Mrs. Watson overtook Emma at the door of the private room, where so
many important matters were settled by her husband, in time to hear an
impatient "Come in," and to enter in her company. Robert was pacing up
and down the room, and looked excessively surprised to see the
intruders.
"What in the name of all that's troublesome brings you here to-day?"
was his courteous salutation to his wife and sister.
"I wished to show you this letter, brother," said Emma, very humbly,
with Miss Osborne's letter in her hand; "and as it seemed to me, no
time should be lost in acting on it, I have ventured to intrude—"
Robert did not allow her to finish her sentence, but took the paper
from her hand, and read it deliberately and attentively through.
Anything in the shape of business received his strictest attention, or
he would never have occupied the position which he now held. When he
came to the conclusion, he looked up, and observed,
"I don't see that Jane has anything to do with this, and shall
therefore beg she will leave the room—directly," added he, seeing that
his wife hesitated.
She knew the tone, and was obliged to withdraw; but it was with a
mental determination to plague her husband for a resolution so
contrary to her wishes, though she could not settle whether the
punishment should consist of boiling a leg of mutton, omitting his
favorite pudding, or spoiling his chocolate.
Whilst she was arranging her plans for vengeance, her husband was
holding council high on the subject of this letter.
How came Miss Osborne to know anything about it? what did she mean by
saying that she and Emma were witnesses to the engagement? was that
really the case? why had Margaret never alluded to it?
Emma explained as briefly as possible when and how they two had
overheard the whole conversation. Robert rubbed his hands with
inexpressible glee.
"He's caught then, fairly caught—that is good—we shall soon bring him
to terms now: capital, to think of your eavesdropping with so much
effect; but why did you never mention this before, child, when you
heard me lamenting the want of witnesses?"
Emma asserted that she was only waiting to consult Miss Osborne on the
subject, for as they had been mutually pledged to secrecy, she could
not divulge it without her agreeing to it. Robert was in an ecstasy of
hope and enjoyment; he saw a brilliant perspective of litigation, an
action for breach of promise of marriage to be conducted, with all the
_éclat_ that could be given to such a proceeding, and damages given to
his sister which would enable her to marry decently out of hand. This
was delightful. His first step he determined should be a letter from
himself to the culprit, claiming his promise to Margaret, but without
alluding to the witnesses to be produced, and he instructed Emma to
write to Miss Osborne, and tell her that her sister had never released
Tom from his engagement, but was still acting on the belief that it
existed, and that therefore she, Miss Osborne, was at liberty to
inform her friend—indeed had better do so at once—that Mr. Musgrove
was acting an equivocal part in paying attention to any other woman,
as his hand was positively pledged to Miss Margaret Watson. This
assurance from a party whom he naturally supposed unacquainted with
the fact would alarm Tom, and it was possible, but Robert did not
depend on it, that it might bring some offer of a compromise. Emma
enquired what would be the result if, as was very probable, Mr.
Musgrove should deny the engagement altogether, and trusting to there
being no witnesses, refuse to fulfil it. Robert assured her that in
that case he should have the means of compelling him either to fulfil
the contract or pay large damages; he should not have a moment's
hesitation in commencing an action against him, and with Miss Osborne
and Emma to support Margaret's evidence there was no doubt of the
result.
She was horrified to hear what was impending over her, and enquired,
in a tone of something between fright and incredulity, whether he
really contemplated forcing Miss Osborne to appeal in a public court
of justice.
"Why should she not?" was his cool answer; "she is as capable of
giving evidence, I presume, as any other woman, and her appearance
will give a great publicity to the proceeding."
"But do you think she will like it?" suggested poor Emma, trembling
for her own share of the trial as much as for her friend's.
"I shall not trouble my head about that—I will have her subpœned as a
witness, and she must come, whether she likes it or not."
Emma was silent, but looked extremely uneasy. Her brother observed her
distressed appearance, and after thinking a few minutes, addressed
her.
"As you know so much of the Osbornes, Emma, and it really appears that
you can keep a secret, which considering your age and sex is rather
remarkable, I will tell you my whole plan, and we will see whether
your wit can help me carry it out. Look here—suppose Tom Musgrove
refuses all acknowledgment of the engagement, I threaten an action,
call on you and Miss Osborne as witnesses; if it really comes before a
jury she will be compelled to appear; but say she dislikes it—is too
fine or too delicate—well let her family use their influence with
Musgrove to induce a marriage, and they may succeed. By threatening to
make his perfidy public, by menacing him with the indignation of the
family, if he compels us to resort to such extremities—possibly even
by the judicious application of family interests to procure him some
situation, some sinecure appointment, or in many similar ways, the
Osbornes may work upon his feelings in a way which we could never do.
Meantime say nothing; I will explain enough to Margaret, and you have
only to answer all enquiries by the assurance that you are not allowed
by me to mention the matter. Go now."
Emma would gladly have retreated to her own room, but Jane was too
sharp for her.
"What an immense time you have been," cried she impatiently clutching
hold of Emma's shoulder; "I thought you would never come out; and I
could not hear a word you said. Now tell me all about it."
Emma assured her that she dared not—her brother had so strictly
forbidden all allusion to the subject; she really was not at liberty
to mention a single word.
"Well really that's great impertinence of Mr. Watson—I'll give it him
well for that: what can it signify whether I know it or not—I dare say
a mighty matter to make so much fuss about—any affair you are
concerned in must be so very important: no, don't go up-stairs, I want
you in the parlour, child."
Emma reluctantly returned to the parlour. Elizabeth and Margaret were
both there; but before Jane had time to expatiate upon the injustice
and tyranny of her husband in denying her knowledge which did not
concern her, a morning visitor was announced.
The lady who entered was a Mrs. Turner, a widow, with an unfashionable
black dress, a good-humoured but unmeaning face, and a cheerful
manner.
"Well, Mrs. Watson," cried she, "here you are, amiable and industrious
as ever; I am sure your husband must thank his lucky stars which gave
him such a wife—I always consider you quite as the pattern for all
housekeepers and married ladies. And such a cheerful party as I
find—who are these sweet girls?—charming creatures I have no doubt."
"Mr. Watson's sisters," said Jane laconically.
"Ah I remember—poor things, orphans—Miss Margaret I beg your pardon, I
ought to have known you—I believe it was the black gown deceived
me—elegant—black always looks well—and Miss Margaret's slender figure
sets it off to advantage. What a sweet pretty face," (eyeing Emma)
"really you must be quite proud of your new sisters, Mrs. Watson. Now
I don't know anything pleasanter than a pretty face—it's so
cheerful—all three so remarkably good-looking too—they are not the
least like you, Mrs. Watson."
Mrs. Watson made no other answer than an enquiry for Mrs. Turner's
son-in-law—Mr. Millar.
"George, oh, he's charming, thank you," replied the merry lady, who
seemed to view everything _couleur de rose_, "up to his elbows in hops
and malt—I often tell him, it's well if he be never smothered with his
business. I do believe it's the most flourishing one in the town.
Those little darlings, his children—you cannot think what angels they
are; but they do want a mother sadly; now, Mrs. Watson—you could not
recommend one, could you?" looking slyly at the three young ladies;
"any nice, steady, sensible young woman of six or seven and
twenty—George need not look out for a fortune, thank Heaven—he's a
plenty, and to spare, of his own—but a nice, good-humoured wife, who
would not thwart him, or vex his children—that's what he wants."
"Well," cried Mrs. Watson, with delight, "let him come here; I dare
say either of the girls would not say him nay—they have no money, so
they must take what they can get. It does not do for such to be too
nice; not but what even the nicest might well be satisfied with George
Millar."
"Aye, indeed, well they might. Do you know I am at him, day and night,
to marry again; and he always says I must chose him a wife, for he has
not time to see for himself. Now I'll make him come here to-night, and
see what he'll say."
"Do so pray," said Jane, "we are expecting a few friends to dinner and
tea; let him come in the evening when his business is over; but don't
say a word of our plans, let him be taken by surprise, you know."
"Well," exclaimed Elizabeth, "I like your plan amazingly, and I give
you fair warning, Mrs. Turner, that I shall do my utmost to please
your son-in-law, and take the situation of Mrs. Millar. I am convinced
he is a most delightful man, and well worth looking after."
"Well done my dear," cried Mrs. Turner, "I like honesty and candour of
all things, and am delighted to find you are not too proud to own that
you, like all other girls, want to be married. Some pretend to deny
it; but it makes no difference, I know what they think secretly, and
see through them all the same."
"We will not try to trifle with such penetration," said Elizabeth,
laughing—"ask my sisters if they agree to your assertion."
"Oh, I know Miss Margaret does," cried Mrs. Turner; "she is longing to
be married at this moment—and I could point out the gentleman too—my
George has no chance with her."
Margaret giggled, and twisted about.
"Only think of my affairs becoming so public, as my wishes to be known
like that. You are a dangerous person, I know of old, Mrs. Turner!"
"Well, I must be going—I have to call on the Greenes this
morning—sweet girls, the Greenes, ain't they—amazingly clever—very
plain though—well, well, one can't have everything; do you know, I
plague George about being in love with Ann Greene, and he cannot bear
the sight of her in consequence—it is such fun."
"I know very little of the Greenes," observed Mrs. Watson, grandly,
"they are not in our set. I dare say soap-boiling is a very good
trade; but I have a fancy it must soil the fingers. Mr. Millar will
not meet the Greenes here at all."
Mrs. Turner did not stay to defend the Greenes from the aspersions
cast on them by the amiable Mrs. Watson, but hurried away to praise
them to themselves, certain that in this case her eulogy would be well
received.
Hardly had she left the room, when Robert entered, with an open letter
in his hand, and enquired of Emma, if she had written as he desired
her to do. Emma acknowledged that she had not.
"Then do it directly," said he, "and learn never to delay letters of
business—always do what you have to do at once—it is idle, and worse
to put it off."
Emma did not attempt to offer any excuse, but was preparing to leave
the room to obey, when Jane stopped her, and recommended her remaining
where she was to write; there were plenty of paper, pens, and ink in
the room, and there could not be the smallest occasion for leaving the
parlour.
She could not very well avoid yielding to this request, which,
however, she suspected strongly was only made in hopes of obtaining
some information relative to the letter in question. Meanwhile,
Robert, going up to Margaret, showed her the letter he held in his
hand, and desired her to read it.
"Oh, how very good of you," cried Margaret, when she had run through
the contents, "how kind of you to take it up so warmly; you who never
believed that what I said was true; how glad I am that you have come
round at last to believe my assertions; now, I trust, Tom will relent,
and my blighted affections will once more revive and flourish!"
"Don't talk to me of blighted affections," replied her brother,
impatiently; "don't bother me with such nonsense; do learn, if you
can, to think of matters of business _as_ business; and in an affair
of this kind, try to speak in a rational, sensible way. Do you think
Musgrove will yield to this representation?"
"Oh, no doubt of it," said Margaret, "at least, I dare say he will;
but suppose he should not, what will you do then?" fixed
"It appears," replied Robert, "that both Emma and Miss Osborne heard
what passed between you, and as, in that case, they can both appear as
witnesses for you, I have no doubt of getting a verdict in your
favour, and very considerable damages from any jury in the county."
Margaret sat staring at her brother in amazement, and then repeated,
"Miss Osborne and Emma, are you sure," and turning to Emma, she
exclaimed, "Where were you then, I should like to know."
"We were concealed from your sight," replied her sister, "by some
orange trees, and thus we heard all you said without intending it."
"Listening were you—very pretty indeed—honorable conduct—from you too,
who make such a fuss about propriety and honesty, and all that; but,
after all, you are no better than your neighbours, it seems," said
she, spitefully.
"I am sure I am very sorry," said Emma, with tears in her eyes, "if I
have done anything to vex you; but indeed, though it may seem strange,
I really could not help it."
"Oh no, of course not!" pursued Margaret, tossing her head back;
"people never can help doing any thing which happens to suit their
fancy—however, before I venture to talk another time, I will take care
and ascertain if you are in the room or not—such meanness listening!"
"It appears very strange to me," cried Mrs. Watson, anxious to
understand it all; "that we should suddenly hear that Emma knew all
about it, when Margaret was so long wishing to have some evidence to
prove her words; why did not Emma say so sooner, then?"
"And it seems still more extraordinary to me," interposed Elizabeth,
"that Margaret should be so angry when she thus, unexpectedly, finds
what she wishes for. Emma told me of this long ago, and told me that
Miss Osborne had induced her to be silent on the subject for several
reasons; but I know, from what she told me then, it was quite
accidental, and could not be avoided, their overhearing Tom's
conversation with you, Margaret."
"And it appears strangest of all to me," observed Robert,
contemptuously, "that women never can keep to the point on any
subject, but must start off on twenty different branches, which have
nothing to do with the end in view. What does it signify to you,
Margaret, when, how, or why your conversation was overheard—when, on
the fact of its being so, depends your chance of getting two or three
thousand pounds in your pocket? What does it matter as to Emma's
motive for listening, so long as she did listen to such good purpose?"
Margaret pouted and replied only by some indistinct murmurs.
Her brother then went on to explain to her the circumstance of Miss
Osborne's interposition—shewing her, greatly to Emma's annoyance, the
letter that morning received from London, and informing her of what he
had desired might be written in answer. Margaret's feelings on the
occasion, formed a most comic mixture of pleasure and indignation.
She was excessively gratified at being talked about, and made the
subject of letters to and from Miss Osborne; and the notion of being
plaintiff in an action at law, seemed to have almost as great a charm
for her imagination, as being married; but then, she was sorely
mortified at the information that Tom Musgrove's infidelity was so
open and evident; she was vexed, bitterly vexed, at the idea of a
rival; and she could hardly console herself for such an indignity, by
the expectation of the damages which were to be awarded her. She
looked very foolish and very spiteful when her sister-in-law made some
ill-natured observations about overrating the powers of her own
charms; and still more so when Robert added:
"That he had no doubt the fellow was drunk when he made the offer, but
it did not matter if he was."
Emma was very glad when she had finished her letter, and was able to
escape from the subject by quitting the house for a walk with
Elizabeth. Jane had some errands for them in the town; but, as soon as
they were fulfilled, they were able to turn their steps towards the
country, and escaping into green fields and pleasant lanes, refresh
their eyes and their tempers by watching for the first appearance of
the spring flowers. Such a stroll was a real treat to Emma, and gave
her strength to endure the numberless petty annoyances which Mrs.
Watson heaped on her. She felt, whilst she could still enjoy a few
hours of quiet converse with her sister—still breathe the fresh air of
Heaven, and seek the simple, but unalloyed, satisfaction, to be
derived from contemplating the works of Providence, that she had still
blessings to be thankful for; that her situation, with all its
drawbacks, ought still to call forth feelings of gratitude, when
compared with the misfortunes of others of her fellow beings; and that
it became her to be ready to acknowledge this, lest she should be
taught to prize the comforts she still enjoyed by their withdrawal.
With these sentiments in her heart, she strove to act upon them; and
when Elizabeth would have turned the conversation, to past times, and
reverted to Mr. Howard and his sister, she had the strength of mind to
turn away from the dangerous pleasure, and pursue some other topic.
They stayed out rather late—that is to say, they were not in the house
till rather more than half past four, and they were to dine at five.
They met their sister-in-law on the stairs in a great bustle.
"Oh dear! I have been in such a worry for you, Emma," cried she, "how
very tiresome that you should be so late; I want Janetta dressed and
her hair curled, and Betsy has not time to attend to it, because she
has to dress my head—and here have I been waiting and waiting whilst
you have been wandering over the country amusing yourselves without
the least regard to me or my comfort."
"I am sorry to have put you to any inconvenience, but I had not the
least idea you wanted me," replied Emma, "what can I do for you now?"
The wrath of any one but Mrs. Watson, must have been disarmed and
pacified by Emma's good-tempered answer, and the sweetness of her
manner, but Jane's was a disposition which yielded only if violently
opposed, but became every hour more encroaching when given way to. To
Elizabeth, who boldly spoke her mind on all occasions, she was far
more submissive—but over Emma she could tyrannise without fear of a
rude or thoughtless retort, a rebellious action, or even a
discontented look; consequently, Emma was now dispatched to the
nursery to perform the office of maid to her little niece, whilst the
woman, whose business it was to attend to this matter, was occupied in
arranging her mistress's toilette.
At length, Mrs. Watson was ready, and sweeping into the nursery with
as much finery as her mourning would allow her to display, she took
away her little girl, and allowed Emma time to arrange her own dress
for dinner.
On descending to the drawing-room she found her sister-in-law engaged
in talking and listening eagerly to the important gentleman from the
country, for whose sake the dinner party had been arranged.
He was a broad-faced, portly man, who filled up the arm-chair in which
he was seated, with perfect accuracy of adjustment, and whose
countenance seemed to Emma to express a sort of hungry tolerance of
Mrs. Watson's attentions. Whenever the door opened, and admitted with
each fresh arrival a strong scent of dinner from the kitchen, he
seemed to imbibe the odour with peculiar satisfaction, and after
inhaling sundry times the teeming atmosphere, heaved a sigh indicative
of anticipation and comfortable assurance for the future.
The fluttering of Mrs. Watson's trimmings, the waving of her ringlets,
and the affected little bursts of merriment in which she indulged for
his amusement, hardly discomposed him at all, so intent was he on the
forthcoming dinner. Robert Watson was standing over the fire talking
to a gloomy, dark-browed young man, a stranger to Emma, who seemed to
consider that in conferring the favor of his bodily presence on the
Watsons, he was doing them so great an honor, that there was no
occasion for him to trouble himself with any further efforts, and that
the absence of mind in which he ostentatiously indulged, was due to
his own dignity, impaired, or at least endangered by the situation in
which he had suffered himself to be placed. There was also a thin,
white-faced individual, something between a man and a boy, who was
chattering to Margaret with all the ease and volubility of an old
acquaintance. Emma remembered that she had heard Jane and Margaret
speaking of a Mr. Alfred Freemantle, whose family were "quite genteel
country people," as being articled to Mr. Watson, and concluded that
the individual thus mentioned was before her. Just as she had settled
this point in her own mind, and seated herself near Elizabeth, she
perceived the young man make a prodigious theatrical start, and heard
him exclaim in a tone which could not be called low:
"For heaven's sake who is that exquisitely beautiful creature?"
"It's only Emma—my sister Emma," said Margaret evidently vexed, "do
you think her so very pretty? well I don't think I should call her
so."
"She blushes divinely," cried he, fixing his eyes on her, "what a
glorious complexion—and her name is Emma—sweet Emma."
Emma was half amused, but almost angry at his impertinence; had he
been a little older, her anger would have been more decided, but he
seemed such a mere boy, that she attributed his offensive behaviour to
youthful ignorance; a charitable construction for which he would
certainly not have thanked her.
Having stared at her for some minutes with unwavering perseverance, he
rose, and crossing the room, let himself drop into a chair close by
her, with a weight and impetus quite astonishing to Emma, when she
considered the slight figure which produced such a concussion.
The next moment he opened a conversation with her by saying:
"I have just experienced a most delicious sensation, Miss Emma Watson,
the sight of you has exactly recalled the image of a cousin of mine,
from whom unfortunate circumstances have so imperatively separated me.
Poor girl—you have no idea how lovely she was."
"Indeed," was Emma's reply, quite willing to admit the truth of this
assertion, and equally ready to let the subject rest; but he had no
intention of the sort.
"It is charming to be reminded of an absent friend,
delightful—exquisite—are you likely to make a long stay at Croydon,
Miss Emma Watson?"
"It is uncertain," replied Emma.
"And you are actually living in the same house in which I spend the
greater part of my weary days, and nothing but these envious walls
conceals you from my sight. Is not that hard?"
"Really no," replied Emma, unable to control a smile at the absurdity
of his manner, "I cannot say I think so at all."
"You don't—what a monstrous bore Mrs. Watson is—I am sure you will
agree to that."
"She is my sister-in-law," said Emma.
"Yes, I know, but that's the very reason you should hate her—I detest
mine."
"And you consider that an infallible rule, of course, since you
suggest it to me."
"I am certain," said the young man, "that our sympathies are strong:
there is something in the turn of your head, the sparkle of your eye,
the formation of your upper lip, that betokens decided participation
in the feelings which corruscate, burn, and almost consume your humble
servant."
"What a fine day it has been," observed Emma, purposely chosing the
most common-place subject in reply to his rhapsody.
He looked astonished and perplexed, then said slowly:
"I fear after all we are not kindred souls—do you love music?"
"Pretty well," replied Emma, determined to keep down to the most
common-place level in her conversation.
He cast up his eyes, and turned away for a moment, throwing himself
back in his chair, and elevating his chin in the air, whilst he
carefully combed his hair with his fingers. Presently, however, he
returned again to the attack.
"I suspect you are funny."
"I beg your pardon," said Emma, looking perplexed in her turn.
"I say I suspect you are laughing at me all this time."
"Oh," said she.
At this moment dinner was announced, and whilst the fat gentleman was
slowly emerging from his chair to accompany Mrs. Watson to the dining
parlour, Emma's new acquaintance was pouring out a voluble strain of
nonsense in her ear.
"To think of reasonable and reasoning creatures lowering themselves to
an equality with the beasts of the field, by indulging in what is
falsely called the pleasures of the table—to think of their
voluntarily assembling only to eat; degrading their intellects by
sitting down to spend two hours over roast mutton or apple pie—really
it is inconceivable—allow me to conduct you, and your fair sister
Margaret to the dinner-table. Sweetest Miss Margaret," presenting her
his hand as he spoke, "my felicity is beyond expression—I can only
equal my situation between you two, to love amongst the roses."
At the dinner-table Mrs. Watson appeared in all her glory. The dinner
was really good, and as the favoured guest inhaled the odour of the
soup, it was evident from the complacent expression which stole over
his features, that he was well satisfied with the prospect now before
him. Mrs. Watson's tactics were suited to the occasion; she devoted
her attention to helping him to the best things on the table—the most
dainty morsel, the epicure's piece, was in every case heaped on his
plate. It would have been amusing to an observer to watch the struggle
which in some cases occurred between Robert's self-interest and
self-love. His appetite was at variance with his policy; it was
difficult for him to yield the precedence at his own table to the love
of good eating exhibited by another. To see his wife thus liberally
disposed to another man was a severe blow, and whilst he acknowledged
the justice, prudence and propriety of thus acting, it went to his
heart to behold it. Her attentions, her flattery, her winning smiles
she was welcome to indulge him with, but the dainty morsel from the
cod's head—the largest share from the sweet-bread fricassee, the
liver-wing of the spring chicken, these he could not resign without a
sigh.
Mr. Alfred Freemantle, however, did not leave Emma much leisure to
make remarks; he had seated himself by her side at table, and was
paying her an infinite number of what he considered delicate
attentions; calling incessantly to the footman to bring her
vegetables—urging her to try every dish on the table, helping her to
salt, and filling her glass with wine to the very brim, as he asserted
all ladies liked bumpers; at the same time pouring into her ears the
most common-place nonsense about his devotion to the fair sex, his
zeal in performing his _devoirs_, and sundry other observations of the
sort.
Emma gave him no encouragement, but he did not require any; perfectly
satisfied with his own charms, and accustomed to consider himself as
superior to his ordinary companions, he was well convinced that her
shyness, not her dissatisfaction, kept her silent, and never for a
moment supposed she could be otherwise than charmed with his
conversation and company.
The dinner appeared to her, consequently, very dull, but at last the
moment of release came; her sister-in-law gave the signal for
departure, and the four ladies returned to the drawing-room. Here they
were no sooner assembled than Margaret commenced a violent attack on
Emma for her scandalous flirtation with Mr. Freemantle. He used to be
a particular admirer of Margaret's, and she could not with patience
resign his admiration to another. In fact she had not strength of mind
to see with composure any woman engross the attention of a man with
whom she was acquainted, all whose words and looks of admiration she
wished to appropriate to herself; for having been for a couple of
winters the reigning belle of her small neighbourhood, she still
fancied her charms supreme, and was quite insensible of the fact,
obvious to every one else, that she was now only exhibiting the
remains of former beauty. Her bloom had been of short duration; she
was too fretful to preserve the plumpness necessary to show her
complexion to advantage, and she early lost the glow and the fairness
which had formed her greatest charm.
Alfred Freemantle was not now to be won by all her wiles; Emma's newer
face, and the sort of wondering indifference with which she heard his
compliments, and his ready-prepared jokes formed an irresistible charm
to him; he declared her freshness was _piquant_, her innocence was
exquisite, that it was delicious to meet with a pretty girl so
perfectly unhacknied in the ways of the world; little suspecting that
the simple manner which he took for ignorance of life resulted
entirely from her just appreciation of his little talent, and the
total want of interest excited by such flattery as he was capable of
administering.
But she could make no impression on Margaret by declarations of
indifference, or assertions that she had thought him decidedly
disagreeable. Her sister considered such words as a mere subterfuge,
and would not believe that Mr. Alfred Freemantle was a sort of person
to slight one girl for another, a stranger, without some special
encouragement to do so.
Jane took up Margaret's cause, as she was always delighted to have an
opportunity of finding fault with Emma, of whom she felt a decided
jealousy, and a long and serious lecture was the consequence, which
was only interrupted by the arrival of some of the evening visitors.
The reproaches which were showered on Emma were, it is true, parried
in some degree by Elizabeth, who although greatly respecting her
sister-in-law, did not feel so much afraid of her as to refrain on
that account from expressing her opinion. She vigorously defended Emma
to the best of her abilities, and there was no saying how long the
dispute might have been carried on but for the arrival of Mr. George
Millar and a young lady, his half sister, who accompanied him.
Emma was obliged, as well as she could, to conceal the tears which
were swimming in her eyes and anxious to avoid any further
animadversions, she seated herself as far as possible from the
gentleman, and occupied herself with some work which she had
undertaken for Mrs. Watson.
She could not, however, restrain her attention which was speedily
engaged by the young lady, whom she now saw for the first time. Annie
Millar was not regularly pretty, but there was an expression of
liveliness and spirit in her face, which would have won the palm from
twenty professed beauties. Her manners suited her face exactly;
lively, arch, and yet perfectly unaffected, she did not seem to know
what constraint and fear were. She said whatever came into her head;
but that head was so overflowing with good-humour and kindness that
there was no room for malice or ill-will to abide there.
"Well, Mrs. Watson," cried she, "as I found you had invited my brother
for this evening, I have invited myself; I cannot imagine why you left
_me_ out; but feeling certain you would be delighted to see me, I
slipped on my second best gown, and came. Now I expect you to make me
a civil speech in reply."
She was very certain of having a civil speech made. Mr. George Millar
was a man of too much consequence amongst his own set, for his sister
to be slighted in any degree. His fortune was large, and his
disposition liberal; he was a widower, and he was very fond of his
sister; Annie, therefore, was certain of compliments and welcomes, and
was precisely the person to be received by Mrs. Watson with extreme
rapture.
"I did so want to be acquainted with your other sisters," added Miss
Millar, "that I think I should have ventured here had I been even
certain you would scold instead of caressing me; I always envy every
one who is blessed with a sister, and think it must be the most
delightful relationship in the world."
"And I dare say your brother agrees with you," said Mrs. Watson,
smiling graciously.
"Do you, George?" cried the young lady; "no, no, he considers me,
without exception, the most troublesome of all his encumbrances; a
charge which he is always trying to get rid of, by inducing some one
else to undertake it. There is no telling you the pains he is at to
throw the burden on some other unhappy man."
Her brother shook his head at his young sister, who only smiled in
reply, and continued—
"Hitherto I have defeated his arts, and preserved myself from the
snare; how long such good luck may continue to attend me I cannot
tell."
"Well, Miss Millar, there's a good opportunity to-night," said Mrs.
Watson, "for we have, amongst our visitors, a young and single man,
who, I believe, is quite ready for any one who takes the trouble of
catching him; so if you think him worth the trouble—"
"He must be very different from any man I ever saw yet," interrupted
Annie. "Do you mean your charming young clerk, Mr. Alfred Frivolous,
as I call him."
"Oh, dear, no," cried Mrs. Watson; "a very different person—he is very
well off—has large property in Suffolk—quite a grand estate there—with
no near connections—no sisters to be in your way—a most beautiful
house—respectable family—I believe quite one of the first families in
the county—and bears a high character."
"And may I ask the name of this desirable individual?" enquired Miss
Millar, assuming an appearance of intense interest.
"Grant, Mr. Henry Grant—I am sure you will be charmed with him."
"Describe him—I am rather particular as to appearance."
"Why, I cannot say that he is absolutely handsome, but very dark—dark
and genteel—quite genteel, I assure you."
"Lively?" enquired Annie.
"Perhaps he may be—but I do not know that I have heard him speak."
"Charming!" cried Annie; "dine with you, and yet not address you—his
must be the very refinement of good manners—the very cream of
gentility indeed—tell me some more about this delightful personage.
Does he like ladies?"
"I cannot say—but though he seems rather shy of them now, depend upon
it, he is all the easier caught."
"Ay, by those who try; I can fancy that certainly—I really must exert
myself—your fascinating description quite rouses my energies."
"And I am sure if you do set about it, your success is certain,"
continued Mrs. Watson.
"Thank you, my dear Madam, for your encouraging opinion. I fear you
rate my powers too highly," laughed Annie, bowing with mock
ceremony—"a young and inexperienced girl like me, cannot pretend to
anything so wonderful as the captivation of a dark Mr. Grant, with a
large estate, and a contempt for women—you must not expect such a
triumph for me."
"Indeed, I am certain you will succeed to admiration," cried Mrs.
Watson, eagerly.
"Show me how to begin then," pursued Annie. "Teach me the first step."
"I should recommend your catching his eye in some striking attitude—as
I dare say he is fond of paintings—something very elegant to attract
him at once," replied the married lady quite sincerely.
"Indeed—let me practice," cried Miss Millar, placing herself in an
affected attitude in an arm-chair. "Will this do—or this—do I look
sufficiently captivating now? which becomes me most, languor or
liveliness."
"You, I see, are determined to make game of the whole thing," said
Mrs. Watson. "Will nothing induce you to think well of a single man?
are you so devoted a follower of celibacy yourself? ah, you are quite
right—liberty, charming liberty! no one knows its value till, like me,
they have sacrificed it. Ah, I say you are quite right—only, as you
are so uncommonly fascinating, I cannot wonder if others should seek
to win you."
"You are far too complimentary, Mrs. Watson," said the young lady,
with affected gravity, and rising from her chair, she walked up to
Emma, and commenced an acquaintance with her by admiring her work.
Emma was almost afraid to speak to her, lest the doing so should
excite her sister-in-law's wrath again; but Annie Millar had taken a
fancy to her face, and was not to be repulsed. Her lively chat soon
drew off her companion's thoughts from the disagreeable circumstances
which had previously occurred, and half an hour passed pleasantly.
Meantime Mrs. Watson, with judicious precaution, had set Elizabeth
down to back-gammon with George Millar, and guessing from the lively
conversation carried on amidst the quick rattle of the dice, that all
was going right there, she left them to improve their acquaintance in
peace.
Very soon after this, the gentlemen strolled into the room—Mr. Grant
first, as if anxious to make the more impression by his appearance. He
looked round the room—and, as if satisfied by this survey that there
was no one sufficiently attractive to induce him to engage in the
labour of conversation, he walked away and took refuge in a small
inner apartment, which opened from the drawing-room, and which was
lighted by a single lamp.
Miss Millar shrugged her shoulders slightly and gave Emma an
expressive look, but had no time for words, as they were at that
moment joined by Margaret and Mr. Freemantle.
The latter made Annie a flourishing bow whilst exclaiming:
"Miss Millar, by all that is fair and felicitous, this is an
unexpected pleasure."
_She_ did not seem to find it so; but looked cold and careless, whilst
she made him as slight a return for his salutation as possible.
"Would that I possessed an artist's pencil to pourtray the group
before me," continued the young man, with affected rapture. "The
graces exactly—it does, indeed, deserve to be commemorated on canvas
or in marble. At all events, it is for ever impressed on the tablet of
my heart."
Margaret giggled—Emma looked immoveably grave, whilst Annie smiled
scornfully and said:
"What is that, Mr. Freemantle? Pray repeat that last sentence again,
that I may commit it to memory."
It certainly is a thing very repulsive to human nature to repeat a
sentence twice over—especially if it is a flourishing speech which
only answers when thrown off hand at once.
Annie was perfectly aware that she could not have found a more
effectual way of tormenting Mr. Freemantle; he looked very silly, and
replied in a qualifying tone,
"I only said—I only meant, that I should never forget it!"
"Oh!" replied the young lady, "was _that_ all? I am sorry I gave you
the trouble of repeating it."
"Miss Millar is too much accustomed to homage," continued he, "for my
feeble attempts to create any sensation in her mind. She despises such
a humble worshipper as her poor devoted servant."
"I beg your pardon," returned she, "but I never despise any thing
_humble_—quite the contrary; and your overwhelming complimentary
speeches really raise such a variety of sensations, by which, I
suppose, you mean sentiments in my mind that I positively know not
which way to look."
He really thought she meant to flatter him, and smiled in a way that
showed all his white teeth: yet, in conversing with Annie Millar, he
always had a lurking suspicion that she was laughing at him, and
therefore, never felt quite at his ease with her.
"Do sing to us," said he presently, in an insinuating tone; "it is
such ecstasy to hear you sing! Pray indulge us with the 'Flowers of
the Forest,' or one of your other charming Scotch melodies."
Annie compressed her lips and only bowed her head slightly in reply;
then turning to Emma, addressed her on the subject of music. Several
other people joined the party, and the tray with tea, pound cake and
muffin, made its progress round the room. Mr. Freemantle insisted on
helping each lady "to the refreshing beverage," as he called it
himself, and passed many small and rather pointless jokes on the
subject of the quantity of sugar they each required. "Sweets to the
sweet," was a favorite quotation of his, and one which he usually
found well received.
"Look at that man," whispered Annie, pointing to Mr. Grant, apparently
fast asleep on the sofa; "should you not like to throw a cloak over
his head, that his slumbers may be undisturbed. Oh! I'll tell you what
I will do—look now!"
And stealing quietly into the inner room, she softly, but effectually,
extinguished the lamp; and then returning closed the door, and placing
a chair against it, seated herself there, leaving Mr. Grant in
complete darkness "to finish his nap," as she said, "without risk of
being roused by intrusive visitors." Mrs. Watson did not see this
manœuvre, but Margaret and Emma laughed quietly—whilst Alfred,
overcome by excessive amusement, dropped on a sofa, and rolled about
in ecstasy.
George Millar, whose table was near, looked round.
"What naughty trick are you about now, Annie?" said he suspiciously.
"I!" cried the young lady, with well affected surprise; "who so quiet
and well-behaved in this room as myself! Your suspicions are
derogatory to me, and disgraceful to yourself, George."
And she drew herself up in an attitude of offended dignity, crossing
her hands in her lap, and looking straight before her.
George went on with his game; and Mr. Alfred Freemantle, having
recovered his composure, resumed his station by Miss Millar's side. He
enquired how long she intended to keep the poor man in the dark? Miss
Millar said he was in the black hole, and should continue there till
he asked to get out; for, indeed, his voice had never yet been heard,
and she was anxious to settle the question whether he was or was not,
dumb.
Presently afterwards another of the party came up, and begged in the
name of Mrs. Watson that Miss Millar would favor them with a song.
Annie possessed the rare talent of singing without accompaniment; and
without affectation, when requested by the mistress of the house, she
immediately complied, and warbled some beautiful old ballads to the
great delight of the company.
She did not change her position, but sat with her back to the door,
when, in the midst of her second song, a loud crash was heard in the
little room where Mr. Grant was confined; this was followed by
vociferous and angry exclamations—at which every one started forward
with various intonations of surprise, wondering what was the matter.
Miss Millar did not cease singing or move her seat, but merely waved
her hand to keep back those who pressed on her, and finished her song
with perfect self-possession.
When, however, a second part was suddenly taken to her performance by
a strange voice in the next room, every one was still more astonished,
and insisted on opening the door to discover the minstrel. When this
was done, they saw Mr. Grant leaning quietly against one chair, whilst
another overthrown beside him revealed the origin of the noise which
had at first arrested them; he was in the dark, of course, and seemed
as he stood there so sleepy and dull, that they could hardly imagine
he was likewise the author of the melodious sounds they had overheard.
How he came there, why he was in the dark, and why he remained so,
were questions rapidly asked by such as knew him well enough to speak
to him—but he could give no explanation—he only knew that he had woke
up and found himself on the sofa in the dark, and thought he was in
bed, until rolling off convinced him that he was not; that he had
fallen on the floor and made a noise he supposed, and that he should
be particularly glad to know whether Mrs. Watson was in the constant
habit of locking up her guests in the dark.
Mrs. Watson came forward full of apologies and regrets; she really
could not imagine how it had happened, or who had shut the door—it
must have been so purely accidental; she was excessively shocked, and
particularly grieved, and she hoped it would never occur again.
Nothing could be more admirable than the air of perfect innocence and
ignorance which Annie Millar assumed through the whole scene; to have
seen her face no one would have imagined that she was in the smallest
degree inculpated in the false imprisonment which so afflicted poor
Mr. Grant, and his slumber had been far too real and unfeigned for him
to have any idea of the offender. Alfred Freemantle indeed drew all
the suspicions on himself by his immoderate laughter and the facetious
observations which he made at the discovery. Soon after this
card-tables were formed, and the whole party sat down to different
games, which occupied the rest of the evening.
Emma felt on parting that she should like to know more of Annie
Millar, and she found the next morning that her wish was likely to be
gratified, for the young lady called in the course of the forenoon,
and expressed the strongest desire to carry on an acquaintance with
both the sisters. Margaret, whom she had known previously, and for
whom she certainly entertained no very strong predilection, did not
seem inclined to join the party which Annie tried to arrange for a
walk.
The feelings of jealousy and dislike which any pretty girl awakened in
Margaret's mind were peculiarly vivid towards Annie Millar, and she
naturally shrank from bringing herself much in contact with her.
Mrs. Watson came into the room just as Miss Millar was pressing the
two other sisters to join her. As soon as she understood how the case
stood, being at that time peculiarly cross with Emma on account of the
admiration she had excited on the previous night, she interposed in
this way:
"Indeed, my dear Miss Millar, it is most kind of you to propose such a
thing, and I have no doubt but that the girls feel excessively obliged
to you, but it is impossible for Emma to accept it. Loth as I am to
refuse any request of yours, I cannot really accede to this one. Her
duty must confine her within doors this morning, she has calls upon
her time which must not be set aside; she must therefore forego the
gratification you propose."
Emma could not help feeling rather astonished at hearing such a
declaration, as she was quite unaware of any particular duties which
would compel her to remain in the house that morning, and she was
quite puzzled what to answer, when Annie Millar said coaxingly,
"Why can you not put off your business till the afternoon, and go with
us now? What have you so very particular to do?"
"I suppose my sister-in-law wants me," said she colouring and
hesitating; "and of course, if so, it is necessary I should stay."
"Oh, I thought it might be some penance you were to perform—something
quite wonderful and romantic—but really I think you might contrive to
delay it, and accompany us to-day."
"You are uncommonly kind," again interrupted Mrs. Watson, "but there
is so much of regularity and system absolutely necessary where very
young people are concerned, that whilst Emma continues under _my_ care
I cannot allow her to be running out at all hours—though if any one
could tempt me to relax in my rules it would be you I assure you."
The idea of a young woman of Emma's age not being at liberty to walk
or sit still according to her own fancy, appeared to Annie Millar very
extraordinary, and her wonder and annoyance were equally shared by
Emma herself, now hearing for the first time of rules that had never
to her knowledge existed at all; and feeling unable to contend against
the assumption of authority which her sister-in-law exercised over her
proceedings, without the risk of causing an actual quarrel with her on
the subject, she began to look forward with considerable dread, and to
wonder what would come next.
"Well," said Miss Millar, "if it is not convenient for Miss Emma to
walk now, will you tell me when and at what hour I may look forward to
that pleasure? Exceedingly as I regret that your rules have
disappointed me to-day, there is this comfort, that they ensure my
gratification at some other time, when I understand your arrangements.
At what time _does_ your sister take exercise?"
Mrs. Watson was completely caught, and excessively puzzled what to
say. She hesitated for a moment, and then observed,
"Well, as I do not like to thwart any plan of yours, I will try
another day and make arrangements to gratify you, my dear Miss Millar;
in the meantime I recommend you to take your walk to-day without any
reference to Emma."
Miss Millar assented with a sigh, and she and Elizabeth set off
together.