THE YOUNGER SISTER.
A Novel
BY
MRS. HUBBACK,
IN THREE VOLUMES.—VOL. II.
LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER
30, WELBECK ST., CAVENDISH SQ.
1850.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE YOUNGER SISTER.
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.