A month of tranquillity and peace of mind, passed in the society of
Miss Bridge, was sufficient to restore Emma Watson to all her former
health and more than her former beauty. When Lady Gordon wrote to
remind her of the promised visit, she was almost sorry to go. Yet her
heart would flutter a little at the notion of again visiting Osborne
Castle—of being again in the vicinity of Mr. Howard, of seeing,
hearing, meeting him again. It was very foolish to care so much about
it—extremely so when he had so completely shown his own indifference,
and yet she could not help feeling a good deal at the idea of meeting.
She called it curiosity to see how he was looking, when she admitted
that thoughts of him had anything to do with it; but more often she
persisted that it was affection for Lady Gordon, or a wish to see her
old neighbourhood, or to visit Osborne Castle in the summer. In short,
she found a hundred surprisingly good reasons why she should wish to
go to Osborne Castle, any one of which would have been sufficient had
it only been true, but as they were mostly imaginary, she never felt
quite deceived about them in her own mind. This was provoking, as she
would have liked, had she been able, to convince herself that she no
longer took any interest in Mr. Howard. She had, however, a right to
remember his sister with regard, and she readily owned to herself that
she should be extremely glad to renew her acquaintance with Mrs.
Willis. She hoped to see Margaret again, and judge of the comparative
happiness of her married life. Yet she looked back with regret to the
four past weeks and reckoned them as some of the happiest she had ever
known. Elizabeth had spent part of the time with her, and she had
enjoyed herself so very much.
The more she had known of Miss Bridge, the better she had liked her,
and the parting was accompanied with mutual regrets and hopes of
meeting again.
It was June when she returned to Osborne Castle—June with its deep
blue skies—its sunny days—its delicious twilight; June with its
garlands of roses scenting the air, and its odoriferous hay-fields.
The weather was such as any lover of nature must revel in—delicious
summer weather—fit for strolling in the shade or sitting under trees,
making believe to read, whilst you were really watching the birds
flitting among the bushes, or the bees humming in the flowers—weather
for enjoying life in perfect listlessness and idleness—when scarcely
any occupation could be followed up beyond arranging a _bouquet_ or
reading a novel. So thought and so declared the young bride when her
husband pressed her to engage in any serious pursuit; she enjoyed the
pleasure of teasing him by her refusals perhaps rather more than she
ought to have done, but she never teased him very far now; she knew
what he would bear, and ventured not to go beyond it.
"I am glad Emma Watson is coming today," said she, as she threw
herself on a seat in the flower-garden; "you will have something else
to look at then besides me, and I shall quite enjoy the change."
"Are you sure of that, Rosa?" said he doubtfully.
"Why you have not the impertinence to suppose that I value your
incessant attentions," said she; "can you not imagine how tired I am
of being the sole object of your love. Emma Watson shall listen to the
grave books you so much love, shall talk of history or painting with
you, shall sit as your model, and leave me in my beloved indolence."
"May I enquire if you suppose you are teasing or pleasing me by this
arrangement, Rosa—is it to satisfy me or yourself?"
"Oh, don't ask troublesome questions; I hate investigations as to
meanings and motives—all I want is to be left alone, and not asked to
ride or walk when I had rather lie on a sofa in quiet."
"Shall I leave you now then, my dear little wife?" enquired he
smilingly, and offering to go as he spoke. "I have a letter to write
now, and you can stay here in solitude."
He returned to the Castle, she remained musing where he left her, and
thus it happened that when Emma was announced, she found the young
baronet alone in their morning sitting-room. He laid down his pen and
advanced to meet her with great cordiality, desiring a message to be
sent to summon his lady.
After expressing the pleasure it gave him to see her again, he
observed:
"Who would have thought, Miss Watson, when we last met, that I should
be receiving you in this castle; did you prognosticate such an event?"
"Not precisely," replied Emma, "so far as concerned myself; but as
relating to Miss Osborne—I mean Lady Gordon—any one must have foreseen
it."
"I assure you, when such things are foreseen, Miss Watson, it most
frequently happens that they never come to pass. I have repeatedly
seen instances of this kind." He spoke with an arch smile, and a faint
idea passed through her mind that she was in his thoughts at the
moment; an idea which might, perhaps, have embarrassed her more had it
not been swallowed up—annihilated entirely by a more powerful
sensation, as the door opened and Lady Gordon entered with Mr. Howard.
It was fortunate that the enquiries of the former—her expressions of
pleasure, and her caresses, were an excuse for Emma's not immediately
turning to the gentleman—had they been obliged to speak at once, it is
probable their dialogue would have been peculiar—interesting but
unconnected—as the man said of Johnson's dictionary. As it was, they
both had time to collect their thoughts—and when they did turn, were
able to go through their interview with tolerable calmness; but Emma
had the advantage—as ladies frequently have where circumstances
require a ready tact and presence of mind. Indeed, they did not start
on fair ground—since she had only one set of sensations to contend
with and conceal—he had more—for, besides the emotion which the sight
of her occasioned him, he had the double evil of being convinced it
was contrary to the requisitions of honour, to feel any extraordinary
pleasure in her company. Had not Lord Osborne made him his confidant
relative to his attachment, or had Howard boldly owned to his lordship
at the time, that he entertained similar views, all would have been
right, and he might openly have expressed the interest which he now
was compelled carefully to smother. His address was cold and
formal—the very contrast to his feelings—and extremely ill done
likewise; Emma, chilled by the reception so different to what she had
ventured to expect, began to fear her own manners had been too openly
indicative of pleasure at the sight of him; and determined to correct
this error she almost immediately followed Lady Gordon, who had
sauntered towards the conservatory.
"Come here," said the young hostess, linking her arm in Emma's, "let
us leave the gentlemen to discuss the parish politics together. Mr.
Howard came on business, and Sir William dearly loves meddling with
it. Now, you must tell me all the news of Croydon. Have you no scandal
to enliven me?—with whom has the lawyer quarrelled? or to whom has the
apothecary been making love."
Emma colored and laughed a little. Lady Gordon smilingly watched her.
"To you, I suppose, by your blushes, Miss Watson; well, that gives me
a higher idea of _his_ taste, than I have been accustomed to form of
country-town doctors. How many lovers have you to boast of? Beginning
with Lord Osborne, and ending with this nameless son of
Esculapius?—tell me all.
"Indeed, I have no such honors to boast," replied Emma, "no one has
sought me, and probably no one ever will:" this was followed by a
little sigh.
"Nay, do not be so desponding—a little chill is nothing," cried Lady
Gordon, "but I am not going to pry into your secrets. This
conservatory has given us enough of trouble in that way already. By
the way, you will, of course, like to go over and call on your sister,
Mrs. Musgrove—when will it suit you?"
"To-morrow, if you please," replied Emma, gratefully; Lady Gordon
promised that the means of conveyance should be at her service, and
they proceeded to discuss other topics.
She insisted on detaining Mr. Howard to spend the afternoon and to
dine with them—pleading, as a reason, the absence of his sister, who
was away on a visit; and when this point was carried and settled, she
led them out into the flower garden again, and loitered away the rest
of the intervening time, amidst the perfume of summer flowers, and the
flickering lights and shadows of the alcoves, and their gay creeping
plants. It was the day and place for love making; who could resist the
fascinating influence of sweet scents, sunshine, murmuring fountains
and soft summer airs? Not Mr. Howard, certainly! Gradually his frozen
manner melted away—his purposes of reserve were forgotten, and he
became once more the Mr. Howard of Emma's first acquaintance, pleasant
and gay—sensible and agreeable.
Lady Gordon left them several times together, whilst she occupied
herself with her flowers or her tame pheasants; and each successive
time of her absence, there was less check and constraint in his
manner; and when, at last, she totally disappeared, and they were left
without other witnesses in that delightful spot, than the silent
trees, or the trickling waters, his reserve had disappeared
altogether, and she could converse with him as in former times.
"Have you enjoyed your visit at Croydon, Miss Watson," enquired he,
presently.
She looked surprised at the question.
"Enjoyed it," she repeated—then, after a momentary hesitation added,
"I wonder you can apply such a term to circumstances connected with so
much that is—that must be most painful."
He was exceedingly vexed with himself for the question, and attempted
to make some excuse for the inadvertence.
"It is unnecessary." she replied, with a something almost of
bitterness in her tone, "I had no right to expect that the memory of
our misfortune would remain, when we ourselves were removed from
sight. _I_ ought rather to apologise for answering your question so
uncivilly."
"No, no, indeed," cried he eagerly, "I cannot admit that—but indeed,
Miss Watson, you do me injustice, and the same to all your former
friends in that last speech. We cannot cease to regret the
misfortune—the Providential dispensation, which in removing your
excellent father from among us, robbed us likewise of you and your
sisters."
"My dear father," said Emma involuntarily, her eyes filling with
tears—she turned away her head.
"It was of course a terrible wound to you," said he softly, and
stepping up quite close to her, "but not one which you need despair of
time's healing; _your_ good sense, _your_ principles must assist you
to view the occurrence in its true light. It must not sadden your
whole life, or rob you of all pleasure."
"True—but there are other sorrows connected with it—" she stopped
abruptly, then went on again, "however I have no right to complain. I
have still _some_ friends left—my loss of fortune has not entailed the
loss of _all_ those whom I reckoned amongst my friends; though an
event of that kind is a good touch-stone for new and untried
friendships."
"Can you imagine," cried he eagerly, "that such a circumstance can
make the shadow of a difference to any one worth knowing. It is, I
own, too, too common—but surely _you_ have not met with such
instances."
She shook her head and looked half reproachfully at him: in her own
heart, she had felt inclined to charge him with this feeling.
"I should have thought," continued he warmly, "you would have said—at
least you would have found it like the words of the old song, that—
"Friends in all the old you meet,
And brothers in the young."
"I believe it is not usual," replied she trying to speak playfully,
"to attach much value to an old song—we may consider that as a
poetical fiction."
He looked very earnestly at her and said:
"You fancy friends have deserted you, owing to a change in your
prospects—do not—allow me to advise you—do not give way to such
feelings—they will not make you happy."
"They do not make me _un_happy, I assure you," said she with spirit;
"the value I place on such fluctuating friendships is low indeed."
"In one single instance, perhaps, it may be so—but you had better not
dwell on such ideas; they will create eventually a habit of mind which
must tend to produce secret irritation and uneasiness. The allowing
yourself to think it—much more expressing that thought _can_ do you no
good, and each repetition deepens the impression!"
He spoke so gently, with such a low, earnest tone, she could not
resist or for a moment longer indulge her half-formed suspicions
relative to him and his sister. Whether he had guessed her feelings
she could not tell; his eyes were fixed on her with too much of
interest to allow her to attempt reading the whole of their meaning.
She never liked him so well as when thus, and with justice, reproving
her.
"I dare say you are right," said she meekly, "I will try to repress
such feelings—indeed I am ashamed I ever gave them utterance—and here
too, where I have been so very kindly welcomed!"
"And I am to imagine then," continued he, "that Croydon offers few
attractions to you—a country town is not usually agreeable except to
those who love gossip, of which I do not suspect you; but you must
have found some compensations."
"It was a great pleasure to look forward to Elizabeth being so
comfortably settled," replied Emma, "I like my future brother very
much, and am pleased with his family. I have no doubt of _her_
happiness—and the style of life will not be irksome to her—but I love
the country, and country pursuits, and was right glad to exchange the
noisy streets of Croydon for the delightful groves of Burton—its
meadows and green-lanes."
"You have not then been the whole time at Croydon?"
She explained—he had certainly been in a state of complete darkness as
to her movements lately; and she really felt a momentary mortification
that he should have been contented to remain in such profound
ignorance. Yet she also rejoiced that he had never heard anything
relative to the course of events which had occasioned her so much pain
at Croydon, and driven her from the place. He knew nothing of Mr.
Morgan.
How much longer they would have been content to loiter in that
pleasant flower-garden cannot now be known, but they were only induced
to leave it by the sound of the gong, which summoned them to the
Castle to prepare for dinner. The hour which they had thus enjoyed had
been one of the pleasantest to Emma which she could recollect, and the
witchery of it to Howard himself would have been quite unrivalled, had
his conscience been easy on reflection, with regard to Lord Osborne's
plans and hopes. He tormented himself with the idea that it was unjust
to his friend to take advantage of his absence; yet a flattering hope
dwelt in his heart, that _she_ had shown no reluctance to the
interview; nay, if his wishes did not deceive and mislead him, there
was a glance in her averted eye, and a rich mantling of colour over
her cheek once or twice, which spoke anything but aversion.
And if so—if he really had been so fortunate as to inspire her with a
partiality so delightful, was he not privileged—more than
privileged—bound in honour to her to prove himself deserving of such
feelings, and capable of appreciating them. This conviction gave him a
degree of confidence and animation quite different from the manners he
had exhibited when they had previously met at Osborne Castle, and Emma
found him as pleasant as in the earlier stage of their acquaintance.
"Are you still partial to early walks, Miss Watson," enquired Sir
William in the course of the evening, "or is it only in frosty winter
mornings that you indulge in such a recreation."
"Ah, I had a very pleasant ramble that morning," said Emma, "at least
till the rain came and spoilt it all."
"A very mortifying way of concluding," said Sir William, laughing,
"for I came with the rain. I wish you had not put in that
reservation."
"I am not so ungrateful as to include you and the rain in the same
condemnation," replied she, "you were of great assistance in my
distresses."
"But if you wish to indulge in the same amusement now, you will have
abundance of time, as Lady Gordon is by no means so precipitate in her
habits of rising and performing her morning toilette, as to compel her
guests to abridge their walks before breakfast. Perhaps as a
compliment to you, and by making very great speed she may contrive to
complete her labours in that way by ten or eleven o'clock."
"Well, I do not pretend to deny it," said Lady Gordon, "I am
excessively indolent, and dearly love the pleasure of doing nothing.
But Sir William is always anxious to make me out much worse than I
am."
"But you have not answered my question as to your intentions for
to-morrow, Miss Watson, and I have a great wish to know whether you
are proposing an excursion; because I think it would be much more
agreeable if we can contrive to walk together, and if I know at what
time you intend to start, I will take care to be in the way."
"Is he serious, Lady Gordon?" enquired Emma.
"It is a most uncommon event if he is so, I assure you," replied the
young wife, "and, indeed, I would not take upon myself to assert such
a thing of him at any time—"
"Do not believe all the scandal my lady there will say of me,"
returned Sir William, "but just say at once that you will walk
to-morrow morning, and that you will be particularly happy if I and
Mr. Howard will join you."
Emma blushed deeply, and hardly knew what to answer, but Lady Gordon
saved her the trouble of replying, by exclaiming at the presumption
and self-conceit of her husband, declaring that he had completely
reversed the proper order of things, and that he deserved a decided
negative from Emma, for having expected her to profess such
extraordinary satisfaction at his company.
Emma made believe to consider the proposal entirely as a joke, but
somehow, without knowing exactly how, it was settled that the proposed
excursion should take place, and that Mr. Howard was to meet them at a
particular spot, from whence they were to ascend the hill behind the
Castle to enjoy the prospect bathed in a morning's sunshine. Lady
Gordon privately gave her husband many injunctions not to interfere
with the lovers, and whilst keeping near enough to take away all
appearance of impropriety, to be sure and give them plenty of time for
quiet intercourse. In return for her consideration, he only laughed at
her, and accused her of a great inclination to intrigue, assuring her
she had much better leave such affairs to take their chance.
The walk, however, took place as was planned, and was exceedingly
enjoyed by all three, though Mr. Howard did not take that occasion of
declaring his passion: indeed he would have had some difficulty in
finding an opportunity, as Sir William did not follow Lady Gordon's
suggestions of leaving them together.
Mindful of her promise, Lady Gordon sent her guest over the next
morning to pay her first visit to Mrs. Tom Musgrove. It was with
rather a feeling of doubt and hesitation that Emma ventured to her
sister's house; anxious as she was to see her and judge for herself,
and curious to observe the manners which Tom Musgrove adopted as a
married man, she could not help some internal misgivings as to the
result of her investigations.
She had never seen the house before, and though she had been
previously warned of the fact that it had no beauty to recommend it,
she was not exactly prepared for the bare, unsheltered situation, and
the extreme unsightliness of the building itself. Tom had always spent
too much money on his horses and their habitation, to have any to
spare for beautifying his house during the days of his bachelorship
and he was far too angry at the constraint put upon him in his
marriage, to feel any inclination to exert himself for the reception
of his bride. She had therefore no additions for her accommodation, no
gay flower-garden, not even any new furniture to boast of, and her
glory must consist alone in the fact of her new name, and her security
from living and dying an old maid.
Most people would have thought that security dearly purchased, but if
such were Margaret's thoughts, she had not as yet given utterance to
them.
Emma found her lying on a sofa, and in spite of her very gay dress,
and an extremely becoming cap, evidently out of spirits and cross, yet
wanting to excite her sister's envy of her situation.
"Well, Emma," said she, sharply, "I am glad you have come over to see
me, though I must say I think your friend, Lady Gordon, since she is
such a great friend of yours, might have paid me the compliment of
calling with you."
"She thought it would be pleasanter if we met first without her," said
Emma, cheerfully, "but she desired me to express the pleasure it would
give her to see you and Mr. Musgrove at Osborne Castle any day you
would name!"
Somewhat mollified by this unexpected attention, Margaret smiled
slightly, then again relapsing into her usual pettish air, she
observed,
"I think you might say something about the house and drawing-room—what
do you think of it?"
Emma was exceedingly puzzled what to answer, as it was difficult for
her to combine sincerity with anything agreeable; but after looking
round for a minute she was able to observe that the room was of a
pretty shape, and had a pleasant aspect.
"It wants new furnishing sadly," continued Margaret, pleased with her
sister's praise; "but Tom is so stingy of money, I am sure I do not
know when I am to do it. Would not pale blue damask satin curtains
look lovely here—with a gold fringe or something of the sort?"
"Rather expensive, I should suppose," replied Emma; "and perhaps
something plainer would be more in character with the rest of the
house and furniture."
"I don't see that at all," retorted Margaret; "do you suppose I do not
know how to furnish a house—of course I should have everything to
correspond. I have a little common sense, I believe, whatever some
people may choose to think of it. At home indeed I was always
considered as nothing, but as a married woman I am of some importance,
I believe!"
"It was not your taste that I doubted," replied Emma, and then
stopped, afraid lest she should only make bad worse by anything she
might venture to say.
"I should like to know what you _did_ doubt then," said Margaret
scornfully. "Perhaps you thought we could not afford it; but there I
assure you you are quite mistaken—Tom's is a very ample income, and he
can as well afford me luxuries as Sir William Gordon himself."
"I am very glad to hear it," replied Emma composedly.
Margaret thought a little, and then enquired how Elizabeth was going
on.
Emma's account was very satisfactory, or at least would have been so
to any one really concerned in Miss Watson's welfare; but Margaret
would probably have felt better pleased had there been some drawback
or disadvantage to relate concerning her; being not altogether so well
satisfied with her own lot, as to make her quite equal to bearing the
prosperity of her sister.
"And so she is really going to marry that man, in spite of his
brewery; well, I wish she had more pride—proper pride; I must say I
think a clergyman's daughter might have looked higher—and she should
consider _my_ feelings a little. I should have been ashamed to marry
any one not a gentleman by birth and situation!"
"We have not all the same feelings," replied Emma willing to
propitiate; "and I do not wonder at her liking Mr. Millar, he is so
excellent a man."
"You think so, I dare say," said Margaret scornfully; "but a girl like
you has seen far too little of the world to be any judge of what men
are or ought to be. There is nothing so deceptive as their manners in
company—_I_, who must be allowed to have more power of judging, and
indeed in every respect to be your superior, never saw anything
remarkable in Mr. Millar: a certain coarseness and grossness—a
something which irresistibly reminded one of a cask of double X, was
much his most distinguishing characteristic."
"I never observed it, and indeed Margaret I think you do him
injustice," said Emma with spirit; "I am sure he has nothing coarse
about him, either in mind or person."
"I think it is very unbecoming in you to set up your opinion in
opposition to me. I have had far more experience, and my position as a
matron places me in a much more competent situation for judging of men
and manners."
Emma did not again attempt to contradict her, and Margaret, pleased
with her supposed victory, enquired with some good nature and more
vanity, if her sister would like to see her jewel-box. Emma, aware
that she wished to exhibit it, good-naturedly expressed pleasure at
the proposal, and was in consequence immediately desired to ring the
bell to summon her maid to fetch it.
With much self-complacency, and a considerable wish to make her sister
envious, all the new trinkets were exhibited by the happy possessor,
and amongst many which owed all their value to being perfectly modern
and just in fashion, were some few ornaments which would have been
valued anywhere for their intrinsic worth, although antique in their
setting, and differing decidedly from the style of ornament then in
vogue.
"Those belonged to Tom's mother," observed Margaret, rather
contemptuously pushing aside the trinkets in question; "I believe the
stones are rather good, and if they were only new set, I should like
them very well, but they are monstrous old things now, set as they
have been."
Before Emma had time to reply or to express any opinion at all on the
subject of the trinkets, the door was violently thrown open, and with
a sound which indicated that he was luxuriating in very easy slippers,
Tom Musgrove entered the room.
"I say Margery, girl," he began in a loud voice, but stopped on seeing
his sister-in-law. "Hey, Emma Watson! why I did not know you were
here! By Jove! I am glad to see you."
He advanced towards her, and not satisfied with taking the hand which
she extended to him, he saluted her on the cheek with considerable
warmth, and detaining her hand, he stared her in the face with a look
of admiration which was quite offensive to her.
"Upon my word, Emma, you are looking more lovely than ever, blooming
and fresh. I need not ask _how_ you are—those bright eyes and roses
speak volumes. I am glad to see you, indeed I am."
"Thank you," said Emma, turning away her head and struggling to
release the hand which he retained with a most decided grasp; "I am
glad to see you and Margaret looking so well."
"Oh! Margery there—yes, I dare say, she is well enough—but, as for me,
I am sure it must be something miraculous, if I am any thing
remarkable in that way"—he glanced at his wife and shrugged his
shoulders with an air that excited disgust, not pity, in Emma.
"And so you are come to enliven us, Emma,—that's monstrous good of
you, 'pon my honor. I hope you are going to stay here some time."
"You are very kind," replied she, "but I am staying with Lady Gordon,
and only came over here for a short visit to Margaret."
"So there, you see," cried Mrs. Musgrove, "_my_ relations are as much
noticed at the castle as you are; so you need not plume yourself so
much on that head, Tom!"
"I do not wonder that Sir William likes to have a pretty girl to stay
with him," replied Tom, again staring at Emma, who coloured highly
with indignation at his impertinence. "Ah! ha! how you blush," added
he, coming close to her and attempting to pinch her cheek, which she,
however, avoided. "Why, how monstrous coy you are," exclaimed he,
"what! are you afraid of me?—fie, fie—you are my sister, and should
have no naughty ideas in your head."
"I will trouble you, Tom, to leave my sister alone; I do not approve
of your taking personal liberties with her; be so good as to treat her
with the respect which is due to a relative of mine," exclaimed
Margaret, half rising from her sofa to speak with greater energy.
"Ha! ha! so you are jealous Margery," said Tom, throwing himself on a
seat beside Emma, and rolling about with laughter, "that's a good joke
'pon my soul—a capital joke, indeed—to be sure, considering all
things—it's natural enough; but really, I cannot help laughing at
it—indeed, I cannot, though I beg your pardon, Emma, for doing so."
Emma looked most immoveably grave, and would not give him the smallest
encouragement in his hilarity, whilst Margaret muttered quite audibly:
"What a fool you do make of yourself, to be sure."
"So you are exhibiting your necklace box again," observed he,
sarcastically, as he caught a glimpse of the case beside her. "Upon my
honor, I do not believe there is another woman so vain of her trinkets
between this and Berwick—you are always shewing them to every body."
"Well, and what if I am? I suppose I may if I like—it does nobody any
harm that ever I heard of," retorted Margaret, quite angry. "I see no
more wonder in a woman's shewing her jewels, than in a man exhibiting
his horses, dogs, and guns. I have known instances of that peculiarity
in some of my acquaintances, quite as well deserving of ridicule, as
my sister's wishing to see my ornaments could be."
"I dare say, the horses and the dogs were much better worth looking at
than your trumpery;" replied he, "why, the only things in your
assortment worth any thing, are the topaz set which belonged to my
mother; all the rest is mere rubbish."
"What those frightful old things! upon my honor, Tom, I am ashamed of
wearing such monstrous, heavy, old-fashioned articles—but having once
belonged to your mother, of course they must be wonderfully precious."
Emma here interposed to deliver Lady Gordon's message, and to request
them to name a day for accepting it. A debate ensued as to the most
convenient day on which to fix, which presently branched off into a
violent dispute as to whether the invitation in question was intended
as a compliment to Tom or his wife; each maintaining the opinion, that
the honour of the invitation was all due to themselves.
At length, however, Emma contrived to persuade them to settle the
point in question; and two days from that time, was fixed on for the
dinner visit, and soon after this point was arranged, Emma took her
leave.
Much as she was grieved by what she had witnessed, she could not be
surprised at it, when she considered the circumstances under which the
union had been formed. Tom was reckless and unkind; Margaret peevish
and fretful, without energy of character to make the best of her
situation, or strength of mind to bear with patience the evils in
which she had involved herself. No doubt, if Tom had loved her, she
would have been fond of him, and any sensation beyond her own selfish
feelings, would have done her good; but forced into the marriage
against his will, love, or any thing resembling it, was not to be
expected from him; in consequence, her own partiality could not
survive his indifference; and there was a mutual spirit of ill-will
cultivated between them, which boded ill for their future peace.
Emma reflected on all this as she drove home, from her very
unsatisfactory visit, and was only roused from these unpleasant
considerations, by finding the carriage stopped suddenly soon after
entering the park. On looking up, she perceived Sir William and Lady
Gordon, who enquired if she would like a stroll before dinner, instead
of returning at once to the castle. She assented with pleasure, and
quitting the carriage, they took a pleasant path through a plantation,
the thick shade of which made walking agreeable even in the afternoon
of a June day.
"Suppose we go and invade Mr. Howard," said Lady Gordon, "this path
leads down to the vicarage—let us see what sort of a housekeeper he
makes, without his sister to manage for him!"
"Always running after Mr. Howard, Rosa," said Sir William. "Upon my
word, I shall be jealous soon: yesterday flirting in the
flower-garden—to-day visiting at the vicarage; if things go on in this
way, I will take you away from Osborne Castle very soon."
"Yes, _you_ have reason to be jealous, have you not? when men leave
off pleasing their wives themselves, they always dislike that any one
else should do it for them"—replied Lady Gordon smiling saucily. "You
know you are always thwarting me yourself, and naturally wish to keep
me from more agreeable society, lest I should draw disadvantageous
comparisons."
"But the comparisons are not fairly drawn under such circumstances,"
suggested Emma, "for Mr. Howard's way of treating Lady Gordon can be
no rule for his probable way of tyrannising over some future Mrs.
Howard."
"Of course not," replied Sir William, "but I observe, Miss Watson, you
take it for granted that he _will_ tyrannise over a wife when he has
one; is that your opinion of men in general, or only of Mr. Howard in
particular?"
"Of men in general, no doubt," interposed Lady Gordon: "Miss Watson
has lived too long in the world not already to have discovered the
obvious truth, that all men are tyrants when they have the
opportunity, the only difference being, that some are hypocrites
likewise, and conceal their disposition until their victim is in their
power, whilst others, like yourself William, make no secret of it at
all."
"I am glad you acquit me of hypocrisy at least, Rosa; it has always
been my wish to be distinguished for sincerity and openness, I never
indulged in intrigues or meddled in manœuvres, or sought for
stratagems to carry out my wishes."
He accompanied this speech with a peculiar smile which made his lady
colour slightly, as she well knew to what he alluded; she did not
reply, and they walked on some time in silence.
At length Emma observed that it was a remarkably pretty walk which
they were pursuing. Lady Gordon told her that they were indebted for
the idea and plan of it to Mr. Howard; he had superintended the
execution of some other improvements which Lady Osborne had effected,
but this one had originated entirely with him. It was the pleasantest
road from the vicarage to the village, and was so well made and
drained as to be almost always dry although so much sheltered. The
idea that he had planned it, did not at all diminish the interest with
which Emma regarded the road they were discussing; and her eyes sought
the glimpses of distant landscape seen between the trees, with
pleasure materially heightened by the recollection that it was to his
taste she was indebted for the gratification.
This sort of secret satisfaction was brought suddenly to a close, by
finding herself quite unexpectedly at a little wicket gate opening
upon his garden. She had not been aware the house was so near; but the
nature, not the source of her pleasure, was changed; it still was
connected with him, and the beauty of his garden quite enchanted her.
When she had previously seen it in the winter, she had felt certain it
must be charming, but now it proved to surpass every expectation she
had formed; and she was internally convinced that a love of gardening,
and a taste for the beauties of nature, were sure signs of an amiable
and domestic disposition in a man, which promised fair for the
happiness of those connected with him.
They found him hard at work constructing some new trellis work for the
luxuriant creepers which adorned his entrance; his coat off, and his
arms partly bare for the greater convenience of his labours.
"We have taken you by storm, to-day," said Lady Gordon, smilingly
holding out her hand to him, "I like to see your zeal for your house."
"Really," said he, holding up his hand, "these fingers of mine are not
at all fit to touch a lady's glove; when we assume the occupation of
carpenters, we ought to expect to be treated accordingly."
"And when we intrude on you at such irregular hours, we ought to be
thankful for any welcome we can get," replied Lady Gordon.
"Indeed, I take it most kind and friendly of you to come," answered
he, his eyes directed with unequivocal satisfaction towards Emma. "My
garden is better worth seeing _now_, than when you were last here,"
added he, approaching her.
"It is lovely," replied Emma, honestly speaking her mind, "what
beautiful roses. I do not think I ever saw such a display of
blossoms."
"I am glad _you_ admire it," said he, in a low voice, "though, after
the conservatories and flower gardens of the castle, I am afraid it
must look rather poor."
"I would not make unjust comparisons," replied Emma, "but I think you
need not dread it if I were inclined to do so. It is not grandeur or
extent which always carries the greatest charm."
"And would you apply that sentiment to _more_ than a garden?" asked
he, very earnestly, fixing on her eyes which unmistakeably declared
his anxiety to hear her answer.
He was not, however, destined to be so speedily gratified as he had
hoped; for, quite unconscious that he was interrupting any peculiarly
interesting conversation, Sir William turned round to enquire the name
of some new shrub that struck his eye at the moment.
Recollecting himself after replying to the baronet's question, he
invited them to enter the house to rest; but this Lady Gordon
declined, declaring that she preferred a swelling bank of turf, under
a tree, to any sofa that ever was constructed. The ladies therefore
sat down here, and begging to be excused for one minute, Mr. Howard
disappeared, going, as Sir William guessed, to wash his hands and put
on a coat, that he might look smart and fit for company. Lady Gordon
laughed at the idea of a clergyman making himself smart, or of Mr.
Howard treating her as company; but Sir William was proved to be
partly right, since it was evident on his return that he had been
employing part of his absence in the way that had been suggested; but
to dress himself had not been his sole object, for he re-appeared with
a basket of magnificent strawberries in his hand, which on a warm
afternoon in summer had a peculiarly inviting appearance.
Lady Gordon accepted them eagerly, declaring that she knew his
strawberries were always far better than any the Castle gardens ever
produced. As to Emma, she was certain she never tasted any so
excellent in her life, nor was she ever before pressed to eat with so
winning a smile or so persuasive a tone of voice.
"I wonder you take so much pains to beautify this place, when you are
almost certain of being soon removed from it," said Lady Gordon.
"The occupation is in itself a pleasure," replied he, "which more than
repays me for the exertion, and after your brother's liberality in
making the house and garden as comfortable as possible, it would be
very bad if I could not do my share in keeping it so, even if I am not
to remain as possessor; but I by no means anticipate a change with the
certainty which you seem to do."
"I have no doubt in the least that the moment Carsdeane is vacant, my
brother will offer you the living, and as the rector is very old and
infirm it seems hardly possible that it can be long first."
Mr. Howard was silent for a few minutes, and when he spoke, it was on
another subject; but not with the gaiety with which he had before
conversed; in fact, he was secretly meditating on the extreme
desirableness of quitting his present vicarage, if ever Lady Osborne
came to reside again in the neighbourhood. Nothing could be much more
unpleasant than a meeting between them, and he longed to learn from
her daughter whether there was any chance of such a catastrophe; but
as yet he had not found courage to enquire, fearing her penetration
might have led her to guess the past events, or her mother's
indiscretion might have made her acquainted with them.
"Mr. Howard," said Lady Gordon soon afterwards, "you are under an
engagement to Miss Watson, to give her another lecture on the
paintings in the Castle gallery."
"I remember hoping for that pleasure," said he; "but I could hardly
have flattered myself that Miss Watson would remember it for such a
length of time."
"Indeed I do though," replied Emma; "I have a very good memory for
promises which are likely to afford me pleasure, and if I did not fear
encroaching too much on your time and patience, should certainly claim
that one."
"And I assure you I have no wish to shrink from my promise; but any
time you will name I will be at your service," said he with a look of
lively pleasure, "excepting to-morrow, when I am particularly
engaged."
"There is no desperate hurry, I dare say," interposed Sir William;
"you can postpone your engagement without material inconvenience, I
should think, for a day or two, after waiting nearly six months."
"Oh yes, Miss Watson is come to pay us a long visit," added Lady
Gordon; "so you may easily settle on the day and hour at some future
meeting."
"Any time will do for me," said Emma quietly.
"And are you really going out for the whole day to-morrow?" enquired
Lady Gordon.
He assented.
"Then we will come down and rifle his strawberry-beds—shall we not
Miss Watson?" continued she.
"I protest that will be most unfair," exclaimed he; "since I give you
willingly all I have, and only request, in return, the pleasure of
your society."
"That is so pretty a speech I can do no less than say in reply, that
we shall be most happy whenever Mr. Howard will indulge us with the
honour of his company: come whenever you can—the day after to-morrow
Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove dine with us, will you meet them?"
He accepted with pleasure, though perhaps he would have preferred
their absence to their company.
After loitering away a couple of hours on his lawn, Lady Gordon rose
to take her leave, and even then she pressed him so earnestly to
accompany them up the hill, to assist Miss Watson, who she was certain
was fatigued by her long walk, that he could not have refused had it
been an unpleasant task she was imposing on him, instead of the thing
which he liked best in the world, and was really wishing to do.
The encouragement which he received from Lady Osborne herself was so
obvious, that had his suit depended only on her, he would have felt
neither fear nor hesitation as to the result; but as the wishes and
tastes of another person were to be consulted, and there seemed far
more doubt as to the direction which those took, he still debated
whether or not he should venture to put his influence to the proof,
and rest all his hopes on a single effort.
He accompanied them home, but Emma denied that she was tired, and
would not accept the assistance of his arm, because she misinterpreted
the hesitation with which it was offered, fancying it was done
unwillingly, and solely in compliance with her friend's directions.
This discouraged him; he did not recover from the disappointment, and
in consequence would not enter the Castle, but persisted in returning
to spend a solitary evening at the vicarage. There Emma's smile and
Emma's voice perpetually recurred to his fancy, and he occupied
himself, whilst finishing the work which they had interrupted, in
recalling every word which she had said, and the exact look which had
accompanied each speech.