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.