emma, who closely observed him, perceived nothing that did not justify
Elizabeth's opinion; though Margaret's modest smiles imported that
she meant to take the visit to herself. He was persuaded without much
difficulty to throw off his great coat and drink tea with them. For
"whether he dined at eight or nine," as he observed, "was a matter
of very little consequence"; and without seeming to seek, he did not
turn away from the chair close by Margaret, which she was assiduous in
providing him. She had thus secured him from her sisters, but it was
not immediately in her power to preserve him from her brother's claims;
for as he came avowedly from London, and had left it only four hours
ago, the last current report as to public news, and the general opinion
of the day, must be understood before Robert could let his attention
be yielded to the less rational and important demands of the women.
At last, however, he was at liberty to hear Margaret's soft address,
as she spoke her fears of his having had a most terrible cold, dark,
dreadful journey.
"Indeed, you should not have set out so late."
"I could not be earlier," he replied. "I was detained chatting at the
'Bedford' by a friend. All hours are alike to me. How long have you
been in the country, Miss Margaret?"
"We only came this morning; my kind brother and sister brought me home
this very morning. 'Tis singular--is not it?"
"You were gone a great while, were not you? A fortnight, I suppose?"
"_You_ may call a _fortnight_ a great while, Mr. Musgrave," said Mrs.
Robert, sharply; "but _we_ think a _month_ very little. I assure you we
bring her home at the end of a month much against our will."
"A month! Have you really been gone a month? 'Tis amazing how time
flies."
"You may imagine," said Margaret, in a sort of whisper, "what are my
sensations in finding myself once more at Stanton; you know what a
sad visitor I make. And I was so excessively impatient to see Emma; I
dreaded the meeting, and at the same time longed for it. Do you not
comprehend the sort of feeling?"
"Not at all," cried he, aloud. "I could never dread a meeting with Miss
Emma Watson, or any of her sisters."
It was lucky that he added that finish.
"Were you speaking of me?" said Emma, who had caught her own name.
"Not absolutely," he answered; "but I was thinking of you, as many at a
greater distance are probably doing at this moment. Fine open weather,
Miss Emma--charming season for hunting."
"Emma is delightful, is not she?" whispered Margaret; "I have found
her more than answer my warmest hopes. Did you ever see anything more
perfectly beautiful? I think even _you_ must be a convert to a brown
complexion."
He hesitated. Margaret was fair herself, and he did not particularly
want to compliment her; but Miss Osborne and Miss Carr were likewise
fair, and his devotion to them carried the day.
"Your sister's complexion," said he, at last, "is as fine as a dark
complexion can be; but I still profess my preference of a white skin.
You have seen Miss Osborne? She is my model for a truly feminine
complexion, and she is very fair."
"Is she fairer than me?"
Tom made no reply. "Upon my honour, ladies," said he, giving a glance
over his own person, "I am highly indebted to your condescension for
admitting me in such dishabille into your drawing-room. I really did
not consider how unfit I was to be here, or I hope I should have kept
my distance. Lady Osborne would tell me that I was growing as careless
as her son if she saw me in this condition."
The ladies were not wanting in civil returns, and Robert Watson,
stealing a view of his own head in an opposite glass, said with equal
civility--
"You cannot be more in dishabille than myself. We got here so late that
I had not time even to put a little fresh powder into my hair."
Emma could not help entering into what she supposed her sister-in-law's
feelings at the moment.
When the tea-things were removed, Tom began to talk of his carriage;
but the old card-table being set out, and the fish and counters, with
a tolerably clean pack brought forward from the buffet by Miss Watson,
the general voice was so urgent with him to join their party, that
he agreed to allow himself another quarter of an hour. Even Emma was
pleased that he would stay, for she was beginning to feel that a family
party might be the worst of all parties; and the others were delighted.
"What's the game?" cried he, as they stood round the table.
"Speculation, I believe," said Elizabeth. "My sister recommends it, and
I fancy we all like it. I know _you_ do, Tom."
"It is the only round game played at Croydon now," said Mrs. Robert;
"we never think of any other. I am glad it is a favourite with you."
"Oh! _me_," said Tom. "Whatever you decide on will be a favourite with
_me_. I have had some pleasant hours at speculation in my time; but I
have not been in the way of it for a long while. Vingt-un is the game
at Osborne Castle. I have played nothing but vingt-un of late. You
would be astonished to hear the noise we make there--the fine old lofty
drawing-room rings again. Lady Osborne sometimes declares she cannot
hear herself speak. Lord Osborne enjoys it famously, and he makes the
best dealer without exception that I ever beheld--such quickness and
spirit; he lets nobody dream over their cards. I wish you could see him
overdraw himself on both his own cards. It is worth anything in the
world!"
"Dear me!" cried Margaret, "why should not we play vingt-un? I think it
is a much better game than speculation. I cannot say I am very fond of
speculation."
Mrs. Robert offered not another word in support of the game. She was
quite vanquished, and the fashions of Osborne Castle carried it over
the fashions of Croydon.
"Do you see much of the parsonage family at the castle, Mr. Musgrave?"
said Emma, as they were taking their seats.
"Oh, yes; they are almost always there. Mrs. Blake is a nice, little,
good-humoured woman; she and I are sworn friends; and Howard's a very
gentlemanlike sort of fellow. You are not forgotten, I assure you, by
any of the party. I fancy you must have a little cheek-glowing now and
then, Miss Emma. Were not you rather warm last Saturday about nine or
ten o'clock in the evening? I will tell you how it was--I see you are
dying to know. Says Howard to Lord Osborne----"
At this interesting moment he was called on by the others to regulate
the game and determine some disputable point; and his attention was so
totally engaged in the business, and afterwards by the course of the
game, as never to revert to what he had been saying before; and Emma,
though suffering a good deal from curiosity, dared not remind him.
He proved a very useful addition at their table. Without him it would
have been a party of such very near relations as could have felt little
interest, and perhaps maintained little complaisance, but his presence
gave variety and secured good manners. He was, in fact, excellently
qualified to shine at a round game, and few situations made him appear
to greater advantage. He played with spirit, and had a great deal to
say; and though no wit himself, could sometimes make use of the wit of
an absent friend, and had a lively way of retailing a commonplace, or
saying a mere nothing, that had great effect at a card-table. The ways
and good jokes of Osborne Castle were now added to his ordinary means
of entertainment. He repeated the smart sayings of one lady, detailed
the oversights of another, and indulged them even with a copy of Lord
Osborne's overdrawing himself on both cards.
The clock struck nine while he was thus agreeably occupied; and when
Nanny came in with her master's basin of gruel, he had the pleasure of
observing to Mr. Watson that he should leave him at supper while he
went home to dinner himself. The carriage was ordered to the door, and
no entreaties for his staying longer could now avail; for he well knew
that if he stayed he would have to sit down to supper in less than ten
minutes, which to a man whose heart has been long fixed on calling his
next meal a dinner, was quite insupportable. On finding him determined
to go, Margaret began to wink and nod at Elizabeth to ask him to dinner
the following day; and Elizabeth at last, not able to resist hints
which her own hospitable social temper more than half seconded, gave
the invitation: "Would he give Robert the meeting, they would be very
happy?"
"With the greatest pleasure," was his first reply. In a moment
afterwards: "That is, if I can possibly get here in time; but I shoot
with Lord Osborne, and therefore must not engage. You will not
think of me unless you see me." And so he departed, delighted in the
uncertainty in which he had left it.
Margaret, in the joy of her heart, under circumstances which she
chose to consider as peculiarly propitious, would willingly have
made a confidante of Emma, when they were alone for a short time
the next morning, and had proceeded so far as to say: "The young
man who was here last night, my dear Emma, and returns to-day, is
more interesting to me than perhaps you may be aware"; but Emma,
pretending to understand nothing extraordinary in the words, made some
very inapplicable reply, and, jumping up, ran away from a subject
which was odious to her. As Margaret would not allow a doubt to be
repeated of Musgrave's coming to dinner, preparations were made for
his entertainment much exceeding what had been deemed necessary the
day before; and taking the office of superintendence entirely from her
sister, she was half the morning in the kitchen herself, directing and
scolding.
After a great deal of indifferent cooking and anxious suspense,
however, they were obliged to sit down without their guest. Tom
Musgrave never came; and Margaret was at no pains to conceal her
vexation under the disappointment, or repress the peevishness of
her temper. The peace of the party for the remainder of that day
and the whole of the next, which comprised the length of Robert and
Jane's visit, was continually invaded by her fretful displeasure and
querulous attacks. Elizabeth was the usual object of both. Margaret
had just respect enough for her brother's and sister's opinion to
behave properly by _them_, but Elizabeth and the maids could never
do right; and Emma, whom she seemed no longer to think about, found
the continuance of the gentle voice beyond calculation short. Eager
to be as little among them as possible, Emma was delighted with the
alternative of sitting above with her father, and warmly entreated to
be his constant companion each evening; and as Elizabeth loved company
of any kind too well not to prefer being below at all risks; as she had
rather talk of Croydon with Jane, with every interruption of Margaret's
perverseness, than sit with only her father, who frequently could not
endure talking at all, the affair was so settled, as soon as she could
be persuaded to believe it no sacrifice on her sister's part. To Emma,
the change was most acceptable and delightful. Her father, if ill,
required little more than gentleness and silence; and being a man of
sense and education, was, if able to converse, a welcome companion. In
_his_ chamber, Emma was at peace from the dreadful mortifications of
unequal society and family discord, and from the immediate endurance
of hard-hearted prosperity, low-minded conceit, and wrong-headed folly
engrafted on an untoward disposition. She still suffered from them in
the contemplation of their existence, in memory and in prospect, but
for the moment she ceased to be tortured by their effects. She was at
leisure; she could read and think, though her situation was hardly such
as to make reflection very soothing. The evils arising from the loss of
her uncle were neither trifling nor likely to lessen; and when thought
had been freely indulged, in contrasting the past and the present, the
employment of mind and dissipation of unpleasant ideas, which only
reading could produce, made her thankfully return to a book.