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.