CHAPTER I.

THE YOUNGER SISTER.

A Novel

BY

MRS. HUBBACK,

IN THREE VOLUMES.—VOL. III.

LONDON:

THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER

30, WELBECK ST., CAVENDISH SQ.

1850.

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THE YOUNGER SISTER.

CHAPTER I.

The afternoon passed away, and Margaret, who had been incessantly

walking from one window to another, to watch for her lover's curricle,

now began to create a new sensation for herself, by a conviction which

suddenly seized on her, that some dreadful accident had happened to him.

It was towards the end of March, and the lengthened days allowed them

plenty of time to dine by daylight, and enjoy a long twilight

afterwards; as the evening began to close in, her alarm and tribulation

increased; when, at length, her fears were dissipated by seeing the

curricle drive up to the door with a most important bustle, followed by

a loud and prolonged knock, which instantly brought twenty heads to the

neighbouring windows.

Margaret sank on a sofa, and exclaimed in feeble tones,

"He is there—my heart tells me he is there—support me, my dear

sisters—support me in this trying hour."

Before any one had time to answer her, his step was heard on the stairs,

and recovering as rapidly as she had appeared to lose her strength, she

flew to the door and was ready to have thrown herself into his arms on

the smallest encouragement. He did not, however, seem to desire her

embraces, but coolly held out his hand, and enquired how she was—then,

without waiting for an answer, turned and paid a similar compliment to

the other ladies. She looked a little disappointed at the want of

tenderness her lover displayed, but consoled herself by smoothing down

the nap of his hat, which she took from his hand, and stretching out the

fingers of his driving gloves—of which she also assumed the care.

At this moment, Robert Watson and Mr. Morgan, who had been sitting over

their wine in the dining-parlour, appeared up-stairs, and Robert

immediately suggested to Mr. Musgrove that he must want some dinner, to

which the latter readily acceded.

Jane and Margaret who appeared to be almost equally interested in the

new-comer, both left the room to see after the necessary preparations,

and whilst they were gone George Millar came in and persuaded Elizabeth

to go home with him, to take tea with his sister and mother-in-law.

Robert and his new guest adjourned to the dining-room where the two

ladies joined them, and Emma was left to a _tête-à-tête_ with Mr.

Morgan.

He had seated himself in a corner, and was looking over the newspaper

during all the bustle attending the arrival of Tom Musgrove, and the

successive entrances and exits of the several members of the party. But

when they were all gone, and Emma was quietly sitting down to work, he

threw away the paper and walking across the room drew a chair close to

hers and seemed inclined to enter into conversation.

"How happy your sister must be," was his first speech, whilst he fixed

his uncommonly penetrating eyes on her face.

"Which sister?" replied Emma, without looking up from her embroidery.

"Both must be happy," replied he; "but at this moment I imagine your

sister Margaret's feelings must be the most agreeable; meeting after a

prolonged absence must be so delightful. Don't you envy her?"

"I hope not," said Emma, for she was not quite satisfied with his tone

and manner; there was something of sarcasm in it which she did not like.

"I did not mean envy in the bad sense," he remarked, as if comprehending

her thoughts from her tone; "of that I know you to be incapable; but can

you not fancy how pleasant her emotions must be when again enjoying the

society of an attached and faithful lover like the gentleman in

question?"

"Perhaps I can—but I must be in her situation thoroughly to enter into

her feelings," said Emma rather wishing to drop the subject.

"And hitherto you have not been placed in this interesting situation?"

There was something in the tone in which Mr. Morgan made this comment,

with his eyes fixed on her countenance, that gave it rather the

character of a question than a reply. She felt offended at his manner

and tone, and proudly raised her head with a look which seemed to ask

what right he had to enquire on that subject. He understood her meaning,

but did not seem inclined to take any notice of it, proceeding in the

same way to observe,

"They whose hearts are untouched cannot of course understand all the

pleasing emotions which the sight of a beloved object raises after a

prolonged absence—nor indeed does it require a _prolonged absence_ to

give occasion to the emotions I speak of. A month, a fortnight, even a

week passed without the intercourse which becomes dear and therefore

necessary, is sufficient to raise a variety of pleasing but most

overpowering feelings in an affectionate heart."

"Very likely," replied Emma coolly, and then she added immediately an

enquiry as to whether he thought the next change of the moon would bring

them more settled weather.

He answered that he could not tell, and then added,

"Do you not think your future brother, Mr. Musgrove, is a very charming

young man?"

"I have often heard him called so," said Emma; "but you know it is not

my business to be charmed with him," smiling a little as she spoke.

"You are most discreet," said he, delighted that she appeared inclined

to relax a little from her former gravity; "but to tell you the truth I

should _not_ have expected, from what I know, that you _would_ be

charmed with him."

"From what you know of _him_ or of _me_?" inquired Emma.

"Of you both, but especially of _you_: it is not for nothing that I have

been studying your character, and I am convinced that a man who would

attract _you_, Miss Emma, must possess more good qualities than Mr.

Musgrove can boast of."

"Perhaps I might be a little difficult to please," replied Emma; "but do

you think there is any harm in that?"

"Harm, no!" replied he with enthusiasm; "minds of a common order cannot

discriminate between what is good or evil in its tendency; they see only

what is evil to their own capacities, and are entirely unaware of the

vast difference between the intellects of one man and another. Whilst

those who by their own intellectual powers are raised above the common

level, take in, at one keen and rapid view, the different mental

altitudes of their companions, and appreciating alone the grand and

elevated turn from more ordinary minds with indifference, contempt or

disgust."

"I hope," said Emma rather doubtingly, "that your description is not

intended to apply to me: that is, if I understand you rightly. I should

be very sorry to think I am guilty of setting up my understanding as a

measure for that of others, or of despising any of my companions as

thinking them less clever than myself."

"Indeed I did not mean to accuse you of voluntarily giving way to such

feelings—the sensation I meant to depict is as involuntary as your

perception of light or colour. A person endowed with a superior

understanding could no more help deciding on the different mental

capacities of her companions than she could on the beauty or fitness of

the patterns of their gowns."

"But the superiority of mental capacities, or our own estimation of them

ought not to be the standard by which we should judge of the merits of

our fellow-creatures, Mr. Morgan. Surely their moral superiority is a

far more important point, and it would be much better to live with a

good but ignorant man, than with a wicked one however clever and

well-informed."

Mr. Morgan rather curled his lip.

"I doubt whether you will find your maxim work well in every day life,

however well it may sound in theory. The practice of mankind is against

it universally, and where that is the case it is because the sense of

the world leads them to the conclusion which you reject. Look around,

and see who has most success in life, the clever, unscrupulous, and if

you will the unprincipled man, or the sober, plodding, moral one,

without wit or wisdom to prevent his sinking lower than the condition in

which he was born."

Emma had not the vanity to suppose that she could be a match for Mr.

Morgan in dispute, she was, therefore, contented to let the subject

drop. Finding she did not reply, he moved his chair a little closer than

before, and said, in a tone of the softest sympathy,

"Are you quite well this evening? dusk as it is, I am struck with your

looks, and was so at dinner."

She thanked him, and replied she was pretty well. He did not seem

satisfied.

"Are you sure you have no head-ache? there is a languor in your

movements, and a heaviness about your eyes, which plainly shows that all

is not quite right with you. Confess the truth—does not your head ache?"

She owned it did a little.

"I thought I knew your countenance too well to be misled," said he,

complacently—then taking her hand, without the smallest ceremony, in

both of his, he felt her pulse, and told her she was nervous and

feverish. She smiled, and said she was only a little tired, and that he

must not persuade her she was ill; she had not time for that.

"I am certain," replied he, still detaining her hand, which she had made

a slight attempt to withdraw, "I am certain, from the tremulous motion

of your little fairy-like fingers that you are suffering from

over-excitement of mind. You have so much to worry and distress you, so

many small privations and never ceasing annoyances, that your nervous

temperament is wrought up to too high a pitch. This little hand is

looking too white and delicate for health. You must indeed, for your own

sake, and for the sake of those that love you, take care of yourself,

and do not tax your constitution too far."

"I do not mind what you say, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma, playfully, again

attempting to withdraw her hand from a clasp which she felt rather too

tender for a doctor. "I know you only speak professionally, and it is

your business to persuade those who listen to you that they are ill,

that you may have the satisfaction of making them believe you cure them

afterwards."

"Fie, fie," replied he, tapping her on the arm, "I did not expect such

malice from you, fair Emma!"

She decidedly drew her hand from his, and moved her chair away towards

the window, saying, as she did so, in a graver tone,

"Remember _I_ have not placed myself under your power, Mr. Morgan, and

you have no business to attempt to mislead me."

The rapidly decreasing light prevented his reading the expression of her

countenance; but he felt from her tone and action that _she_ would not

endure the small personal liberties in which some of his patients

permitted him.

There was a pause, which she broke, by saying,

"My sisters are a long time away, I must go to see for them."

"No, pray stay another moment," cried he, rising too, as she rose.

"Allow me one moment more, one other word."

She stopped; and he was silent for a minute, till she said,

"Well, Mr. Morgan, what am I to stop for?"

"Tell me," said he, "why you freeze me with that look and manner—did I

offend you with my remarks? is my friendship—the warm interest I feel

for you—is it unpleasant—or in what way have I sinned to deserve this

sudden check."

She was excessively embarrassed, and mentally determined not to remain

in the dusk _tête-à-tête_ with a man again, at least, not with Mr.

Morgan: but this resolution, however good for the future, did not help

her at the present moment; when she was thus standing before him, and

under the unpleasant necessity of either admitting that she was

capricious, or allowing that she attached more importance than, perhaps,

it deserved to a trifling action on his part. Seeing that she hesitated,

he continued—

"I will not press for an answer if it vexes you; and you must own

mentally, if not openly, that you judged me harshly. I forgive you,

convinced when you know me better, you will not do so again."

He took her hand again, and was just in the act of putting his lips to

it, when the door opened suddenly, and several young ladies—whom in the

dusk she could hardly distinguish—burst into the room.

"Is that you Margaret?" said one advancing, "that we have caught making

love in the dark—no, upon my honour it's Emma Watson and my brother! ha,

ha; so you are found out, James?"

"Oh, it's not the first time that Miss Emma Watson has indulged your

brother in a _tête-à-tête_" cried a voice, which Emma recognised as

belonging to Miss Jenkins, a particular friend of Margaret's, towards

whom she felt a strong repugnance. "They have been found _out_ before

now—they are very fond of taking long walks together, aren't you, Mr.

Morgan—and carrying Janetta, too."

It was too dark for the expression of any one's countenance to be seen,

so that the angry look with which Mr. Morgan received this attack, and

the confusion and distress which Emma betrayed, were alike invisible;

but could he have annihilated the young ladies who thus intruded,

including his sister, he would certainly have done it with pleasure. Any

answer, on his part, was prevented by the entrance of the party from the

dining-room with lights, when a general scene of confusion and

chattering followed, which concluded by a general invitation to the

young visitors to stay for tea, and have a little fun, to which they

readily assented.

Tom Musgrove having eaten and drank soon made himself very agreeable to

the whole party, and after the tea and bread and butter were removed, he

proposed a game at blind man's buff, or hunt the slipper, to finish the

evening. The former was adopted, and a very noisy party it proved. Tom,

of course, was the first to be blinded, and, unless he contrived to see

out from under the handkerchief, the dexterity with which he avoided

catching Margaret, though she perpetually threw herself in his way, was

quite wonderful. His first victim was the younger Miss Morgan, a pretty,

giggling girl, who laughed so excessively, and twisted about so much,

that he had great difficulty in holding her at all, and it was only by

clasping his arm very tightly round her waist, that he succeeded in

keeping her prisoner. However, he named her rightly, and the

handkerchief was secured on her; her brother was the next—apparently he

threw himself in her way, whether because he disliked her going through

the process of catching and naming Mr. Musgrove was not quite certain.

Perhaps he wished himself to succeed her; he certainly was very

successful in catching prisoners, but made extraordinary blunders in

recognising them; never once hitting on the proper name, and,

consequently, having no right to make over the bandage to another. At

length, after several attempts, he succeeded in catching Emma herself.

She had not been able to avoid joining in the game, though it was not

much to her taste; but she took great pains to move about as quietly and

keep as much out of the way as possible. His ear, however, was quick at

detecting her light footstep, and, unknown to her, he had traced her

into a corner, where she was quietly resting, when he succeeded in

laying hold of her. As she neither struggled nor laughed, he knew

instantly who it was, and whilst he held her hand in his, and made

believe, as usual, to feel her features, and ascertain her identity, he

whispered, under cover of the noise which some of the other girls were

making,

"Do you wish to be blinded, Emma Watson?"

"Certainly not," replied she in the same tone, and he immediately

guessed her to be some one else, and with a gentle pressure of her hand

he let her go.

Emma was very well pleased to escape, but she felt a half scruple at the

manner in which it was done, from the sort of private understanding

which Mr. Morgan assumed to exist between them. On turning away too, she

caught the malevolent eyes of Miss Jenkins fixed on her, and she could

not encounter their look without a feeling of embarrassment. Mr. Morgan

soon afterwards caught and rightly named Mrs. Watson herself, who in her

turn chased with great vigour but little success her different visitors.

The whole affair ended in a complete romp—the table was upset, chairs

thrown over, and Emma's gown narrowly escaped from a lighted candle,

which the dexterity of Mr. Morgan alone succeeded in averting. It was

now judged that they had enjoyed fun enough for one evening, and Emma,

wondering much at the taste which could select such an amusement,

retired to recover from the fatigue it occasioned. She had never seen

anything of the kind before, for the associates of her uncle and aunt

were very quiet people, and she had been quite ignorant of the extent to

which liveliness might be carried when unchecked by the restraints of

good breeding.

It was a very unexpected pleasure to her, to receive the next morning a

letter from Miss Osborne, containing an announcement that the day for

her wedding was fixed and that it was to be celebrated in about three

weeks. She hoped Emma would be able to keep her promise and spend some

time with them whilst at Osborne Castle, but she did not assign any

particular time as the date of their visit.

Margaret likewise had her share of excitement and pleasure. It appeared

that Tom Musgrove had come down with serious intentions of persuading

her to marry on the same day as Sir William Gordon and Miss Osborne had

fixed on. To be distinguished, and to appear connected with the great,

was so completely the object of his life, that he did not like even to

fix a day for his own wedding entirely with regard to his own

convenience, and now he was determined to make it as important as the

reflected grandeur of Miss Osborne and her noble family could do.

The credit of this idea, however, was not entirely due to him; it was

suggested originally by Sir William himself. Miss Osborne, who could not

feel quite happy or at her ease with regard to his steadiness of

purpose, until the ceremony had actually passed, which would make it

certain that her testimony would never be required, induced Sir William

Gordon to question him as to when he intended to marry, and though he

found Tom's ideas rather vague and unsettled on the subject, he had not

much difficulty in persuading him of the advantage of fixing on the same

day as their own. The notion delighted Mr. Musgrove, and he immediately

determined to run down to Croydon and make the proposal at once.

"Well, Margaret," said he, the morning after his arrival, "since it

seems we must be married sooner or later, do you see any good in delay?"

Margaret simpered and blushed, and did not know very well which way to

look or what to say.

"I say," continued he, "there is no use in wasting time, when the thing

must be done—unless, indeed, you have changed your mind."

"Oh dear no, Tom," cried Margaret, "mine is a mind not lightly to be

changed—you know that much, I am sure, of me."

"Miss Osborne is to married this day three weeks," observed Tom, "to my

friend Sir William Gordon, and he was proposing to me that we should

celebrate ours on the same day. I should rather like it, I own, as they

are such particular friends of mine, and we are going to the same

county. They come down to Osborne Castle for their honey-moon, and we

_might_; indeed of course we _should_ be asked up there on our wedding."

"Oh delightful, Tom," cried Margaret, perfectly enchanted at the

prospect, and in the rapture of the view, quite overlooking the coolness

of her lover's manner, and the total absence of even any pretence of

affection. "I should like that of all things, only perhaps I might have

some difficulty in getting my wedding things ready in time; to be sure,

as I must wear mourning I should not want much just at first, but a gown

and hat—what should my gown be, dear Tom?"

"Hang your gown! what do I know about your gown? or what has that got to

do with it; but women always make such a confounded fuss about their

gowns and their petticoats. I say, will you marry me this day three

weeks?—because, if you will not, you may just let it alone, for any

thing I care."

"You are always so funny, Tom," said Margaret trying to laugh; "I never

know what you will say next. But you do hurry and flurry one so, asking

in that sort of off-hand way—upon my word I do not know what to

answer—what can I say to him, Jane—is he not odd?"

"For heaven's sake, Mrs. Watson, do try and persuade Margaret to act

with a little common sense, if she has such a commodity in her brain,"

cried Tom, impatiently.

"Really," simpered Mrs. Watson, "you are the most unlover-like lover

that ever I saw—if I were you, Margaret, I would tease him unceasingly

for these speeches. I would say him nay, and nay, and nay again, before

I would give him his own way."

"Oh! I am not so very cruel," said Margaret, "he knows my disposition,

and how much he may venture on with me."

"Well, when you have made up your mind, let me know," said he, settling

himself in an easy chair, and pretending to drop asleep.

"Upon my word, Margaret," said Mrs. Watson, "he gives himself precious

airs—would I submit to such a thing from any man in the world—no,

indeed—I would see the whole sex annihilated first, that I would."

"Do not be so dreadfully severe, Mrs. Watson," said Tom, without

unclosing his eyes, "Allow me to enjoy my last few days of liberty; when

I have taken to myself a wife, where will my domestic freedom be?"

"Impudent fellow," said Mrs. Watson, going up and pretending to pat his

cheek; he caught her hand and told her in return, she was his prisoner

now, and must pay the penalty of the box on the ear, which she had so

deliberately bestowed on him. She giggled exceedingly, and he was

insisting on his right, when Robert entered the room and said, in a cool

off-hand way:

"I suppose, Margaret, Musgrove has told you he wants to marry this day

three weeks, and as I presume, you have no objection, I have resolved to

get the settlements in hand immediately. I suppose you have not much to

do in the way of preparation, have you?"

"Well, I suppose, as you all come upon me so suddenly, there is nothing

for me to do but to submit," said Margaret, "and really, I see no harm

in it. Of course you will have the marriage put in the newspapers; it

must be sent to 'The Morning Post,' Tom."

"I have no objection," observed the ardent lover.

"Well then, Jane, I suppose I had better be seeing about my gown and

wedding clothes—will you come with me and help me choose some dresses,

Tom?"

"Not I, by Jove! what do I know about dresses, I tell you!—it's all

woman's nonsense, and I will have nothing to do with it. I believe if a

woman were dying, her only care would be to secure a handsome shawl—and

the idea of a plain funeral would break her heart."

"Don't be so dreadfully severe, Tom," interposed Mrs. Watson again, "you

are a naughty, spiteful, ill-tempered satirist, and we must teach you

better manners before we have done with you."

"Beyond a question you will soon do that," returned he, "I already feel

wonderfully humbled and penitent, from sitting with you for the last

hour; and what I shall arrive at, after being your brother for a

twelvemonth, can only be guessed at now."

Margaret and Jane soon afterwards set off on the important business of

looking for wedding dresses, and purchasing more clothes than she would

know what to do with, whilst obliged to wear her deep mourning—a

circumstance which was particularly distressing to Margaret—who, whilst

anxious to make a very splendid figure in her new establishment, was

perpetually checked in her aspirations by the remembrance that she must,

for many months, continue to wear black. It was, however, a great

delight to her to think that she should be married almost as soon as

Penelope, and before Elizabeth; but, since her own good luck was now

certain, she felt no particular envy of either of her elder sisters;

for, though she could not help seeing that Elizabeth's establishment,

house and carriage, would be more expensive and grand than her own, she

did not think that she would have given up the independence and idleness

of Tom's situation as a gentleman, for the large income and luxuries

accompanying the brewer's occupation.

Emma looked on and wondered at Margaret's state of contentment under the

indifference and contemptuous treatment which her lover bestowed on her.

_She_ would not have borne it for a single hour; but Margaret seemed to

feel nothing of it—and her own foolish and caressingly fond ways, were

enough to disgust a sensible man altogether.

He did not mean to remain more than a couple of days; and, during that

time, Mrs. Watson took care to occupy each evening with a party of young

people; a most judicious arrangement, which saved an immense deal of

unwilling labour and unnecessary love-making. The Morgans, the Millars,

and many others, joined them—and they had country dances and reels

enough to tire many indefatigable dancers. Emma continued to refuse to

dance; and, as the ladies out-numbered the gentlemen, she was less

tempted to break her resolution. In consequence of this, she was, on the

second evening, for a good while left quite alone, until Mr. Morgan,

declaring himself quite knocked up, took refuge in the corner where she

was sitting and engaged her in an agreeable conversation.

They were not discussing any thing very remarkable, but Emma was amused

and lively, when she heard Miss Jenkins say, in reply to something:

"Oh! no doubt, Emma Watson finds it quite agreeable to sit out—no great

sacrifice there, I fancy! She takes every opportunity of throwing

herself in somebody's way!"

It was said so loud that there could be no doubt but that it was

intended for them to hear, and from the quick glance round, and the

elevation of eyebrows which followed it on his part, it was evident it

had not failed of its object. Emma wished she could have stopped the

blood which rushed to her face and coloured her cheeks so deeply; but

she could neither conceal her feelings nor command her voice

sufficiently to finish her sentence, for she felt that Mr. Morgan's eyes

were fixed on her with a keen, scrutinizing glance, which seemed to read

her thoughts in a moment. When Miss Jenkins was out of hearing, he

observed very quietly,

"I think, Miss Emma, you have not been brought up in a country town?"

"No, indeed," said Emma.

"You seem peculiarly unfitted to continue in one, with any comfort or

peace of mind," continued he.

"Indeed—I doubt whether I am to take that as a compliment or the

reverse," replied Emma smiling a little.

"I never pay compliments," said he, "but if you want to know why I think

so, learn that I can see you mind being talked about, dislike gossip and

scandal, and have no taste for romping or noise: therefore you are

unfitted for a resident in a country town!"

"You are _not_ complimentary to-night, Mr. Morgan; what has put you out

of humour with your fellow towns-women?"

"I assure you I feel most amiably disposed towards them all, especially

those who by dancing to-night have left me at liberty to converse with

you. They are all charming chatterers, and delightful dancers, and

equally exquisite, enlightened, eloquent and endearing."

"Your compliments are rather equivocal, Mr. Morgan, I do not know that I

should like such problematic praises."

"_You_—you need not be afraid, I should never think of applying such

terms to you—did I not begin with observing that you were not brought up

in a country town."

"There are some people I have observed," said Emma thoughtfully, "who

always hold the society in which they happen to move very cheap, because

they have an unfortunate power of vision which enables them alone to see

the weak, the ridiculous, the faulty side of things."

"Thank you—do not find fault with my compliments after that speech—I

never made one more severe."

"I beg your pardon," replied she colouring deeply. "Perhaps it did sound

a little harsh."

"Yes, I am deeply indebted to you for your good opinion—you probably

suppose me incapable of appreciating the beautiful and excellent when I

meet it, because I am alive to the follies, the littleness, and the

absurdities of those amongst whom I am forced to mix—some day I trust

you will judge me better."

He understood Emma's character completely—the idea that she had been

harsh in her speech, and that he felt hurt by her injustice, was

decidedly the most likely thing to produce kindness and conciliatory

manners to make it up. He assumed an air and tone of injured innocence

which quite touched her, for straightforward and artless herself, she

never suspected he was only acting. She wanted him to speak again, but

he was determined to leave it to her to make that effort, and he partly

drew back and turned his chair slightly away, as if he had not courage

again to address her. She renewed the conversation by enquiring whether

he had long been resident in the town—the soft tone of her voice

immediately drew him back to his former position, and he began to tell

her that he had come to Croydon about fifteen years before, that like

herself he had lived in his youth in the country, and the only towns he

had previously been acquainted with were Oxford and London.

"Like yourself too," continued he, "I came here frank and

open-hearted—ready to place the best construction on anything I saw or

heard, and believing that the neighbourhood would do as much for me.

Experience has taught me a very different lesson; but perhaps nothing

but experience will do. With the consciousness of the amount it cost me

to buy my knowledge with suffering, I sometimes idly think of saving

others by my cautions from a similar expense of feeling, but it is

vain—and I do not think I shall make the attempt again."

"And so," said Emma, after a short pause, "you think me ungrateful and

self-willed, because I do not like to hear whole-sale depreciation of

your fellow-townspeople."

"I certainly will be wiser another time, and keep my opinion to myself,"

replied he still in a proud and injured tone.

"Well, I do not like to seem ungracious, and if you really wanted to

give me advice—your superior age and experience certainly entitle you to

form an opinion, and to be listened to with deference. So if you speak

for my good, I will attend—but do not be too bitter, or I shall rebel

again."

"I only wished to caution you against the spirit of prying curiosity and

foolish censoriousness, which seems indigenous amongst the inhabitants

of a small town."

"And you thought me likely to fall into a similar error, did you?"

enquired she simply.

"You, my dear girl, no indeed; but I thought you likely to be the victim

to this spirit, unless you took care and were cautioned against it."

"If I do nothing wrong," said Emma, "nothing blameworthy, how can there

be any danger that I shall incur censure? I hope I shall not provoke

enmity in any way."

"That will be a vain and illusive hope," replied he earnestly; "there is

too much about you to provoke ill-will, for your conduct to be regarded

with a friendly eye. Youth and beauty have innumerable enemies in a

place like this; your superior education, your acquaintance, I may say

intimacy, with those very much above your present associates in rank,

your frank and confiding disposition, all expose you to enmity and envy

of the most malignant kind."

"You will make me quite unhappy, Mr. Morgan, if you talk in that way. I

cannot believe that those I see around me are so very wicked; and why

should any one try to injure a portionless orphan like myself."

"Because they are not all possessed of the generous feelings and high

principles which form such a charm in that helpless and portionless

orphan—and which, when joined to her personal beauty, endow her more

richly than the wealthiest of all our townsmen's daughters."

"I cannot help hoping that your warnings are not more sincere than your

compliments, and then I shall have the less to fear, Mr. Morgan,"

replied Emma, smiling.

"I wish you would give me credit for sincerity, Miss Watson; it is

disheartening to find myself constantly doubted. I shall give you up in

despair. Look beautiful and merry—prove yourself lively and amusing—wear

becoming bonnets—pretty gowns—and well-made shoes, and you will soon not

have a female friend in the town."

"This _must_ be your prejudice—or you are quizzing me. I cannot believe

that bonnets and shoes have anything to do with female friends."

"You will persist in judging every one by yourself, and you cannot set

up a more erroneous standard. Do you suppose that _your_ wardrobe will

be less commented on than your neighbours. Does Miss Tomson make any one

a new bonnet without its being known and abused by all the owner's most

intimate friends."

"But you must be wrong," said Emma; "it is impossible that all can be

watched over in that way; we do not know a great many people who live

here; even my sister does not; and why should I suppose that I am so

conspicuous a personage?"

"The inhabitants of the town," said Mr. Morgan, "are divided into many

different sets, it is true; they move in different circles, and there is

no mixture; but the individuals of each class have their eyes constantly

fixed on those above as well as those equal with themselves; the former,

that they may imitate their actions; the latter, that they may detect

the first symptom of mounting to a higher circle. They have likewise to

detect and repress the first encroachment from the ranks beneath them,

so that you see each individual has her attention fully occupied in this

perpetual watching."

"You must be exaggerating, Mr. Morgan; I trust you are, at least."

"Do you want a proof of the jealousy and exclusive spirit which reigns

amongst them? look into the church. There, where men and women ought, if

ever, to meet as equals, what do you see?—the aristocratic classes—those

who have their carriages and horses to bring them to their Sunday

devotions, who have their comfortable and elegant dwellings out of the

town, have likewise their comfortable pews for lounging through their

prayers—their cushions, their carpets, their footstools, that they may

not be too much fatigued by worship—their curtains, too, lest the vulgar

gaze should distress their modesty, or intrude on their privacy. Then

come the townspeople—the higher classes, those in professions, or,

perhaps, in business, on a large scale, like George Millar, or the

Greenes. These have their cushions and carpets, but are forced to forego

the privacy of curtains, for which they make up by the superior

brilliancy of their pew linings, and the elegance of the fringe drapery,

which hangs down in front of the galleries. Inferior classes are forced

to sit on benches without cushions, whilst the poorest of all may enjoy

what comfort they can on the hard open seats in the stone aisle."

Emma looked thoughtful, but did not answer.

"You must admit the truth of my description," continued he; "there is

sufficient stuff expended on the galleries of that church to have

clothed half the children in the parish school."

"I am sorry that you should have the power of saying such things, Mr.

Morgan, or that I cannot contradict them. Have you ever made an effort

to procure a reform?"

"Reform, no—do you suppose I should even hint at such plain truths to a

native of the town? do you imagine I impart my opinions on the subject

indiscriminately? no, indeed—my popularity, such as it is, would be soon

blown away were I to venture to contradict all their dearest prejudices.

It is a far better plan to tell Miss Jenkins that she looks like an

angel in the sky, when sitting in her blue pew, or to hint to old Mrs.

Adams, that the crimson moreen gives quite a juvenile glow to her

complexion."

"In short," said Emma, gravely, "to encourage people's weaknesses in

order to gain their good will."

"Precisely so—it is the only way to live at peace with all the world; at

least, the world of Croydon; why should I risk their repose and mine, by

voluntarily encountering them on their hobbies. Follow my advice, my

dear Miss Watson, and make the best of those you meet with here."

They were interrupted by the conclusion of the dance; and Mr. Morgan

thought it best to move away. He left Emma thoughtful and dispirited;

and as he watched her from a distance, he was quite satisfied with the

general expression of her countenance.

Her next neighbour was Mr. Alfred Freemantle, who threw himself into the

chair Mr. Morgan had vacated, and began a series of enquiries as to who

Mr. Tom Musgrove might be, and whether it was really true that her

sister Margaret was on the point of marriage with him? Emma soon grew

tired of his "bald, disjointed chat," and moved away; she was met by

Mrs. Turner.

"My dear child," cried she, catching hold of both her arms, "I have been

wanting to speak to you this age, but I would not interrupt you whilst

you were talking to that pleasant man, Mr Morgan—yes, what a nice man he

is, ain't he, dear? Now I did not mean to make you blush; but take care,

don't flirt with him too much, because it may mean nothing, you know,

there's no saying. But I wanted to tell you how excessively I am

delighted with your sister, and how glad I am that she is to marry

George. Poor girl, I dare say she is glad of it too; young women like to

be married; but then I don't know where you could find a nicer young

woman than Elizabeth—or one that would suit my son better. Now, I don't

mean that as any reflection upon you, my dear, on the contrary, so never

mind what I say."

"I assure you, madam, what you say of my sister gives me sincere

pleasure, and I could not, I hope, be so unreasonable as to expect you

to regard us in the same light. It is a great happiness when the friends

on each side are equally satisfied with any projected marriage."

"Very true, my dear, I agree with what you say; yes, Elizabeth is a

charming girl, and much better suited to my son-in-law than you would be

perhaps—so we ought to be satisfied on all sides, as you say."

"I am certain she will make a most excellent wife," replied Emma warmly.

"And who do you mean to marry, my dear? Suppose you were to tell me now,

I would promise not to tell any one."

"I have not made up my mind yet," said Emma laughing a little; "but I

will let you know as soon as I can."

"Don't try for Mr. Morgan, my dear, he will only disappoint you—do not

trust him too far; you had better not."

"Mr. Morgan, my dear madam," repeated Emma almost laughing outright,

"why he is quite an old man! old enough to be my father I am sure. No,

no, I will lay no snares for Mr. Morgan; I am sure if I did the ladies

of Croydon would never forgive me."

"I dare say not—but indeed I do not think he deserves you, my dear; I

know things of him which I will not tell you; but don't let him make you

in love with him."

Emma only smiled at this warning, and the breaking up of the party at

the moment prevented her hearing more on the subject from Mrs. Turner.

Tom Musgrove did not stay longer than he had originally proposed, but

the next time he came everything was to be ready for the wedding, and

Margaret was in such high spirits at the prospect, as plainly showed

that she had quite forgotten the unpleasant difficulties which had

previously interfered with this happy consummation.