Had Margaret Watson possessed one particle of proper spirit, the tone
and manner in which Tom Musgrove fulfilled his part of the bargain
would have been sufficient to cause a total rupture between them; but
far from this was the case with her. The fact of being now believed in
her declaration, of being known as an engaged young lady, of having a
right to talk about wedding-clothes, and sigh sentimentally at the
prospect before her; the distinction which all this would give her in
a small country town, where every occurrence, from a proposal of
marriage down to the purchase of a new pair of shoes, was immediately
known to all the neighbours—this delighted Margaret's weak mind, and
set her heart in a flutter of gratified vanity.
To be able to inform all the morning visitors at her brother's house
that indeed she was contemplating this important change, that she was
yielding to a long and well placed affection, that she had known her
dear Tom all her life, and that their mutual attachment had been of
many years' standing—to sigh over the prospect of soon leaving her
sisters, and trying a new situation, seeking a new home, entering on
new duties—all this was perfect ecstasy to her, and on the strength of
her engagement she became more than ever peevish and disagreeable to
her sisters in private, and more affable and smiling to her associates
in public.
Her dear Tom—her absent friend—was introduced on all occasions in her
speeches, and most happy would she have been had she been able to
introduce him personally to the admiring young ladies of Croydon. Miss
Jenkins was dying to see him; Miss Lamb was certain he must be a
charming beau; Miss Morgan and her sister were never weary of hearing
the colour of his hair, and the style of his equipage.
This was highly gratifying to Margaret, but she had her little
discomforts too. There were some young ladies who shrugged their
shoulders and wished Mr. and Mrs. Tom Musgrove might have a quiet
house of it—there were others who whispered strange things about the
courtship. Miss Lascomb thought it very odd indeed Mr. Musgrove did
not come to see his betrothed—of course they knew their own affairs
best, but she hoped if ever she were in such a situation, to see a
little more devotion and warmth in her swain. Miss Johnston said _she_
knew how young men were sometimes caught, that she did, and till she
heard the gentleman declare his engagement with a smile, she should
not be persuaded that it did not cost him a sigh.
These speeches, though not made to Margaret, were all carefully
repeated to her, by some of her many kind friends, who delighted in
retailing small ware of the kind. She coloured and pouted, tossed her
head, and recommended people to leave affairs alone which did not
belong to them, and wondered any people could take such pleasure in
interfering in other people's concerns. But _she_ knew what it came
from, that she did, it was all envy and spite, because she was going
to marry a real gentleman, who had nothing to do, and Mr. Johnston was
only an apothecary, and all the world knew that Miss Lascomb had been
setting her cap at the writing master for the last three years, and
all to no purpose. In her heart, she was really troubled with some
misgivings on account of not receiving any communication from Tom—she
would have delighted to parade his letters before her admiring
confidantes, and her envying female friends, but this pleasure was
denied her. All she could do, was to write very often herself, and
take care to have a letter directed to him beside her, whenever any of
her gossipping acquaintance came to pay her a visit of inspection.
The news from Chichester which about this time arrived gave a very
flourishing account of Penelope's affairs. Her lover, notwithstanding
his advanced age, appeared far more ardent and energetic than the
youthful Tom Musgrove.
In accordance, it was said, with his earnest solicitations, their
union was to take place very speedily, and Penelope hoped that the
next time she had occasion to write to her sisters, it would be to
inform them that she no longer bore the same name as themselves. In
the prospects of her two sisters, Emma saw little to console her for
the blight which had fallen on her own; she would have rejoiced with
all her heart had she been able to suppose they would be happy, but
she could not reconcile herself to the proceedings of either, nor
persuade herself, try as she would, that in either case, the motives
which led them to engage in a connection so important as matrimony
were such as could ensure a blessing with them. In Penelope's case
especially, she could view it as nothing but a sale of herself for a
certain amount of settlements; she knew there was neither love nor
esteem on her side, for she had heard her, in unguarded moments,
express sentiments quite the reverse, speaking of her future husband
in a slighting tone, and with a contemptuous accent, as if she held
him little better than an idiot for the very act of marrying her. As
to Margaret, though she really seemed in love, after a fashion, with
Mr. Musgrove, there was too evident a reluctance on his part, and too
much want of delicacy on hers, to leave, as Emma imagined, the least
chance of anything happier than a total rupture between them; and
taking everything into consideration it seemed to her that such an
event would be by much the most desirable circumstance that could
occur.
Emma herself was, for some time, a close prisoner. Mrs. Watson found
so much for her to do, that she had scarcely time to stir from the
nursery, except when she took a walk with Janetta, who was now almost
entirely confided to her care. The child loved her dearly; and had her
exertions as nursery governess given the smallest satisfaction to her
sister-in-law, had they even been treated by her as an equivalent for
board and maintenance, she would have been less uncomfortable.
But whilst she was spending her whole time in unremunerated, and
indeed unacknowledged services, she was perpetually reminded of her
entire dependence on Robert, and taunted with her uselessness, her
idle habits, and her fine lady manners. The numerous visitors, who
dawdled away a morning hour in Mrs. Watson's parlour, were apt to
expatiate on her extraordinary liberality and kindness in receiving
her three sisters as her guests, little imagining that the two elder
paid for their board out of their scanty incomes, and that the younger
compensated for the misery she endured, under the show of patronage,
in a way yet more advantageous to her grudging but ostentatious
relatives.
At length, a grand event occurred. Mr. Millar invited them all to a
dinner party, and Annie hinted that it was to be followed by a dance
and a supper. They were all asked, and though Jane demurred about
Emma, Robert overruled her.
"We must let the girl have a chance," said he; "if she is never seen,
there's no chance of any of those young fellows proposing for her."
Jane had no wish that they should. She felt Emma's value far too
strongly to be at all inclined to part with her. Her caps had never
been so nicely made—her stockings so carefully darned—or Janetta's
wardrobe so well attended to, as since she had turned over every
trouble of the kind to Emma. But as she did not choose to own these
considerations, she was obliged to assent to Robert's proposal, and
Emma was to go to the Millars'. In spite of their mutual wishes, she
had seen very little of Annie Millar; their meetings had been hindered
in every possible way by Mrs. Watson, who was always apprehensive that
Emma would complain, aware, as she was, that she had real reason to do
so; but Mrs. Watson had skilfully contrived that the drawing back from
her acquaintance should appear the voluntary act of Emma, a notion
which cooled Annie's friendship towards her, until Elizabeth, with her
usual frankness, had on one occasion afforded an explanation of the
matter. The result of this was an energetic attempt, on Miss Millar's
side, to secure her society for the evening in question, and as she
had appealed to Robert as well as Jane, she was successful.
They went accordingly, and Emma's quick eyes were immediately caught
by the difference of manner which George Millar displayed towards
Elizabeth, compared with the rest of the party. To the others he was
open, cordial, and kind, with an address which if not exactly
polished, was at least far removed from vulgarity; but to Miss Watson
he was hurried and awkward, apparently eager to please to a degree
which deprived him of the self-possession necessary for that end.
Elizabeth too, looked shy and conscious when their eyes met, though
evidently expecting and wishing that he should take his stand beside
her chair, which she had fortunately secured in such a position, that
after walking forward to receive his visitors, he was able to fall
back again, and resume his conversation with her. Emma saw this with
satisfaction, and venturing, in spite of her own disappointments, to
speculate on the future, she fancied that at least her dear sister
Elizabeth would secure a happy home for herself.
Annie Millar seated herself by Emma's side soon after the Watson party
entered the room, and began warmly expressing her pleasure in at
length seeing her in her brother's house. Emma assured her in reply,
that it was not want of inclination that had kept her away, but want
of leisure, for she added quite simply:
"I am governess to my little niece, and have not, therefore, much time
to spare for any other purpose. I dare say my sister-in-law told you
so."
"No indeed," said Annie warmly, and colouring with indignation, "she
never said anything of the kind; she always excused you on the plea of
studies or occupations for your good which you had to pursue, and
boasted of her kind and attentive care for your benefit, without once
hinting that she was under obligations to you, which the hospitality
of which she boasts so much can ill-repay."
"Oh hush, Miss Millar," replied Emma blushing deeply, "you must not
indeed talk so: if my brother receives me into his house, the least I
can do is to take care of his child in return, and so lighten the
trouble which I cannot help giving."
"But, my dear Miss Emma, excuse my taking the liberty of saying that
if you were governess to any other lady's child, you would not only be
supposed to earn your board and lodging, but some fifty or sixty
pounds in addition, so that in fact Mrs. Watson is the obliged party
in this concern."
Miss Millar was called away at the moment to receive some other
visitor, and when able again to return to her seat, she observed:
"That was a most fortunate interruption, for it certainly saved me
from saying something unpardonably impertinent. I am, I have been
told, much too apt to speak my feelings on all subjects, without
sufficiently considering, times, places, and persons. How well your
sister looks to-night."
"Which sister?" enquired Emma.
"Oh Miss Watson; I never could admire your sister Margaret, though I
know many people who do; neither she nor Mrs. Watson, who is rather in
the other extreme, are at all to my taste."
"Elizabeth looks very happy," observed Emma.
"I am sure she deserves to be so," replied Annie with enthusiasm, "she
is such a very amiable person, I know few with whom I more enjoy a
day's intercourse. It always seems to do me good to hear her talk, she
makes so light of difficulties, and is so cheerful. To me, who I
believe am rather too apt to grumble, she is quite a lesson I assure
you."
"I am delighted to hear you say so," replied Emma, with a look that
shewed how perfectly sincere was the expression she used.
Though Annie was frequently called away by the necessity of receiving
other visitors, she took every opportunity she could command of
returning to Emma's side, and conversing with her in the most friendly
way. During the intervals when she was obliged to withdraw, Emma
looked round the room, to see how the others were employed or amused.
Mrs. Turner was discoursing eloquently with Mrs. Watson, who was
evidently bored exceedingly, and hardly listening at all; her thoughts
as well as her eyes seemed to turn constantly to an individual of the
party unknown to Emma, a tall and pleasant looking man, who stood by a
nice looking elderly lady, and seemed to be making himself very
agreeable to her. Margaret had no one to talk to, and was busy in
arranging her tucker in a satisfactory way, and smoothing her gloves
from the tips of the fingers upwards. Robert was hungry, and
consequently quite unable to enter into conversation with any one. He
was faintly trying to hide the violent yawns which were produced by
the suspension of feeling—the uneasy state of expectancy in which he
was kept. Emma could read his impatience in the peculiar twitching
about his eyes, and the spasmodic way in which his hands closed at
intervals, as if grasping some imaginary knife and fork. There were
two other gentlemen of the party whose names she ascertained from her
young friend; one a tall, stiff, elderly man, with an erect carriage,
and rather disappointed expression of countenance, she learnt was a
Captain Tomlins, an old soldier, who played a remarkably good rubber
at whist; the other was the clergyman of the parish, who had but just
returned from Bath, and consequently was unknown to Emma. He was a
mild-looking, middle-aged man, with a very bald head, and a small
quantity of silver hair; his countenance was singularly pleasing and
inviting, and there was an earnest kindness in his manner which
charmed her. He stooped and was very round shouldered, whilst a slight
appearance of lameness arising from the gout which had driven him to
Bath, interested Emma peculiarly in him, because it reminded her of
her father. The other individual who occupied so much of Jane's
attention, Emma was likewise informed was the doctor of the parish,
and one of the principal objects of interest to half the ladies of the
town. Annie assured her his reputation as a doctor was wonderful; he
made all his patients pleased with themselves, and consequently
pleased with him likewise; indeed he had a sort of harmless way of
making love to the ladies under his care, which was very captivating
to most people.
"And are you one of his patients?" enquired Emma, "or only an amateur
admirer of his?"
"Oh, I was never any one's patient," replied Annie; "I am never ill;
and as to being an admirer of his, indeed I do not think I ever could
admire a doctor—I have a decided aversion to the profession
altogether."
"I never liked it," observed Emma, "until I became acquainted with my
brother Sam, and for his sake I have been quite reconciled to it."
"Yes I can understand that, I think George could reconcile me to
anything," replied Miss Millar with an expression of feeling resting
on her open countenance, which Emma thought quite bewitching; "but
after all a doctor's is an odious profession: to be eternally dinned
with complaints and pains, and always administering drugs and mixtures
in which I dare say they have no faith all the time, must require a
stock of extraordinary patience. I wonder how that man can go smiling
and complimenting through the world as he does."
"But you look only at the disagreeable side of the profession,"
returned Emma; "you should consider it as the means of alleviating
suffering, relieving distress—perhaps prolonging the most valuable
life; if you think of the good a doctor can do, you will form a higher
estimate of the profession."
"Yes, but then all those wise thoughts do not come of themselves into
my poor brain; it is only those as clever and sedate as you who can
suggest them, and in spite of it all, I am afraid I shall go on always
hating the profession all my life."
Their conversation was cut short by a summons to dinner, when owing to
there being a preponderance of ladies in the party, Annie and Emma
walked in together. At the table, however, they were separated, and
Emma's ill-luck placed her between her sister-in-law and her brother,
a mis-arrangement which was not perceived until every one was seated,
and which Mrs. Watson then insisted should not be changed.
Jane was particularly cross; she had expected the distinction of
leading the way to the dining-room in company with the master of the
house, and she saw instead a quiet-looking, plainly-dressed lady
precede her. Not knowing who the stranger was, and feeling all the
right of being first, which as niece to Sir Thomas she invariably
claimed, the indignant blood mounted to her cheeks. The hope, however,
that Mr. Morgan the doctor would take care of her instead for a moment
tranquillized her mind; but when the place he should have occupied was
officiously filled by the whist-playing Captain Tomlins, who cared
nothing for the right of precedence and only desired to reach the
dining-room quickly, her indignation was with difficulty repressed;
and as she looked over her shoulder in leaving the room, and saw
Elizabeth following with Mr. Morgan, her anger rose to a climax.
"I wonder who that is walking just in front of _me_," said she to her
companion.
"I am sure I don't know, ma'am—I was thinking she must be a stranger;"
replied Captain Tomlins anxiously snuffing up the scent of dinner
ascending from the lower regions of the house. "The Millars always
give such good dinners."
"It's very odd," continued Mrs. Watson, "how little attention is paid
to rank; it seems to be getting quite the fashion now to set aside all
the old distinctions. Formerly neither men nor women thought of
pushing themselves out of their places, but now all that is forgotten,
and one may be obliged to walk in to dinner behind you don't know who,
and often conducted by some one who has no right to put himself
forward."
"Very true, ma'am, such things may happen—but you know at least who is
leading you, and I conceive that as an officer in the service of his
Majesty, I have a perfect right to walk before any of our present
company, excepting always our host. I am sure you must agree with me."
"Upon my word," said Mrs. Watson, with an angry little laugh. "I was
not at all aware of your rank being so very high, or entitling you to
such very great distinction. However, I dare say it's all right, and I
shall find myself, no doubt, soon walking in behind the old sexton's
wife, or taking the hand of the parish clerk to the table."
As they had reached the table, by the time she had made this speech,
Captain Tomlins did not trouble himself to answer her, being intently
occupied in counting the dishes which stood before him, as resting his
hands on the edge of the table, and firmly compressing his lips, he
bent forward to take a survey of the shining covers, as if
half-expecting to be able to penetrate their substance, and ascertain
their contents. Mrs. Watson tossed her head in angry disdain, and was
forced to soothe her agitated feelings by scrutinising the way in
which the party on the opposite side disposed themselves. The doctor,
whom she had vainly coveted as a companion, was seated between
Elizabeth and Margaret, the former having a seat at the corner next
her host's chair, so that Mr. Morgan was not likely to be much
engrossed by her conversation. Mr. Bridge, the rector, and Annie
Millar filled up the rest of that side, as Mrs. Turner took the head
of the table.
These were well placed, as Mrs. Turner delighted in carving, and Annie
being exceedingly attached to the old clergyman, whom she had known
from childhood, amply compensated to him by her respectful attention
for the total neglect with which he was treated by Margaret, and the
rude repulsive stare with which she received his first attempt at
conversation.
In consequence of her situation, Emma's dinner was exceedingly dull,
and right glad was she when the time came for retiring to the
drawing-room. Here there was a change of scene, and also a change of
companions; for she was able to take a seat by Elizabeth, and learn
from her, that she, at least, had found the party very agreeable.
Meanwhile Mrs. Watson was venting her indignation against Captain
Tomlins, in no very measured terms, for his love of eating, his
indifference to good society, and his presumptuous and pushing manner.
The stranger lady, whose name had not yet been made known, enquired if
it was her neighbour of whom she was speaking, and having received
from Mrs. Watson an abrupt and haughty affirmation, she turned to Mrs.
Turner, and informed her that she formerly knew him, and added, that
they had enjoyed some agreeable conversation together about old times
and former acquaintances. Mrs. Watson, on hearing this, eyed her with
increased disdain and suspicion, and moving away to the other side of
the fireplace, she flirted her handkerchief before her face, as if the
very air were laden with impurity by her presence. With head thrown
back, and lips closely pressed together, she seemed determined to
prevent any more of her words being wasted in such a presence.
Their party was soon after joined and enlivened by a number of young
ladies, and a fair proportion of young men. The Miss Morgans, sisters
to the doctor, the Miss Jones and their brothers, children of a
wealthy baker deceased; the owner of a flourishing paper mill in the
neighbourhood, together with the whole of his large family, four sons
and three daughters, rejoicing in the name of Lamb, the eldest
daughter being an enthusiastic friend of Margaret's; and two or three
families of great elegance and distinction in the neighbourhood;
families who enjoyed the advantage of having houses quite in the
country, surrounded with poplars and laurels, and no connection with
any trade or business; these formed the _élite_ of the party. There
were several unconnected young men, amongst whom Mr. Alfred Freemantle
appeared conspicuous; and swaggering up to Emma's side, declared that
he meant to make that the _ne plus ultra_ of his hopes for the
evening. Annie, who heard him, maliciously desired he would translate
the Latin for the benefit of ignorant young ladies; but he pretended
not to hear her request, and went on talking to Emma without pity or
cessation.
Whilst Annie Millar was busy dispensing the tea and coffee to her
guests, Mrs. Watson approached her, and enquired, who was that little
old lady who walked into dinner before her. A wicked light danced in
Annie's eyes, for she had noticed Jane's scornful manner, and was
excessively pleased at the surprise in store for her.
"Do you not know her?" she replied; "she is my godmother, and is now
staying with us on her road to London."
"And her name, tell me that—who is she—who was she—to have the
precedence over me, Miss Millar?'
"She is the widow of Sir George Barry, a baronet—who died a year or
two ago—there is no family, so the title becomes extinct—she is the
kindest, quietest, best old lady in the world, I am sure."
"Bless me," cried Mrs. Watson, growing very red in the face, "you
don't say so, sure: a baronet's lady! well really—I never thought of
that—I am sure I wish I had known it sooner. Why did you not introduce
me."
"She did not think it necessary," replied Annie, quietly; "and we
always let her have her own way—indeed, I believe I ought not to have
told you who she is, only I saw you were annoyed at her having the
precedence of you, and I thought it would comfort you to find it was
not without reason and right."
"Well, I shall certainly go and talk to her now; but I am sure I don't
know why you should suppose I was annoyed about anything of the sort;
I declare I do not mind in the least what I do—or where I go—nobody
can be more indifferent about their place than I am, though, of
course, I do not like to see a mere nobody put over my head; but a
baronet's lady is quite a different thing; I wonder whether she knows
my uncle Sir Thomas—I dare say she does—people of rank usually know
one another in London."
Miss Millar did not try to prevent her going to make the _amende
honorable_ to Lady Barry, whose quiet features expressed some surprise
at the manner in which she was attacked by the hitherto scornful Mrs.
Watson; and the repetition of the word "your ladyship" met Annie's ear
as she contemplated them from the other side of the hearth rug.
Mr. Alfred Freemantle continued his battery of small talk in Emma's
ear, and, at length, in spite of the cold ungraciousness of her
manner, which was as far removed as possible from welcome or
encouragement, the young gentleman ended his tirade by presenting her
with a paper which he declared was a copy of verses in her honour.
Emma coldly declined taking it, and his most urgent entreaties could
not prevail on her to look at the verses—just at this juncture, Miss
Millar joined them, and on understanding the subject in dispute she
seized on the paper, and commenced reading the lines aloud. They
consisted of the usual jumble about stars and flowers, streams and
bowers, wings and other things, hearts, darts, flames and names, which
might be expected in the valentine of a school-boy, and Annie read
them in such an absurd, mock-heroic tone as made those within hearing
laugh most naturally, really thinking, as they did, that it was
intended altogether as a burlesque. Alfred Freemantle writhed under
this laughter, which he could not take as a compliment, having
intended the whole poem to be extremely sentimental: he tried to smile
too, but really felt far more inclined to cry, and he shrank back into
a corner, there to hide his confusion as well as he could. Annie did
not pursue her triumph farther, but left the poor young man to the
mortifying consideration of his own defeat.
When tea and coffee were dismissed, Annie declared it to be her
intention to have a dance, which of course all the young people
seconded with zeal. There was fortunately amongst the party one lady,
who it was known excelled in playing country-dances on the
harpsichord, which stood in the drawing-room, an heir loom from
Annie's mother. The room was soon prepared, and the young ladies all
drew up their heads, and began to look straight before them, as if
they did not care the least in the world which of the gentlemen asked
them to dance, or whether any did at all. Emma having no intention of
standing up herself, drew farther back into a corner, without
perceiving that it was the very one where young Freemantle had hidden
his diminished head. He quite misinterpreted the action, and dropping
down into an empty chair by her side, said with an air intended to be
very arch,
"I hope, Miss Watson, you were coming to ask me to dance."
"Indeed I was not," replied Emma, "for I did not see you, but I shall
be very happy to do so immediately. Pray, Mr. Freemantle, go and dance
with any one but myself."
"Unparalleled cruelty," cried he clasping his hands, and throwing up
his chin into the air. "To ask me to stand up with any other woman
than the fair, the captivating, the charming object of all my vows, of
all my wishes."
"If you mean me by those expressions," replied Emma quite calmly, "and
that you wish to stand up with me, allow me to save you all further
trouble, by the information that I do not intend to dance at all this
evening."
"Impossible, you cannot be so hard-hearted—so cruel to your devoted
slaves, as all the men in this room must be—you cannot be so unjust to
your own charms, so unkind to your own attractions. That elastic
figure, graceful as the weeping willow, was formed to float through
the dance like the water lily on the surface of the stream. Those
fairy feet—those—in short do you really mean not to dance?"
"Really so," replied Emma.
"Your reason—tell me your reason, I entreat you, why should you shrink
from bewitching our eyes, and lapping our senses in Elysium."
"Excuse me, I think I have done enough in giving you one positive
answer; you have no right to require any reason from a woman: or let
this suffice you, I will not because I will not."
"Mr. Freemantle," said Annie, advancing towards them, and effecting an
agreeable diversion in Emma's favour, "I must request you to stand up;
we can harbour no idle young men in corners here; you are doomed to
make yourself agreeable to one lady for the space of two dances, and
only on this condition shall you remain in the room."
"Since then the beauteous Miss Emma will not do me the honor, will you
permit me to solicit your hand, Miss Millar."
"No indeed, I am engaged for the whole evening, so you must find a
partner somewhere else; go and ask Miss Morgan or Miss Lamb."
"I obey with the alacrity which your commands must always inspire,"
and he went accordingly.
Miss Millar stayed a moment after him with Emma,
"I will not ask you to stand up," said she, "after the reason you gave
me, but both Mrs. Watson and your youngest sister have joined the set
you see. How shall you amuse yourself?"
"Oh, never mind me," replied Emma cheerfully, "where is Elizabeth—she
does not dance surely?"
"No, she's playing cards with my brother and yours, I believe; they
went into that little parlour on purpose. Will you join them and look
on?"
Before Emma had time to answer, Annie was called away, and a moment
after Mr. Morgan came, and taking a chair near her, entered into
conversation with the ease of a man accustomed to see much of the
world, and mix in good society. She was interested and amused by his
conversation, and more especially so when she accidentally discovered
that at college he had been well acquainted with Mr. Howard, had since
been visiting occasionally in the neighbourhood of Osborne Castle, and
knew the whole family. He was a good deal older than Howard he told
her, but he had remained some time in the vicinity of Oxford after he
began to practise; indeed he had adopted his profession rather late in
life, and having a fellowship he had continued single.
All this he communicated to Emma, but he had tact soon enough to
discover that his own history, unconnected with the family and
neighbourhood of Osborne Castle, interested her but little. He soon
therefore turned the conversation to that channel again, and
discovered that her feelings were certainly deeply concerned in it.
Yet he could not quite satisfy himself whether it was the young lord
or his former tutor, whose name raised a tinge of blood to her cheek,
which he saw to be very becoming. Indeed there were so many
reminiscences and peculiar circumstances associated with her intimacy
with Miss Osborne, and acquaintance with her brother, they were so
strangely implicated in Margaret's affairs, and so much that Emma was
ashamed of, was suggested by their names, that she was quite as ready
to blush at the memory of them, as at the dearer and more tantalising
recollections connected with Mrs. Willis and her brother. Well knowing
the art of pleasing, Mr. Morgan allowed her to lead in the subject of
the conversation, carefully following the turn which she chose to give
it, and trying to read her feelings with his scrutinising eye, whilst
he seemed to be all attention to her conversation at the moment.
Annie's account of him had not prepossessed her in his favour, yet now
she could not deny that he was on the whole an agreeable man. The
interval of the two dances passed pleasantly away, but when they were
concluded Mr. Morgan left her, and she soon afterwards stole away to
the little room where the card-table was. For some reason, however,
which she could not learn, the whist party had been broken up, and she
only found sitting there George Millar and Elizabeth, apparently
deeply engrossed in a game at chess. She seated herself near them; her
sister looked up and smiled, and then resumed her game; no one spoke.
Emma took up a folio of prints lying on the table, and amused herself
with looking over them. At length her attention was arrested by the
sound of her own name. By the voices she learnt the speakers were her
sister-in-law and Mr. Morgan, and the first words she heard were, the
gentleman saying:
"A very charming girl indeed, Mrs. Watson, that young sister-in-law of
yours."
"You think so—do you admire her?" enquired the lady.
"Very much—she is very handsome, indeed!"
"I cannot agree with you," replied Mrs. Watson, rather tartly; "her
features are too irregular to be called handsome; good eyes, perhaps,
but her skin is coarse and her features insignificant. I cannot but
wonder at your taste."
"Indeed, I must beg leave to differ from you, my dear Mrs. Watson; her
features may, perhaps, be rather smaller than real beauty requires,
but the dark glowing complexion—the brilliant eye—the redundant hair,
and rich red lips, these reminded me so strongly of yourself, that I
cannot give up admiring them, even though you will not agree with me."
"Well, I don't know, I never was told she was like me before," said
Mrs. Watson, in a simpering tone, which seemed to speak her
propitiated by the incense thus offered to her. "Do you know how she
is situated?" added she, "It's a most unfortunate thing; she was
brought up so very much above her situation, in the most foolish,
ill-judging way, by an old uncle who died without leaving her
farthing; and now she is a beggar, without a sixpence to bless herself
with, entirely dependent on her brother's and my charity. I am sure I
am sorry for the poor thing."
"Yes, indeed," replied Mr. Morgan, with a really feeling tone, "if
that is the case, she is, indeed, to be pitied. Poor thing you may
well say."
"The worst of it is, that both her education, and I must say, her
temper, unfit her for her future situation; she must do something for
herself—a situation as governess seems the only thing—but with her
fine lady notions, I don't know what to do."
"If you are wanting to get her such a situation," replied Mr. Morgan,
"I think I know of one which would probably suit her. Lady Fanny
Allston is wanting a governess for her little girl. The child is
extremely delicate. I am in almost daily attendance on it, and I know
Lady Fanny always says, 'I don't care for accomplishments, Mr. Morgan;
my child can have masters, but it's manners I want—mind and
manners—the feelings—the look—and the behaviour of a gentlewoman.' Now
would not this exactly suit your sister? The salary is most liberal;
and, altogether, I think she might be very happy there."
"Perhaps so, I don't know—you are very kind to think of her—but,
indeed, I am not sure that she would be at all suited for the
place—and how are we to get it for her. I am sure I don't know."
"Oh! I shall see her ladyship to-morrow, and can mention it to her;
only give me authority to ask, and you shall see how soon it will be
arranged."
"You are very kind—very obliging—but, indeed, I cannot answer at once;
I must speak to my husband about it; but don't mention it to any one
else, if you please—my intentions—my wishes with regard to her, are
quite confidentially entrusted to you, and I wish you not to say any
thing on the subject."
Mr. Morgan acquiesced, but Emma did not in this decision.
She had, at first, felt extremely hurt that Mrs. Watson should make
her circumstances and situation the subject of unreserved discussion
with a man totally unconnected with her family—and that in so loud a
tone as to be perfectly audible to any one within a dozen yards of
where she sat. But the accent of real interest in Mr. Morgan's
voice—and above all, the prospect which he held up of a release from
the galling thraldom of her present situation, served to compensate
for the want of delicacy in her sister-in-law. She immediately formed
a resolution to profit by the offer, if Mr. Morgan would really make
good his word; whilst meditating on this plan, she heard her
sister-in-law invited to dance again; and her quitting her seat, was
immediately followed by Mr. Morgan's turning into the room where she
was sitting.
She looked up at him as he entered, and fancied she perceived a slight
shade of embarrassment on his countenance, as if he suspected she must
have overheard his recent conversation. He drew a chair by her side
immediately, and began complimenting her on her taste for silence and
seclusion, as he could not imagine that the two chess players, at the
other table, had proved very communicative companions. She readily
admitted that they were too much engrossed by their game, to have
bestowed a word or thought on her; and then added, that, in
consequence of the quiet around her, she had discovered that others
were thinking and talking of her in her absence. She colored a little
as she added:
"My sister informed you so fully of my circumstances, that it is no
use to affect reserve, and you mentioned a plan to her, which, it
appears to me, would suit me perfectly well, if you really can make
the arrangements you talk of."
"I am sorry you overheard what, I fear, may have appeared impertinent
to you," replied he, with a grave and earnest kindness of manner,
which would have suited a parent. "But Mrs. Watson is accustomed to
speak confidentially to me of family matters; and though I certainly
have no right to intermeddle in your concerns, yet permit me to say,
no one could have the pleasure of conversing with you for even half an
hour, without feeling a degree of interest which would certainly lead
them to do every thing in their power to serve you."
Emma smiled and replied,
"If you really want to serve me, Mr. Morgan, the first step to it must
be leaving off complimentary speeches; keep them for those whom you
have no other means of serving, and speak to the point with me."
He smiled likewise, and rejoined,
"Well, I will keep them for Mrs. Watson, she will not reject them with
so much scorn."
"Hush, I will allow nothing personal," said Emma, "I am Mrs. Watson's
inmate, and must not listen to reflections upon her. But tell me, if
you know, exactly what are the particular qualities required by Lady
Fanny for the little girl's governess?"
"First youth, health, and good spirits—lady-like manners, a cultivated
mind—a thorough acquaintance with English literature, a taste for the
fine arts, and a love both of poetry and nature. Such, as well as I
remember, was the catalogue she gave me, and to that she had no
objection to add accomplishments, but on this subject she is not
particular. She knows that though a woman may perform as well as an
amateur musician, may draw or paint pleasingly, and may be tolerably
well acquainted with modern languages, it is not more than one in ten
who can be so thoroughly grounded in these accomplishments as to be
really able to teach them with any effect—one subject of study is as
much as most women can compass, and those who pretend to more are most
likely to fail in all."
Emma listened in silence, and wondered mentally whether the entire
oblivion of everything relative to principles—morals—and religion were
the result of indifference to such subjects on the part of Lady Fanny,
or Mr. Morgan.
"You are silent, Miss Watson," continued he, after surveying, for a
moment, her downcast look and thoughtful expression. "Am I to suppose
that my catalogue does not please you—or are you doubtful of my
accuracy?"
"No, indeed, I was considering my own sufficiency for such a task."
"I do not imagine you need doubt that, so far as my judgment goes."
"But that must be a very little way, Mr. Morgan, the experience of
this evening cannot be considered sufficient by those who will require
information on the subject, however entirely it may satisfy yourself."
"You give me credit for less penetration than I would claim, if you
suppose my experience is limited to this evening. You possibly have
never seen me before, but we have often met, nevertheless—you did not
know that I am a particular friend of your little niece, and deep in
her confidence."
"Well, I will allow you as much penetration as you choose to claim on
this subject—meantime, tell me when will the situation be vacant at
Lady Fanny's?"
"In about two months, I believe; I do not know exactly, but if you
will authorise me, I will make all necessary enquiries for you."
"You may do so, if you please, without absolutely committing me; and
when I know all the particulars I can consult my brother, to whom I
hold myself responsible, and whose approbation I must, of course,
have."
At this juncture, the chess table was broken up, and Elizabeth joined
Emma. Mr. Millar walked away to make the _amende honorable_ to those
ladies young and old, whom he had grievously neglected whilst devoting
himself to Miss Watson. Elizabeth looked very well pleased with her
game; but she did not seem disposed to talk; at this moment the noise
in the dancing-room attracted their attention, and they moved to the
door to look on. The party were going through Sir Roger de Coverley,
in a high state of excitement, especially some of the young gentleman,
of whom Mr. Alfred Freemantle was the most conspicuous. He rushed
forwards with fury, and rather tore than ran round the figure; at
length, when advancing to meet Margaret Watson, who was, like himself,
dancing with more vigour than grace, they ran against each other, her
foot slipt, and she fell completely into his arms. Not satisfied with
this exploit, she made believe to faint, and he was forced to support
her out of the circle: one or two people offered to assist, but he
rejected their efforts, and half carried, half led her to the little
drawing-room, near which her sisters were standing. Elizabeth and Emma
tried to be of service, but, in fact, there was nothing to do; she
would have been quite well would she only have held up her head, and
sat upright; but whilst she chose to recline on Mr. Freemantle's
shoulder—and allow him to keep his arms round her waist, they could do
nothing but look on and feel very much ashamed of her.
Emma went to procure a glass of water from the side-board, and meeting
Mr. Morgan, asked him to come and see if anything was the matter with
her sister, as she hoped his presence would be an inducement to
Margaret to resume the use of her senses, and leave off the hugging in
which she was indulging Alfred.
Mr. Morgan accompanied Emma, and arrived just in time to see Margaret,
after making a slight effort to sit up, sink again on her companion's
breast in an attitude of the greatest exhaustion. Throwing an arch
glance at Emma as he took the glass of water from her hand, Mr. Morgan
said, in an extremely plaintive tone, "Poor thing—that is a complete
faint—something must be done for her," and without the smallest
warning, he dashed the cold water over her face and neck, plentifully
bedewing the young gentleman's coat and embroidered waistcoat at the
same time. Margaret started up instantly, and so did Alfred, each
shaking off the water, and looking excessively annoyed. Margaret was
as red as fire, and whilst dabbing up the drops from her neck and
cheeks with her pocket-handkerchief, she exclaimed—
"Good gracious, doctor, is that the way you cure young ladies in a
fainting fit."
"Precisely so, my dear Miss Margaret," returned he, laughing; "and you
are a splendid example of the beneficial effects of my practice. What
can be more different, from the languid state in which I found you,
than the animation and colour which you now display."
"Upon my honour, Mr. Morgan," murmured Alfred, after he had done his
best towards getting himself in good order again, after the share he
had enjoyed of the sprinkling, "if that is the way you treat
gentlemen, I must really call you to account, sir;" and in a lower
tone, he murmured something further about "satisfaction and honour,"
which was quite indistinct.
"Oh, my dear sir," replied the doctor, quite blandly, "the libation
was not intended for you; though your proximity to Miss Margaret made
you come in for a portion of it, I assure you I did not mean to throw
it away on you at all."
Annie now entered to enquire for Margaret's safety, and expressed
herself rejoiced to find that she was apparently well, and without
injury. She had feared, she said, from Mr. Morgan being called in,
that something very serious had happened.
"Instead of which," whispered he to Miss Millar, "it was only
something a little comic. I wish you had seen it, Miss Annie."
It was soon after this time for the party to separate, Alfred
Freemantle insisting on seeing the fair Margaret home, after her
accident, and tenderly supporting her through the street. They had not
very far to go—but Emma, who was behind them, saw, if she was not very
much mistaken, that he had his arm round her waist the whole way, and
how Margaret, a woman engaged to another, could allow of such
familiarity she could not understand.
She went to bed, firmly resolving if Mr. Morgan's report from Lady
Fanny Allston was favorable, to speak immediately to her brother, and
arrange everything for her removing there. She thought, for full five
minutes, on what Miss Osborne would say, when she heard of her plans,
whether she would renew her invitation for her to spend some time with
her after Easter; and she spent double that time in considering
whether, if she did, and she should again meet Mr. Howard, his manners
would be warm or cold, how he would receive her, and what he would
think of her undertaking such a situation.
The result of her meditations was that she would write to Miss
Osborne, and explain to her, her plans and wishes, asking her, in case
she failed in procuring this situation as governess to Miss Allston,
to use her interest in finding her some other suitable to her
abilities. This determination she put in practice the next day, and
her mind felt relieved when it was done.