When first Robert came to Winston, Elizabeth had consulted him on the
subject of sending for Sam, but her brother opposed it. Emma had
listened in silent anxiety to the debate, and in keen disappointment
to its termination. From her sister's conversation, she had an ardent
desire to meet her unknown brother; she expected to be able to like
him—Elizabeth had, in speaking of him, told many little traits of
character, which convinced her that he must possess a generous
disposition and an affectionate heart; she longed to see him—to know
him—to be loved by him.
But Robert had decided that though he was, of course, to be informed
of his father's illness, there was no need to say any thing which
should induce him to come himself—no doubt it would be excessively
inconvenient to his master—a needless expense to himself—perfectly
undesirable in every way, and quite unnecessary; for, of what use
could Sam be when Robert himself was there. He was nobody—a younger
son—the most unimportant being in the world. As to his wishing to see
his father again, what did that signify? People could not always have
what they wished for—young men in their apprenticeship must not look
for holidays; he was sure _he_ should never have thought of any thing
of the sort whilst he was serving his articles; and now, how seldom
did he ever take a holiday from the office? Let Sam look to him and
his application to business, if he wanted an example of steadiness and
good conduct.
But Emma's wish to see her brother was not fated to be entirely
disappointed, for no sooner did he receive the news of his father's
death, than he obtained leave of absence from his master without
difficulty, and arrived unexpectedly at Winston. She was sitting alone
in the darkened parlour, when an unknown step arrested her attention;
it was not the slow, measured consequential tread of Robert; it was
quicker, lighter, more like one which had sometimes made her heart
beat before; at least so she fancied for a moment, perhaps only
because she had just been thinking of him. The footstep passed the
door, then paused, returned and entered slowly.
It was not more than the doubt of a moment, as to the identity of the
intruder; there was so strange a family likeness on each side, a
likeness of more than features, a likeness in mind and temper, a
sympathy of feeling, that the hesitation of the brother and sister was
brief indeed.
"My dear Emma, how I have longed to see you," cried he advancing, "I
am your youngest brother, will you not welcome me?"
The cordial, fraternal embrace with which the words were accompanied,
overcame her firmness, and she burst into tears in his arms. He was
much affected likewise, but struggled for composure in order to soothe
her, opened the window to give her air, brought her a glass of water
from the side-board, and then sitting down with his arm round her
waist, drew from her all the circumstances of his father's death, and
learnt that it was Robert's doing that he had not been summoned
sooner. That hour repaid Emma for much that she had suffered mentally
in her father's house. She had found a friend in her brother. The
dearest, the least selfish, the most equal bond which nature ties;
children of the same parents, sharing the same fears, the same
sorrows; from that moment was laid the foundation of an affection
which added so greatly to her happiness; feelings till then sleeping
unknown in her heart, were suddenly awakened; and affections which
almost unconsciously had been craving for subsistence, having now
found an aliment to nourish and satisfy them, grew rapidly into
strength and beauty.
One hour's delightful intercourse was theirs, before they were
interrupted by the rest of the family; but when her other sisters
entered the room, Emma could not but wonder at the indifference with
which he was received both by Pen and Margaret, and imputing to him
the sensitive feelings of her own heart, felt doubly pained by each
cold word or careless look bestowed on her new brother.
Robert's reception, however, was the worst of all.
"So you are come, are you—hum," that was his salutation.
"Yes," replied Sam quietly, "of course you were expecting me!"
"A most needless waste of time and money, I must say—a young fellow
not out of his apprenticeship, has no right to be flying over the
country in this way, without any suitable reason."
Sam controlled himself so far as not to answer.
"It's throwing away your master's time in a most unjustifiable way."
"Excuse me, Robert, Mr. Allen voluntarily gave me permission to come
here, and most kindly made me master of my own time for a week."
"Quite unnecessary, whilst you are an apprentice."
"I believe _he_ thought that even an apprentice might have feeling,"
replied Sam with emphasis.
"You might at least have asked my opinion, I think—as your elder
brother you might have consulted me, before incurring so much
expense."
"Robert, I am accountable to Mr. Allen alone for my time—as to my
pecuniary affairs, I am not answerable to you; and as to coming to
this house, Elizabeth, who is mistress here, has told me I am welcome,
and I require no more from any one. My sense of duty led me here, but
depend upon it, I will ask _your_ leave, before I intrude on your
house at Croydon."
Robert turned away, and had recourse to his usual expedient when
vexed, namely, stirring the fire into a vehement blaze. It was in
pursuance of a system of counter-irritation, by creating a greater
degree of external warmth, no doubt he counteracted the internal heat
from which he was suffering.
The whole of the week which Sam spent at home, was one of consolation
and comfort to poor Emma; he listened to all she could tell him, made
her describe her past life, talked of her uncle and aunt, questioned
her as to the effects of her change, entered into her feelings,
anticipated what they must have been, sympathised warmly in them all,
and was in fact a true, warm-hearted brother to the forlorn girl.
Together they talked of their father, praised his amiable disposition,
sorrowed for his loss; then Sam told her his prospects and wishes,
confided to her his attachment to Mary Edwards, and his wavering hopes
of success; his plans for his future subsistence, and his
anticipations of the brilliant success which was to await him in his
profession.
Emma's future prospects likewise were canvassed. He could not bear the
idea of her having to reside with Robert and his wife.
"You will tell me it's wrong, I dare say," said he, "but I detest Mrs.
Robert, she is so self-sufficient, so cold-hearted, and so
in-sincere—indeed I wish her no ill, Emma, I am not malicious; my
detestation does not go so far as that, but I cannot wish her to have
your society for a constancy—it would be thrown away on her, and she
would torment you to death."
"Oh no, I hope not; I trust if my home must be there, that I shall
have strength of mind and patience to bear with her. You must not
weaken my mind by commiseration; you should rather teach me to look
forward with hope, or at least resignation; do not pity me, that does
me harm."
Sam protested that Emma was in every respect much too good for such a
situation, and that the moment he had a house and an income, however
small, she should share it with him. Her promise to do so was as
cordially given as it was required, and her heart already felt lighter
and happier from her acquaintance with her dear brother.
When their father's will came to be examined, it appeared that it was
dated three years previously, and that of the sum of two thousand
pounds, which Mr. Watson had to bequeath, neither Emma or Robert were
to receive any share. The latter had already been put in possession of
all that he could reasonably expect, his father having made
considerable advances to establish him in business, and at the time
when the will was made, every one supposed Emma would be provided for
by her uncle, and though that expectation had been entirely
frustrated, it seemed that Mr. Watson had never summoned sufficient
energy to alter his will, and give her any share in the little he
possessed.
It did not transpire whether Robert was much disappointed at finding
he was to have no further benefit from being the eldest son; perhaps
the idea that Emma, by becoming entirely dependent on him, would be
liable to be subject to all his caprices, and might be made a complete
slave of in his house, soothed away the bitterness of his
mortification. He took leave of the family immediately, and returned
to Croydon, having arranged, that when everything was settled at
Winston, three of his sisters should follow him there; Penelope
professing it to be her intention to return to Chichester as soon as
she conveniently could. Sam's week was not yet expired, and he
remained with his sisters. The morning after Robert's departure, as
Emma and her brother were sitting together, Margaret joined them, and
sitting down beside Sam, told him with a consequential air, that she
wanted very much to consult him.
"Well, Margaret, what can I do for you?" enquired he kindly.
"I want your advice on an affair of great importance, Sam, and you
must promise to give it to me."
"Readily, Margaret, that's a thing you know everybody likes to be
asked for, so come, let's have the whole history—I will not even
require you to follow my advice when I have given it: that would be
too much altogether."
"Well, listen; I am engaged to be married—what do you think of that?"
"I will tell you when I know who it is."
"Oh, I assure you it is a very desirable match, a most excellent young
man—so amiable, and fashionable, and clever, as you will at once allow
when you hear it is—Mr. Tom Musgrove!"
"Tom Musgrove—indeed, I am surprised, Margaret—that he should marry,
and marry you, would, I own, astonish me."
"But I tell you it is a fact, Sam, we are engaged beyond all doubt,
and why you _should_ be surprised at _my_ being his choice, I cannot
understand."
"I beg your pardon, Margaret, tell me what you want my advice
about—not as to accepting him I presume?"
"No, indeed—but I am in an unfortunate situation; I am so miserable;
ever since the happy night at Osborne Castle, when he plighted his
troth to me, we have not met, and I have heard nothing of him."
"That is very extraordinary, Margaret—nothing at all—and can you not
account for it."
"No, otherwise than I am sure he is ill—nothing else could be the
reason of such unexampled silence. It was after supper when he made
the offer, and I cannot help fearing that the champagne and the
lobster salad may have been too much for his constitution."
"Did he take much champagne then?"
"Much—no, not much, that is, not enough to—to—just you know to raise
his spirits a good deal; I did not count the glasses!"
"And it was then he proposed to you—are you sure he was sober at the
time, Margaret?"
"What questions you ask, Sam—sober! you quite shock me—remember you
are talking to a young lady."
"Well, I will not forget that, but really I don't see anything so bad
in the question, and I know no more delicate way of putting it to suit
you: are you sure he was not drunk at the time?—will that do?"
"Upon my word—worse and worse, as if I should talk to a man who was
drunk, what do you take me for?"
"I am sorry to offend you, my dear sister, but I have known Tom
Musgrove a long time, and some times seen him very drunk. Indeed, in
my opinion, he is just the sort of man to make a fool of himself
first, and then of any girl who would listen to him."
"How excessively unkind you are, Sam," pouted Margaret, apparently on
the point of crying—"I am quite sure you are wrong. Tom never could or
would make a fool of me. He is not the sort of man at all; but, as I
have heard nothing of him since that evening, I wish you to go and
call on him—tell him how much pleased you are to hear of the
engagement, and beg him to come and see me—there is no occasion to
shut him out of the house, though we do not admit other visitors."
"That's your plan, is it? But suppose he declines altogether—suppose
he should say it was a dream on your part—a delusion—a mistake;
suppose that is the reason of his silence, what am I to do then?"
"Oh! if he were to do that, you must challenge him! You could not do
less for such an insult to your sister, you must send him a challenge,
and I could bring an action against him for breach of promise!"
"Well, if you mean to do that, I think I had better let the challenge
alone; because the one might interfere with the other; if I were to
shoot him, you know your action could not be brought."
"Do you mean that you will not do as I ask you?"
"Indeed I do."
"Then I think you most unkind and ungenerous; I always understood it
was a brother's duty to fight with every man who insulted his sister
or broke an engagement to her."
"But, allowing us such high privileges, my dear Margaret, I think I am
justified in requiring proof; first, that the engagement was made;
secondly, that it has been broken. I am not clear yet on either of
these points."
"I see what it is, you are determined not to help me; and I think it
very ill-natured and cowardly of you to stand by and see your sister
insulted and robbed of her best affections, and not interfere the
least for her sake."
"Indeed, my dear Margaret, I cannot see that my interference has the
least chance of doing any good; if Tom was serious and sober, he will
need no intervention of mine to remind him of his promises; if he was
drunk and did not know what he was saying, the less that is publicly
known of such a transaction, the better in every respect for your
dignity."
"I see you will not take my part—you are no use at all; I shall just
take my own way, and see if I consult you in a hurry again."
Whilst the silence and indifference of Margaret's lover, gave her so
much concern—the attention and assiduity of Emma's, occasioned almost
as much excitement in the mind of the latter. Not a day had Passed
without Lord Osborne either calling himself at the door, or sending a
groom with a joint message of inquiry from his sister and himself;
several kind little notes had been received from the young lady,
expressing concern and sympathy, and it was quite evident that they
did not wish to drop the acquaintance. Nothing had been seen of Mr.
Howard; but a note from Mrs. Willis, assured Emma that they had heard
every day through Lord Osborne or they would have sent more frequently
to enquire for her welfare.
This was consolotary, as serving to convince her that she was not
forgotten at the parsonage: but she could not help murmuring a little
to herself, that Mr. Howard should have so entirely withdrawn from
personal intercourse. Sam had received from her, a minute history of
her acquaintances at the Castle and Parsonage; and when he
subsequently became aware of the visits of Lord Osborne, he
immediately formed the very natural conclusion that the young peer
must be in love with his sister.
Emma appeared to him so pretty and so amiable, that her being loved
was the most simple and probable event; and he only wished that Lord
Osborne had been more worthy of her; but the peerage and fortune of
the supposed lover, did not quite blind the brother's eyes to the
fact, that their owner was not distinguished by any characteristic
worthy of his high birth; and Sam could not wish his sister to
sacrifice domestic happiness for the glitter of a coronet, or the
_harmony_ of a title. She must have a husband who united mental and
moral qualifications to those of birth, wealth and station; and if he
possessed the means of advancing Sam himself in his profession, it
would be so much the better.
"Did you ever, in your life, see such a fool as Margaret makes of
herself, Sam?" was Penelope's observation one day, when the whole
family were sitting together. "She will persist in asserting that she
is engaged to Tom Musgrove, though I have taken the trouble of
ascertaining that he has left home, and the servants are not sure
whether he is gone to London or Bath. I asked the baker's boy to
enquire, in order to set her mind at ease. I must say, I think her
story very incompatible with facts."
"I am sure I am necessarily obliged to you, Penelope, for your kind
way of speaking to me; but I know very well what it is, you are all
envious of my good luck, and that's the reason you will none of you
believe me; but, some day, I shall pay you off, you will see."
"In the mean time, I will give you ample credit, Margaret, feeling
confident you will never forget a debt of that kind; but, if you are
Mrs. Tom Musgrove six months hence, I will admit that I know nothing
of you—nothing of Tom—nothing of men in general, and that I am little
better than an idiot."
"I do not see why you should doubt it at all," cried Elizabeth,
interposing, "I am sure I believe it entirely, don't you Emma?"
"The gentleman is probably gone to London to give instructions for
preparing the settlements," observed Sam, gravely, preventing, by his
interposition, any necessity for Emma to answer her eldest sister's
question.
Margaret assented to this proposition, and Penelope took no further
trouble to vex her at that moment.
Meantime all the necessary arrangements for the girls quitting their
old home were made, with all possible despatch. Margaret indeed took
no interest in the proceedings, contenting herself with wandering
about, and fretting for Mr. Musgrove; but the others were busy from
the time Sam left them; and towards the end of a month, the time for
removing to Croydon, began to be discussed. Pen still held to her
resolution of not visiting her brother, she determined to return to
her friend at Chichester, and marry from her house; and she announced
that the marriage would take place within a few weeks of her quitting
her home.
Emma was sorry at parting with her—she had got over the shock which
her coarse manners had at first inflicted; and they had always agreed
very well since the day at Osborne Castle. In fact, what Penelope had
observed there of the kindness and attention which Emma received from
that family had greatly raised her sister in importance in her mind; a
girl so much noticed and liked by people who had never stooped to them
before must be worth agreeing with; and as there was everything in
Emma's own manners and temper to recommend her to the kindly disposed,
Penelope had always avoided quarrelling with her, as she constantly
did with her other sisters. Consequently, Emma could not help wishing
it was Margaret who was going to Chichester, and Pen who was to share
their home at Croydon.
Things, however, were really better arranged than she could have
ordered them, for it would have been impossible for Penelope and Jane
Watson to have continued in the same house, without the certain
destruction of the peace of all around. There was no one in the
neighbourhood to regret, excepting Mrs. Willis, for Emma would not
allow even to herself that the separation from Mr. Howard gave her any
concern; and it was a satisfaction to quit the vicinity of Osborne
Castle, and the scenes where she had been so happy. The Osborne family
were all gone to town without her having seen anything more of them;
or the suit of the young nobleman having made any progress. She did
not expect ever to see them again. Her own plan for the future was to
try to procure a situation as teacher in a boarding school, or private
governess; anything by which she could feel she was earning the food
she eat, in preference to becoming as her brother expressed it, a
burden on his family. She began now to comprehend more fully than she
had done before, what an evil poverty might be, and felt a vivid
sensation of regret that her uncle had left her so entirely dependent
on others after giving her an education which quite unfitted her for
filling the situation of humble companion to her sister-in-law.
She struggled to suppress the feeling that she had been unjustly and
unkindly dealt with, but it would intrude, to her great discomfort.
But though there were few people to regret amongst her associates,
there were sufficient discomforts and worries of other kinds attending
their removal. The dismantling of their old home—the sale of the
furniture—a portion of which was taken by the succeeding rector, the
rest was to be disposed of by auction; the disputes about
dilapidations; the finding situations for their servants; the vain
attempts to procure a purchaser amongst their acquaintance for their
old horse, even the parting with the house-dog and their two cows made
Emma sorrowful. Added to all this was the incessant repining of
Margaret, who was fretting herself almost into a decline, at the
disappearance of Tom Musgrove, and the ill-natured letters of Robert
Watson, who regularly quarrelled with everything Elizabeth did or did
not do; who disputed all their proposals, and suggested nothing but
impossibilities himself.
Emma could not make up her mind on another point, and this was an
additional worry to her. She knew that Margaret's assertions were
correct, that Tom Musgrove had really made the offer which no one else
believed, and she doubted whether it was not her duty to support her
sister's declarations by her testimony. But this threatened to involve
so great an evil, that she shrank from it; it was evident that had
Robert been aware she was a witness to the proceeding, he would
immediately have taken advantage of the fact to compel Tom to fulfil
his promise, or threaten him with an action, in case he refused.
Margaret seemed likewise to be much inclined to this course, as the
determined silence and prolonged absence of her lover naturally gave
her doubts of his fidelity. The idea was horrible to Emma, and the
possibility of her having to appear in a court of justice was most
overpowering. Elizabeth, with whom she consulted on the subject, and
who, from her partiality to Emma, was far more inclined to consider
her feelings than those of Margaret, advised her, for the present, at
least, to hold her tongue, and see how the affair would be settled
without her intervention, and from not knowing what better to do, Emma
finally decided to take her sister's advice.
At length, just before quitting Winston, she had a farewell visit from
Mrs. Willis and her brother, whose plan for leaving home, she was
already aware, had been renounced. The lady was the same as ever,
friendly and warm in her manners; but Mr. Howard looked pale and ill,
and was evidently out of spirits. The visit was short; and when they
parted, Emma found the interview had only added an additional pang to
all the sufferings she had previously endured.
And thus, for a second time, was Emma Watson driven out from the home
where she had vainly hoped to find a continued shelter, and a second
time compelled to look for protection from strange relatives. It was
strange that though at this moment she really had more subjects of
anxiety, more sources of depression and sorrow, she bore it so much
better than the first. Then she had seemed overwhelmed—now
strengthened by the blow. She was learning to see life, its duties,
and its trials, in a new light; she discovered that suffering was not
an accidental circumstance, like a transitory illness, to be cured and
forgotten as soon as possible; it was the condition of life
itself—peace was the exception—and she had enjoyed her share;
henceforth, she must look forward to trial and endurance, she must
struggle as millions had struggled before her, and learn to draw
contentment not from circumstances but from temper of mind.
Conscious that whilst in her brother's house she should probably have
much to bear, she sought for strength greater than her own to go
through with it; and endeavoured by viewing her expected trials, as a
system of mental discipline which would benefit her, if well
supported, to bring her mind into a frame to endure them with
patience.