Much as Emma's thoughts had been dwelling on her acquaintance in
London, she little guessed the scene that had really been passing, or
the prominent figure which Mr. Howard had made on the occasion.
When the ceremony was performed, the breakfast over, and the new
married couple had left the house, Lady Osborne retired to her
dressing-room, and thither she sent for Mr. Howard. Without the
slightest suspicion as to the real object of her wishes, he obeyed the
summons, and found her ladyship alone.
She requested him to be seated, and then looked exceedingly
embarrassed, and not a little silly; but after some attempts at
conversation, which ended in total failures, she suddenly observed:
"The marriage of my daughter makes a great difference to me, Mr.
Howard."
"Of course it must," replied he, rather wondering what would come
next.
"I fear I shall find myself very uncomfortable if I continue in the
same style of life I have done before; without Miss Osborne I shall be
quite lost."
Mr. Howard could not help thinking that he should have supposed few
mothers would have felt the change so little. They had never been
companions or appeared of any consequence to each other. However he
felt it his duty to make some cheering observation, and therefore
ventured to suggest that her ladyship should not give way to such
desponding thoughts: she might, perhaps, find it less painful than she
anticipated.
"You are very kind to try to cheer me in my melancholy situation, but,
Mr. Howard, I have always found you so, and I am deeply indebted to
you for the many hours of comfort you have at different times procured
for me. You have always been my friend."
He did not at all know what to say to this speech, and was therefore
silent.
"Do you consider," continued she, "that gratitude is a good foundation
for happiness in the married state?"
"It is, no doubt, a good foundation for affection," replied he, "but
unless the superstructure is raised, I do not think the foundation
will be of much use. It is not sufficient of itself."
"You distress me by your opinion, I had hoped that to secure gratitude
was the certain way to produce love."
"I apprehend that your ladyship will find it much more easy to deserve
gratitude than to _secure_ it; it is an intractable virtue, and favors
which are supposed to have this return as their object, are apt to
fail entirely in their purpose."
"I am very sorry you say so, Mr. Howard; I wish I could secure love
from the objects of my affection. I fear the case is exactly the
reverse."
The gentleman was silent, and a pause ensued between them, which the
lady broke.
"What do you think of my daughter's marriage?"
"I think," replied he, "it has every promise of securing them mutual
happiness—I hope this as sincerely as I wish it. Sir William is an
excellent young man."
"The marriage is not so high a one as what _my_ daughter might have
aspired to—she has given up all dreams of ambition—do you not see
that?"
"Of course Miss Osborne might have married the equal or the superior
to her brother in rank," said Mr. Howard, "but she has acted far more
wisely, in my opinion, in preferring worth and affection, though not
accompanying so splendid an alliance as possibly her friends have
expected for her. Sir William has wealth to satisfy a less reasonable
woman than Lady Gordon, and if his rank is sufficiently elevated to
content her, she can have no more to desire."
"Do not imagine, Mr. Howard, from what I said that I was regretting
the difference in rank; on the contrary, I believe most fully that as
she was attached to Sir William, Miss Osborne could do nothing better
than marry him. Far be it from me to wish any one to sacrifice
affection to ambition. Had there been even more difference in their
rank, had the descent been decidedly greater—had he been of really
plebeian origin, I should not have objected when her affections were
fixed."
"I cannot imagine that there was any possibility of such an event;
Miss Osborne would never have fixed her affections on an unsuitable
object, as any one decidedly beneath her would have been."
"Do you then consider it unsuitable, where love directs, to step out
of one's own sphere to follow its dictates?"
"I am decidedly averse to unequal marriages—even when the husband is
the superior, if the inequality is very great I am inclined to think
it does not tend to promote happiness: but when their positions are
reversed, and the man, instead of elevating his wife, drags her down
to a level beneath that where she had previously moved, it can hardly
fail to produce some degree of domestic discomfort."
"Alas, I am grieved that your opinion should be so contrary to my
favorite theories; I can imagine nothing more delightful than for a
woman to sacrifice station and rank, to forego an elevated position,
and to lay down her wealth at the feet of some man distinguished only
by his wit and worth; to have the proud happiness of securing thus his
eternal gratitude."
"I think a man must be very selfish and self-confident, who could
venture to ask such a sacrifice from any woman. I could not."
"But I am supposing that the sacrifice is voluntary, proposed,
planned, and arranged entirely by herself—women have been capable of
this—what should you say to it?"
"I cannot tell what I should say, for I cannot imagine myself in such
a situation. Your ladyship takes pleasure in arranging little
romances, but such circumstances are unlikely to occur in real life."
"And why? what do you suppose is the reason why, in this prosaic
world, we are governed only by titles—empty sounds, not to be compared
to the sterling merits of virtue and learning? Mr. Howard, I prefer a
man of sense, learning, and modesty to all the coxcombs who ever wore
a coronet or paraded a title."
"Your ladyship is quite right," replied he, beginning to get a little
uncomfortable at the looks of his companion, and rather anxious to put
a stop to the conference.
"And if that man were too modest to be sensible of the preference, if
he could not venture, on his own account, to break through the
barriers which difference of station had placed between us, should he
be shocked if, despising etiquette, and throwing aside the restraints
of pride and reserve, I were to venture to express those feelings in
all their native warmth and openness?"
He was silent, and Lady Osborne continued for some moments in profound
thought likewise, looking down at the carpet and playing with her
rings: at length she raised her head, and said,
"I think you understand my meaning, Mr. Howard. Of the nature of my
feelings I am sure you must have been long aware. Do you not see to
what this conversation tends?"
He appeared excessively embarrassed, and could not, for some minutes,
arrange his ideas sufficiently to know what to say. At length he
stammered out—
"Your ladyship does me too much honour, if I rightly understand your
meaning—but perhaps—I should be sorry to misinterpret it—and really
you must excuse me—perhaps I had better withdraw."
"No, Mr. Howard, do not go with a half explanation which can only lead
to mistakes. Tell me what you really suppose I meant; why should you
hesitate to express—"
"Seriously," replied he, trying to smile,
"I for a moment imagined that your ladyship meant to apply to me what
you had just been saying, and I feared you were going to tell me of
some friend who would make the sacrifices you so eloquently described.
Sacrifices which I felt would be far beyond my deserts."
"And supposing I did say so—supposing there were a woman of rank and
wealth, and influence, who would devote them all to you—what would you
say?"
"I would say, that though excessively obliged to her, my love was not
to be the purchase of either wealth or influence."
"I know you are entitled to hold worldly advantages as cheap as any
one; but remember, my dear friend, all the worth of such a
sacrifice—think of the warmth of an affection which could trample on
ceremony and brave opinion. And think on the consequences which might
accrue to you from this. Even you may well pause, before preferring
mediocrity to opulence, and obscurity to rank and eminence.
"These advantages would not greatly weigh with me were they
attainable—but you forget my profession forbids ambition, and removes
the means of advancement."
—"No, you forget the gradations which exist in that career—do you
treat as nothing the certainty of promotion—of rising to be a
dignitary of the church—a dean—a bishop, perhaps—becoming at once a
member of the Upper House? Has ambition no charms—no hold upon your
mind?"
"My ambition would never prompt me to wish to rise through my wife—I
could not submit to that."
"Hard-hearted, cruel man!—and has love, ardent love, no charms for
you?—it is true I cannot offer you the first bloom of youth, but have
I no traces of former beauty—no charm which can influence you or
soften your heart—has not the uncontrollable though melancholy love
which actuates me—has that no power over your affections?"
She paused, and Mr. Howard hesitated a moment how to answer, then
firmly but respectfully replied,
"If I understand your ladyship aright, and I think I cannot now
misunderstand, you pay me the highest compliment, but one which is
quite undeserved by me. Highly as I feel honoured, however, I cannot
change my feelings, or alter the sentiments which I have already
expressed. My mind was made known to you, before yours was to me, and
to vary now from what I then said might well cause you to doubt my
sincerity, and could give no satisfaction to your ladyship."
He stopped abruptly; he wanted to say something indicative of
gratitude and respect; but the disgust which he felt at her
proceedings, prevented the words coming naturally. She, the mother of
a married daughter and a grown up son, to be making proposals to a man
so much her junior in age, and in every way unsuited for her—really,
he could not command the expressions which, perhaps, politeness and a
sense of the compliment paid him required. He rose and appeared about
to leave her, but she rose likewise, and said with a look which
betrayed indignation struggling with other feelings:
"No, do not leave me thus—reflect before you thus madly throw away the
advantages I offer you—consider the enmity you provoke—calculate the
depth of my wrath and the extent of my power. Refuse me, and there is
no effort to injure you which I will not practise to revenge
myself—you shall bitterly rue this day, if you affront me thus!"
"I cannot vary from my answer; your ladyship may excite my gratitude
by your kindness but neither my love nor my fears are to be raised by
promises or menaces. On this subject I must be, apparently,
ungrateful; but when the temporary delusion which now influences you
has passed away, you will, doubtless, rejoice that I am firm to-day. I
must leave you."
"Leave me, then; and let me never see that insidious face again,
ungrateful monster; to throw my benefits from you—to reject my
advances. Is my condescension to be thus rewarded? But I debase myself
by talking to you—leave me—begone!—and take only my enmity with you as
your portion."
The lady seemed struggling with vehement emotions, which almost choked
her; and knowing she was occasionally attacked with dangerous fits,
Mr. Howard hesitated about leaving her alone. By a gesture of her
hand, however, she repulsed his offer to approach her; he therefore,
slowly withdrew, and his mind was relieved of anxiety for her by
seeing her maid enter the room before he had descended the stairs. He
then hurried away, and tried, by walking very quickly through the most
retired paths in Kensington Gardens, to soothe his feelings and
tranquillize his mind.
Had there been no Emma Watson in the world, or had she been, as he
feared she would soon be, married to Lord Osborne, he must still have
refused the proposal which had just been made to him. It never could
have presented itself as a temptation to his mind. But under present
circumstances, with a heart full of her memory, all the more precious,
the more dwelt on, because he feared she would never be more to him,
it was more than impossible, it was entirely repulsive. If he must
love her in vain, as he told himself he should, that was no reason he
should marry another; and if she were to become Lady Osborne as he
feared, her mother-in-law would be the last person he would be tempted
to accept. Step-father to _her_ husband—oh, impossible! rather would
he remove a thousand miles than voluntarily bring himself into contact
with that charming girl in that relationship. If he could not have
her, he would remain single for her and for his sister's sake, and his
nephew should hold the place of son to him. These were his
resolutions, and a further determination to avoid all intercourse at
present with the dowager was the only other idea which could find any
resting place in his troubled brain. He returned the next day to his
Vicarage, and there, with his sister, his garden and his parochial
duties, he sought alike to forget the pleasures and the pains of the
past.