The journey to Croydon was safely performed and as expeditiously as
could be expected by three young ladies and a quantity of luggage
travelling through cross roads with post-horses. Margaret was quite at
home in the streets of Croydon and its neighbourhood, and pointed out
to whom the various houses belonged with a feeling of exultation, as
if knowing the names of the owners when her sisters did not were the
next thing to possessing them herself. The bright green door, with its
brass-handled bell, was easily recognised by the large plate bearing
the owner's name which adorned it.
The door was opened by a footman who informed them that master was at
the office, missus was out in the town, but they could step into the
drawing-room whilst they waited for her return. With evident
nonchalance, and something like insolence, he assisted the post-boy to
unload the carriage, and summoning the house-maid, enquired if she
knew what was to be done with all _them_ things. The waiting-woman
decided that nothing could be ventured on till the missus came home;
she had changed her mind so often about the rooms, that it was quite
uncertain what would be settled on at last; and if she should happen
to alter her arrangements whilst she was out, it was evident they
would have had all their trouble for nothing. The three girls were
therefore sentenced to sit in the parlour during the interval, which
Emma could not help feeling might have been more profitably employed
in unpacking and arranging their property.
There was little to amuse them during their temporary confinement. A
copy of "The Lady's Magazine," containing the recent Parisian
fashions, was instantly seized on by Margaret; a cookery-book and a
child's doll were lying beside it, and a cat and a kitten were
reposing on the hearth rug, which, judging from its texture and the
ugliness of its pattern, was probably the work of some domestic
needle. Some uncommonly rare paintings hung against the walls—rare
from the total want of taste harmony and merit which they displayed.
Beside them were two most striking portraits which were considerately
labelled as intending to represent the master and mistress of the
house, thereby preventing such mistakes as to identity as might have
occurred. The carpet was faded, the chairs and couch covered with
slippery black horse-hair, bumping up into hard offensive things
called cushions; the table was covered with green-baize much stained
with wine, and the easy chair by the fire showed the exact spot where
the owner was accustomed to repose his powdered and pomatumed head.
Presently the door opened and the little girl appeared. Margaret
instantly rushed up to embrace her, but the child, who seemed
peculiarly self-possessed for her age, repulsed her.
"I did not come here to see you, aunt Margaret," said she. "Which is
Emma?"
"I am," said Emma advancing, and pleased to be called for.
Her niece considered her attentively with an air of surprise, then
said, "But you are quite tidy and clean—not ragged and dirty!"
"No my dear," replied Emma smiling at her puzzled look; "why did you
expect to see me otherwise?"
"Because the people my nurse tells me are beggars in the street go
without shoes, and wear old clothes."
Emma coloured slightly and made no reply, but Margaret, pressing
forwards, again asked what that had to do with aunt Emma.
"Papa and mama said she was a beggar, and I thought she would look
like them—but she is nice and looks good, and I will not mind you
teaching me at all: will you make me pretty frocks?—mama said you
should."
"I shall be very glad, love," replied Emma, "to do anything I can for
you and your mama too; will you sit on my knee and tell me what I
shall make your frocks of?"
Whilst Emma was making friends with her little niece, Mrs. Robert
Watson herself arrived. She received her sisters-in-law with more
cordiality than Emma expected from the epithet applied to herself,
which the child had just betrayed. In fact she was rather pleased
than otherwise at this accession to her family; she felt that she
had secured a careful assistant to the cook in Elizabeth, who was
well versed in the mysteries of pastry and custards, cakes, jellies,
and raised pies; and in Emma she hoped to find a competent
nursery-governess who would relieve her of all cares as to the
child, and supply, unsalaried, the place of the nurse-maid, to whom,
under this impression, she had already given warning.
After chatting some time with them, she rang for the house-maid to
show them to their rooms, and the child declared she would accompany
them as aunt Emma's room was close to the nursery. And so Emma found
it was, for she was shown into a small closet containing a bed with
room to walk round it, an old chest of drawers and a high stool. This
was her apartment. There was no chimney, and the window looked out
upon a small space of flat leads, surmounted by high, black, tiled
roofs. It had commenced raining since they entered the house, and the
gurgle of the water in the gutter, and drip from the window on the
leads had a peculiarly monotonous sound. Emma looked at the forlorn
and cheerless closet, and felt she was a beggar indeed. She hoped,
however, that when her boxes and books were brought up she should be
able to make it a little more comfortable; at least she had it to
herself, and should be able to pass her time there in peace.
Her niece dragged her off to see the nurseries—the two rooms devoted
to her occupied the rest of that floor, they were spacious and in
every respect comfortable, except that they were littered with
playthings which their owner apparently had not learnt to value.
As it drew near to the dinner-hour Emma ventured down stairs, and
found her brother and his wife in the parlour. Robert received her in
his usual manner: in another moment her two sisters entered, and they
sat round the fire whilst waiting for dinner.
"I hope you like your rooms, girls," said Mrs. Watson; "I thought it
would not matter putting Elizabeth and you together, Margaret, because
I know it's only for a time. I have heard—a little bird whispered to
me a certain story which you need not blush about—of a certain young
man—I know who—and I am sure I congratulate you: when did you hear
from him last, my dear?"
"Oh, my dear Jane I have not heard from him at all. Ever since the
evening when he proposed he has disappeared from the country, and I
cannot find out where he is gone, nor induce him to make any answer to
my repeated letters."
"Indeed! that's very odd—do you think he means to break his
engagement?"
"I cannot tell what he means, for my own part; I think some one has
been slandering me to him, telling him things to my disadvantage, or
perhaps intercepting one of my letters. Oh, I have thought of a
thousand reasons for his silence, without charging him with
infidelity, and I console myself with the hope that when the romantic
interruption to our correspondence is removed, and the mystery which
now envelops the affair is cleared away, that I shall find he has been
suffering as much from the misunderstanding as myself."
"I am sure I hope you may—but are you certain there is no mistake on
your part?" said her sister-in-law; "are you sure that he really
proposed to you?"
"I am as positive of the fact," said Margaret, "as I ever was of
anything in my life."
"Well that is a good deal," observed Robert, "for you can be pretty
positive when you please. But I only wish, if it's true, you had had
some witnesses—then I could have helped you."
"Would you have called him out?" enquired his wife in a tone of
indifference which quite startled Emma.
"No, I should have called him _in_," said Robert laughing, "if the
fellow refused to marry her, I would have had him up for a breach of
promise, without ceremony."
"And what should I get for that?" said Margaret eagerly.
"You might perhaps have got a couple of thousands—I think I would lay
the damages at three."
"Only three, Robert! I am sure that is not enough for deceiving me,
robbing me of my best affections, betraying my trust—oh, three
thousand pounds would be no compensation for such conduct, no adequate
compensation. I am sure my heart is worth more than that."
"I dare say you think so, Margaret," replied Robert coolly; "but you
might not persuade a jury to think it likewise; there would be the
difficulty."
"But would you really go to law about it?" enquired Emma. "Only think
how it would make you talked about."
"Well, so much the better," replied Margaret sharply; "why should I
mind that? I am not afraid of being spoken of."
"It would be much better to make him pay damages than compel him to
marry you," observed Elizabeth. "I always wonder women venture to do
that—I should be afraid he would beat me afterwards."
"Two or three thousand pounds would secure you a respectable husband,
Margaret," continued Robert. "My friend, George Millar, would perhaps
take you then."
"I think I would rather marry Tom Musgrove than anybody," replied
Margaret. "George Millar is only a brewer, after all, and Tom is a
gentleman and has nothing to do."
"But Millar has a capital business, I can tell you," cried Mrs.
Watson; "I should not mind my own sister marrying him. Why I know he
used to allow his late wife more than a hundred a month to keep the
table and find herself in gowns—a very pretty allowance—and very
pretty gowns she used to wear."
"Aye, George Millar could count thousands for Musgrove's hundreds,"
said Robert, "and a capital fellow he is. I only wish you might have
such luck as to marry him, either of you girls."
The conversation was interrupted by the dinner, which was a welcome
sight to the hungry travellers, who had tasted nothing since their
early breakfast at Winston. Their brother looked at the table with
evident pride.
"Well, Elizabeth, I promised you rather a better dinner than you gave
me at Winston," observed he. He had the habit of reverting to past
grievances.
"You have kept your word too," replied she good-humouredly.
"Oh, my dear creature," cried Jane, "Robert told me of the shocking
dinner he had—poor fellow, you certainly always managed very badly
about such things; perhaps it might do you no harm if I gave you some
lessons; I have rather a genius for housekeeping—at least so my
friends tell me—my uncle Sir Thomas used to like me to order his
dinner."
"My dear Jane, I am afraid your instructions would be quite wasted on
me, unless you would give me your income to supply my wishes—when any
one allows me a hundred a month for the table expenses, I will give
capital dinners," said Elizabeth.
"You are not thinking of what you are doing, Jane," said her husband
reproachfully, "you know I cannot eat the wing of a fowl unless it is
torn properly—Emma, I'll trouble you to cut some bacon—good heavens, I
cannot eat it so thick as that-you are not helping a Winston plough
boy remember!"
Emma endeavoured to comply but she grew nervous, and her brother was
angry, and sent for the dish that he might help himself. Emma coloured
and apologised.
"You should try to oblige, Emma," said Jane coolly, "a little pains
bestowed on such things, is quite as useful and essential to good
breeding as painting or books. Careless ways of carving are very
detrimental to the comfort of a family, and though it may seem of no
importance to you, it makes all the difference to a delicate
palate—one used to the niceties of life—a gentleman in fact."
Emma _felt_, though she did not say, that there was no delicacy of
feeling, whatever there might be of palate, in her sister-in-law—but
she wisely held her tongue on the subject.
After dinner the little girl made her appearance, and immediately
required of her mother a share in the walnuts on the table.
"My precious one, you must have them peeled for you."
"Yes, mama, peel them."
"No, my darling, they stain my fingers—ask your aunt Emma, I dare say
she will do it."
The child crept to Emma, "Good-natured aunt, peel me some walnuts."
Emma readily agreed to do so, wishing, so far as lay in her power, to
shew that she really was anxious to oblige. The little girl seated
herself on her knee, and endeavoured at first to assist in the
operation, but soon relinquished the attempt, and contented herself
with slyly dropping the walnut shells down Emma's neck, and slipping
them under her gown, a playful trick which amused her mother
excessively when she discovered it, and gave Emma the trouble of going
to her room to undress, before she could free herself from the
disagreeable sensations they occasioned.
The conversation before dinner still dwelt heavy in her mind; she felt
persuaded that the time would come, when she and Miss Osborne too must
step forward to prove the truth of her sister's words, and she
shuddered at the idea. She felt that she must make some apology, or at
least some announcement of her intentions to Miss Osborne, before she
could venture to risk such very unpleasant consequences to them both:
and she determined to write to her, and tell her the circumstances as
they occurred, and ask her to support and substantiate her word when
it came to be questioned.
Her head was too weary and dizzy to undertake anything of the kind
that night, but she resolved not to defer it very long for Margaret's
sake.
A day or two passed on, and Emma began to wonder when she should find
time for writing the projected letter. Her sister-in-law kept her so
fully employed, that a spare quarter of an hour was not to be had; her
talents with needle and scissors had attracted Jane's observation when
at Winston, and now they were put into constant requisition in mending
the child's wardrobe, or improving the mother's. Her niece's lessons
were likewise turned over to her, for she was to learn her alphabet,
her parents expecting her to be a little prodigy, and Emma must spare
no pains to produce the desired result. Take this as a specimen of
their usual routine.
"I wish, Elizabeth, now you seem to be at leisure," said Jane entering
the parlour, "you would just go and teach my cook to make those
custard puddings, and if you would put her in the way of making almond
cakes, such as you had at your father's, I should thank you. We have
some friends coming to tea, and I should like them to taste those."
Elizabeth, who was just taking up her needle to mend a garment of her
own, very good-temperedly put it away, and repaired to the kitchen to
superintend her sister's confectionary affairs.
"Now, Emma," cried Jane, turning to her, "I'll call Janetta, and you
shall give her a lesson, I should like her to know the 'Busy Bee' to
say to the visitors to-night."
"That little darling," exclaimed Margaret, as her sister brought in
the child, "has quite her mother's talents—my sweet pet," stroking
down her hair as she spoke, "my little beauty will grow up a clever,
good woman like mama some day, will you not, dearest."
"Like me, dearest Margaret? do not wish her such an evil, a poor weak
creature like me—the child of impulse, the slave of excitement. May
she be better and happier than her poor mother!"
Emma commenced the painful task of cramming infant brains with what
they could not comprehend, for exhibition to people who did want to
hear it. Jane shewed Margaret a piece of work she wanted done, and
then threw herself into a lounging chair.
"Who do you expect here this evening, Jane?" enquired Margaret, "I did
not know you meant to have company."
"It's a country client of my husband's who is coming to dine," replied
Mrs. Watson, "and I asked one or two friends to meet him; one cannot
very well help that, or else I don't know that just now, considering
how lately your old father died, that I should have had any
company—but Mr. Terry is a man of much influence!"
All Emma's sensitive feelings recoiled at this indifferent reference
to their recent loss; that he was _Robert's_ father likewise, did not
seem to occur to his wife, who had never looked on him with either
affection or respect. Meantime the little Janetta—for such was her
niece's name, made but small progress towards acquiring the much
desired learning; and presently, her mother, turning sharply round,
cried out:—
"I am sure, Emma, you are taking no pains about that child—for she is
so quick in general, at learning any thing; I must say, considering
the circumstances, and the liberality with which your brother has
received you, it is not asking such a very wonderful favor, requesting
you to attend a little to his child."
"I am sure, I am very happy to do so," replied Emma, meekly; "but your
little girl does not seem disposed to attend to me."
"That must be the fault of your manner of instructing then; you do not
adopt an interesting way; but I have observed, constantly, where most
gratitude is due, least is paid; Janetta, darling, does not your aunt
teach you nicely?"
"I want to look at aunt Emma's watch," replied the child, "I hear it
ticking in her pocket, and she says I must not see it till I have
done!"
"How came you by a watch, Emma?" enquired Mrs. Watson, in a tone which
seemed to imply a suspicion of its being honestly acquired. "Let me
see it!"
"It was a gift from my uncle," replied poor Emma, producing it rather
unwillingly.
It was a very handsome one, and had her name engraved inside the lid.
"I want a watch very much—mine is not to my taste," observed Mrs.
Watson, greedily eyeing her sister-in-law's property. "You would not
like to exchange, would you, Emma?"
"Certainly not," replied she hastily; "it was a keepsake from him, and
I would not willingly part with it for any thing."
"Don't you think you had better take Janetta to the nursery?" said
Mrs. Watson, "I am sure she would learn a great deal better there than
here, where we are talking. There, darling, go with Emma like a pet."
Emma saw that her sister-in-law wanted to get rid of her, but she
really thought the quiet of the nursery would be preferable to the
drawing-room worries, and she gladly withdrew.
"I don't quite understand that sister of yours, Margaret," said Jane,
as soon as they were left together; "I think she seems very proud and
unpleasant—a good deal of conceit and pertness, mingled in her
manner."
"Exactly so, dear Jane, with your usual candour and penetration, you
have precisely described her character."
"Yes," said Mrs. Watson, with an air of great satisfaction, "I hope I
can see through people a little. If there is one quality I pride
myself on, it is my penetration. I am blessed, I acknowledge, with a
singular facility for discerning characters, and what I think I must
say. I speak my feelings almost unconsciously!"
"You are a wonderfully clever creature, Jane; I am sure I never knew
any one to be compared to you; but, as to Emma, I think it's her
intimacy with the Osbornes that has set her up so abominably; really,
since she has been there so much, there is no speaking to her
sometimes."
"That is often the case where young girls are much noticed by those
above them in rank, Margaret; I wonder what they saw in her to like so
much—even if they thought her pretty—which I do not—I don't see why
they should notice her for that—do you think Lord Osborne liked her?"
"I really don't know—he used to look at her—and he danced with her—and
called on her—I sometimes thought he did care for her."
"I wish I could devise any means of bringing them together; if I were
quite sure on that point, it would make a great difference; but I
don't suppose anything will come of it now. There's the postman's
knock—just step out in the passage and bring in the letters here; I
know Mr. Watson is out, so I can get a peep at his dispatches now."
Margaret did as she was desired and returned presently with a handful
of letters. Mrs. Watson took them on her lap and examined the
post-mark and address of each. Several were, from their size and
appearance, letters of business—she put them aside—over one she
paused:
"Here's one in a lady's hand," said she, "and to my husband! London, I
wonder who that's from? I never saw the seal before or the hand
writing—there's some mystery there. I wonder whether it's from some
mistress or improper person? I dare say it is—men are always deceiving
one!"
"Oh, Jane!" cried Margaret, "that's impossible! You, of all people,
cannot fear a rival. Robert could not serve you so!"
"Oh! the best of women, my dear, fare no better than the worst, with
some men; the best of men are worth very little; and, as to Mr.
Watson, he's no better than his neighbours. I can tell you I would not
trust him without watching—and I'll see him open and read that letter,
or my name is not Jane Watson; but let's see—" turning again to her
letters; "what else have we here? One for me—one for Elizabeth—who's
that from? look Margaret!"
Margaret readily obeyed, and kneeling down besides her sister's chair,
looked at the letter in question.
"I think," said she, "it's from the upholsterer who purchased some of
our old furniture, that's H on the seal, and his name was Hill."
"Very likely, but look, Margaret, here's one for Emma—a lady's hand
too—the London post-mark, and a coronet on the seal—good gracious,
that must be from Miss Osborne, or perhaps from her brother—I wonder
if one could see anything inside. You see Lord Osborne has franked it,
and it's in an envelope, how tiresome: if it had only been folded like
another letter we could have read some of it."
"So we might, I dare say Emma will never tell us a word, she's so
close, she never chats comfortably with one about anything; I am sure
to this day I know nothing at all about what she thinks of Lord
Osborne, or any of his family—it's so provoking and disagreeable."
"So it is, I hate such nasty close dispositions; I, who am all
openness and frankness, cannot comprehend anything secret and
underhand: well, we cannot help it, and I suppose we shall not know
what it is about. Take those letters to the office, Margaret, and tell
the clerk they were brought into the drawing-room by mistake."
Whilst Margaret fulfilled this commission, and stopped to flirt with
the young clerk who received them, an old acquaintance of hers, Mrs.
Watson, having first carefully laid aside the suspected epistle to her
husband, proceeded up-stairs with Emma's letter, and after turning it
over in every direction, and even holding it up to the light at the
stair-case window, but without benefit, she suddenly entered the
nursery. There she found Janetta had dropped asleep on a bed, and Emma
taking advantage of the leisure thus afforded, was preparing to write
a letter.
"Janetta asleep, oh!" said the anxious mother, "well then you will
have time, Emma, to do a little job for me, I want some alterations in
the trimmings of my bombazine gown, and I wish you would do it for me
before evening."
"I shall be happy," replied Emma, "to do anything in my power to
oblige you, if you will only explain it to me."
"Very well, come with me, and I will shew you what I want; oh, by the
bye, here's a letter for you, I think it must be from Miss Osborne
from the seal—does she write to you often?"
"No," replied Emma, surprised at hearing this, and holding out her
hand for the letter which Mrs. Watson still detained to examine, "I
never heard from her before since she left the country!"
"Indeed, what do you suppose she writes about—by the way, I suppose
you are not accustomed to receive letters and give no account of them,
are you?"
"Indeed I am," replied Emma, quite ashamed at the idea of supervision
in such a particular, "I have never been controlled in either
receiving or writing a letter."
"I consider that an exceedingly improper liberty for a young girl,"
observed Mrs. Watson drily, "at your time of life, under age, I should
hold your guardian as very culpable if he took no account of your
letters, and I am much mistaken if your brother does not expect, as a
matter of course, to overlook all the correspondence you chose to
carry on."
"Surely he cannot consider it necessary," remonstrated Emma seriously,
"at my age—it is not as if I were a baby quite, but I am almost
twenty."
"Possibly so, but whilst you are under age you are his ward, and must
have to submit to any restrictions he lays on you with a good grace.
It's no use colouring and pouting, there's nothing like bearing things
with a good temper, and not giving yourself airs and graces about it.
There's your letter!"
Emma took the letter, and observed, as she put it in her pocket:
"If you will show me what you want done, I shall be happy to oblige
you."
"Read your letter first, Emma, it may be a matter of business, and you
should never delay business—your brother always says, 'do what is to
be done directly, and do it yourself.'"
Emma silently drew forth the letter, and breaking the seal read the
following words:
"My dear Miss Watson,
"I am sorry to trouble you with any unpleasant
subjects, but I cannot forbear mentioning a
circumstance which nearly concerns your family; and
when you know the particulars, you can judge for
yourself. Mr. Tom Musgrove, whom I had, as you know,
reason to suppose engaged to one of your sisters, is
now in town, and has not only been for some time past
paying great attention to a young lady of fortune, a
friend of my own, but, as I understand, has denied all
engagement to Miss Watson, spoken very disparagingly
of her, and even shewn letters written by her under
the impression that such an engagement existed. Not
knowing precisely how affairs stood between your
sister and Mr. M., I dare not interfere, lest by
revealing what she may perhaps wish concealed, I
should injure her, and mortify you. I shall not,
however, feel justified in preserving silence much
longer, unless I am positively assured that all
engagement is at an end between them. If she has
released him from the promise to which we both are
witnesses, it may be important to preserve silence on
its previous existence, but if, as I cannot help
suspecting, he has only released himself, has deceived
or deserted her, I cannot allow my friend to be misled
by him, and must insist on having his conduct cleared
up and set in a proper light. I am sorry to be obliged
to trouble you, as I feel convinced that whether
secretly deceiving, openly deserting your sister, he
is certainly using her extremely ill: you know I never
had a good opinion of his character. I am over-whelmed
with gaiety, and look back with a feeling of regret to
the tranquil hours at Osborne Castle.
"Anxiously expecting your answer,
"I remain, dear Miss Watson,
"Your sincere friend,
"ROSA OSBORNE."
"P.S. Mr. Musgrove's address is, 75, Bond-street.—My
brother and Sir William desire all sorts of proper
messages to you; have you seen the Howards lately?"
Whilst Emma was reading these words, Jane was standing near her,
playing with the sheet of paper in which it had been enveloped, and
anxiously watching Emma's countenance to see the effect produced by
the communication. She saw enough to discover that the emotion
occasioned by the contents was not of a pleasurable nature. It was
something which required deliberation and consideration. Mrs. Watson
grew impatient.
"Well, what is it?" cried she. "You sit there pondering and pondering
as if it were a dispatch from the king himself; tell me what your
difficulty is, and I will help you!"
"I think," said Emma, hesitating and embarrassed, "I think I must
speak to my brother about this, and, perhaps, I had better—I mean, he
would like me to consult him _first_, before speaking even to you!"
"Tell me what it is," said Mrs. Watson, burning with curiosity, "let
_me_ know all about it, and I can tell you if it is necessary to
consult him first!"
"But if I tell you now, I cannot apply first to him," remonstrated
Emma, "and so that will not do."
"Oh, but you need not tell him that you told me," said Jane; "and as I
am his wife, I should be sure to know it eventually."
"Can I not go to him at once?" said Emma, rising; "it would be much
better, and as it must be done, the sooner I get over it the better."
"Is it anything you are afraid of telling him then?" enquired Mrs.
Watson, still more eagerly, as she followed Emma from the room. "Is it
about yourself? or Miss Osborne? oh, I know—it is for Mr. Watson to
draw the marriage settlements—they say she is going to be married to
Sir William Gordon, is that true? or is it an offer from Lord Osborne,
I wonder? how obstinate the child is; and how fast she runs, I must
make haste, or I shall lose some of it."